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Chapter Text

Propheteering 1 Next>>

Homura didn’t really intend to start a religion.

The bar was a rare thing-there were very few establishments dedicated to magical girls. Most places didn’t need one-the girls in a city would either form up into a team (in which case their group base didn’t need to host many outsiders) or stay solitary, rarely meeting except by chance.

In denser regions, where the wraiths were thick and distances short, there was a need for meeting places, locations where two or three or more groups could meet, neutral ground.
Still, these were more often than not a windswept rooftop, or a reserved room in a larger building.

The bar was different.

It sat at the epicenter of five defined territories, each overseen by a different team of magical girls. These teams got along uncommonly well-but not so well that they didn’t appreciate a central meeting place (not to mention, one with enough room to host a couple dozen mostly-teenaged magical warriors).

All this could be traced back to the bar's owner-one of the few women there who was actually old enough to be in a bar, legally speaking (granted, having their souls removed to a gem meant that they really didn’t need to worry about the long-term effects of alcohol abuse. Also, the sheer amount of magic in the area kept the police from looking into it).

She contracted when she was nine.

Now, she would quite firmly say, if asked, that she owed much of her lifespan-21 was ancient by Puella Magi standards-to her former teammates, protecting her until she was old and strong enough to stand on her own.

Still, her age and experience granted her no small amount of respect from magical girls in general. It helped that she had personally mentored many of the locals, as they first entered their world of magic and miracles and grief.

She didn’t hunt much, after opening up the bar. The younger girls were happy to trade an extra cube or two for her experience, little nuggets of wisdom, sometimes outright training.

Kyubey mostly tolerated her relative inaction-she had fought against humanity’s Grief and the universe’s entropy enough to more than recoup their initial investment in her. And the local magical girls were notably more effective, with an older veteran to come to for advice.

She carried a palpable aura about her, of battles lost and won, lives saved and lost, sorrow and despair held at bay through stubbornness and hope. The locals recognized it, found it soothing.

There were more than a few glances exchanged between them, when a traveler walked in with a similar feeling about her, a slim dark figure, wearing a red ribbon with the solemn majesty of a crown.

Traveling magical girls were not the rarest sight, at the bar. Some passed through just to visit this rare haven of their kind.

Still, their eyes were drawn to her. Some held their breath, not knowing why. Some breathed for the first time in years, not knowing why.

Her every mundane act overflowed with grace-or even Grace, as if some god personally blessed her every step.

Some of the patrons shook it off-a veteran magical girl sees many unearthly sights, a slight whiff of divinity isn’t enough to enthrall them. Still, they wonder, a small voice in the back of their heads murmuring to them. It was the same voice that got them into their shared occupation, the part of them that still clung to their wish.

The traveler reached the bar. She and the bartender locked eyes for a moment. Perhaps they recognized something in one another, over a decade of experience in their world leaving a mark only they could see.

The moment passed. The traveler sat. A drink was poured.

Homura Akemi was shitfaced drunk.

“And then, and then do you know what she did?” Some of the onlookers were quite impressed with her ability to perfectly enunciate her words, not slurring even once.

The bartender didn’t reply, beyond the slightest quirk of an eyebrow.

“That little pink…pink,” perhaps her enunciation came at the cost of vocabulary, or at least creativity. “Made a wish. Again. Holy Madoka, I wanted to strangle her sometimes.”

She giggled. “Maybe I should, when she comes for me…” the girl's cheeks, already flushed, went lobster-red, a goofy grin on her face, a faraway look in her eyes.

It had started innocently enough-the traveler, this Homura, drank at a reasonable rate. She was cool, but not unfriendly. When a few of the more gregarius locals approached her, she was polite. Their basic questions-her name, where she came from, if she was staying long-were answered readily.

A couple sat down, ordering drinks of their own, and most of the crowd moved on to their own pursuits.

The bartender replaced her drinks as needed, and no one else really noted just how much she consumed with her steady, unhurried pace.

She drank more. And more. Started sharing stories of her past.

Spilled a bit, swore “Madoka dammit.”

Someone asked the obvious question.

She froze. Looked sober for a second. Ordered a stronger drink.

Soon, the entire bar was caught up in her tale. A story of devotion beyond reason, of hope beyond death, of sacrifice and salvation and love and despair.

Eyes drifted to the girls seated by her.

One had wished for truth, none could lie in her presence. The other had wished for clarity, madness and delusion fled at her approach.

Their wishes and abilities were curses as well as gifts, but neither could feel any regret in that moment.

All eyes turned back to the traveler, this drunken prophet of a forgotten god.

They watched, and listened.

Another local joined them at the bar, carrying sketchpad and pencil.

She quietly asked after this Madoka’s appearance, a revelation Homura shared with perhaps too much enthusiasm (no, really, you don’t need to compose a sonnet about her ankles, please).

Hours later, she staggered out of the building. Shook herself.

She sprouted honest-to-goddess angel wings and flew off.
The bar grew silent in her wake. No one quite wanted to speak up.

Sometime later, in a realm next to but intangible to the mortal world, a goddess walks into a bar.

She stares at the corner, at the shrine.

A picture of her, fairly accurate despite everything. A photo of Homura, in the middle of a fiery speech (the photo did not tell you that said speech was a drunken lecture on the precise sound she made while startled and exactly how adorable it was).

Offerings-coins, incense, grief cubes, a roll of expensive ribbon, the shattered remains of a Soul Gem.

“Sayaka is never going to let me live this down.”

It would be quite some time before Homura learned the consequences of her actions. There were a few early signs, but the real revelation came with the first pilgrimage to her favorite hill.

It was far from the last.

Propheteering 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

“Say, Mami senpai?” Sayaka’s question broke the otherwise quiet and lazy afternoon.

The older girl shook herself, escaping the sleep-like warmth brought about from basking in the sunlight.

“Yes, Sayaka?”

The walking blueberry disaster-in-the-making (as Homura might quietly consider her) finally brought up the elephant in the room.

“What’s with the music when you transform?”

The blonde chuckled at that. “I don’t know the details, but apparently some girl somewhere used her wish to give us all appropriate theme songs.”

(Homura was not there, and so did not scream in frustration, or slam her head against the wall, or even just silently pity whoever signed their soul away for theme music).

The two younger girls stared at Mami, recalling the music from the first time they met her…

…and resolved to spend more time with her in the near future.

Worry for Mami had honestly driven all thoughts of the other magical girl from Madoka’s head, until Homura joined them on the roof-then all she could think of was the surprise on the normally composed girl’s face-was it at the lyrics, or the music in general? If it was the latter-was she as new to this as they, putting on a front?

What sort of life led to the lyrics:

Madoka found herself pulling the girl into a hug. Sayaka squawked, Mami quietly decided to ship it, and Homura herself froze.

“Hey Sayaka…are you okay?”

“Yep, right, never better. Why?”

“...”

Chapter Text

A girl. A white rat. A contract.

“I wish that she would kiss me!”

Ill-thought out, as expected-as planned. Hasty wishes lead to faster returns. The girl planted the seeds of her despair that day-but she would have the last laugh.

Madoka held on to the fluffy white…thing as her worldview came crashing down around her.

The pale cat-rat-fox-thing was part of it, of course. And the telepathy, can’t forget the telepathy.

Oh, the fever-dream of a nightmare (or “witch,” as she would later learn), spreading through reality and replacing it like some eldritch cancer-that was a pretty major part of it, too.

Is it wrong, though, that the hardest part for her brain to parse was the frikken frilly magical girl? With a gun. Who’d ever heard of magical girls with guns? Shouldn’t they be using, like, staves or wands? Maybe a sword or bow?

Honestly, it was just a bit hard for Madoka to take them seriously, what with tv shows and all.

At least the dream-cancer stuff was weird enough that she didn’t have a pop culture phenomenon to compare them with.

Then again, guns.

At that point, Madoka decided to recategorize them from “magical girls” to “girls with guns who happen to also have magic.”

Much better.

Of course, that’s when the second girl-with-guns-and-magic showed up, the transfer student. The one who kept staring at her. And had guns. And magic. Magic guns? The yellow one had guns that were pretty obviously magical, but the purple one seemed to just have normal guns.

Not that Madoka really knew enough about guns (or magic, or magic guns) to say for certain.

Anyway, purple and yellow were talking about…something. Madoka was pretty certain that she was in shock or something, but that felt less important than watching the girls, or defining varying degrees of magicalness.

The two girls-with-guns-and-magic circled each other, wary, before Purple sighed. She straightened, then walked directly to Yellow.

Yellow allowed the approach, as purple walked right into her personal space.

Yellow looked almost smug. Purple looked…stoic.

Madoka blinked, and suddenly Purple had Yellow in her arms, twirling her into a kiss.

What.

Madoka stared, thoughts of mundane vs magic guns shelved for the time being.

The slender, dark beauty was playing tonsil hockey with the well-proportioned Yellow. Perhaps not with enthusiasm, but apparently with skill, judging by the latter’s reaction.
“Fuck.”

Oh yeah, Sayaka was there too.

“I think that I’m bi.”

Madoka slowly nodded in response.

“So, let me get this straight.” Sayaka began.

Madoka was fairly certain that there was nothing straight involved, but held her tongue (possibly imagining someone else doing the holding for her, vis-a-vis their own tongue).

The three of them were in Yell-Mami’s apartment, with the obligatory tea. Madoka wasn’t sure why the tea felt obligatory, it just did.

“Whenever two magical girls-”

“Girls with guns that also happen to have magic.”

“-okay, girls with guns that also happen to have magic.” Sayaka paused ro take a breath. “Meet, they both feel an overwhelming urge to kiss each other?”

Mami nodded, possibly because the writer had no idea how to write her dialogue.

“Huh.”

A thought occurred to Madoka. “So, if I were to contract, and then had a run-in with pur…Akemi-San…”

Mami replied, possibly because the writer decided to try anyway. “Yes, you would become obsessed with the idea of kissing her, and she you.”

Sayaka interjected with the obvious question. “But…why?”

Madoka, currently lost to the world, failed to listen.

Mami shrugged.

Kyubey, interestingly, acquired a thousand-yard stare.

Homura gasped, sitting up in bed. She groaned, blushing at the memory of countless pecks on her lips…face…neck…shoulders…hands…a lot of places, really. The previous time flow had ended...enthusiastically.

“Dammit Madoka, why didn’t you just say you wanted to kiss me?”

Chapter Text

The first time really was innocent-Madoka was running late for class, rushed along the hallway, tripped-and nearly fell down the staircase.

Then Homura was there, strong arms around her, face twisted with terrible concern.

Madoka breathed. The hallways echoed with the pounding of her own footsteps. The pounding of her heart was far louder.

Madoka was no stranger to hugs, really: her father’s gentle embrace, her mother’s fond squeeze, Tatsuya’s clingy hold, Sayaka’s enthusiastic clinch. All of this was a regular occurrence, daily even.

She’d never felt something quite like this.

Homura clutched onto Madoka, her grip as desperate as a drowning man sticking to a lifesaver. She clung on like Madoka would float away with the faintest breeze, pulled her tight until it seemed like she would slip inside her.

Madoka saw, out of the corner of her eye, the face of someone who’d nearly lost everything. That sort of look, aimed at her-it was almost scary.

Homura’s arms were iron bars, her body an anvil-Madoka wondered at just how well-muscled this girl must be. Her rescuer was not all chiseled marble, though-her softer bits, pressed against her, sent a tingling through her body.

She was warm.

Lavender. She smelled of Lavender and…sulfur?

After a deliciously long moment, Homura pulled away, straightened herself up. Madoka fought off a whimper.

“Madoka Kaname, you should be more careful with your life-there are many who hold your life to be precious.” Homura did her hair-flip thing and walked away, oblivious to the full effect of her words and deeds.

Madoka stood stock still, watching her go.

“Was that a…was that a confession?”

The second was, to be fair, partially in response to the first.

Madoka was walking through the city, face flushed, her mind on what had happened earlier. Her thoughts were consumed with visions of Homura-her scent, the strength in her arms, her incoming lips…

So engrossed was she that she didn’t look up until truck-kun was nearly upon her.

She froze, barely had time to think I hope that I get isekaied somewhere with a Homura when the world jerked.

She was no longer in the road. She was flying-but not from an impact.

Homura held her in a bridal carry (a term that did nothing to lighten her blush), midway through a jump.

Madoka started to think that, maybe, nearly dying had an upside.

The third time involved a witch, and doesn’t count.

The fourth time, Madoka just happened to be walking along the sidewalk when someone dropped a paintcan from a few stories up.

Homura pulled her well out of the way, not even letting a drop of paint hit her uniform.

Madoka wrapped both arms around her savior’s, fluttered her eyelashes.

“I’m all shook up. Could you walk me to school, Homura-chan?”

The other girl never stood a chance.

Madoka had mostly caught on, by the fifth time.

She saw a wet floor sign in the mall.

She looked to the left, to the right, up and down. No magical girls in sight.

She lifted one foot up, held it over the slippery surface.

Still no signs of Homura.

Madoka stepped forward, slipped, and instantly threw herself off her feet.

Naturally, Homura’s arms caught her in the space between a tick and a tock.

Madoka grinned, and snuggled up to her now-flustered hero.

This had potential.

On the ninth time, Homura saved her from a rogue familiar in front of an icecream shop-which Madoka insisted of buying her a treat from, as thanks. Homura sighed, but complied.

On the seventeenth time, Homura wrestled a pair of anacondas after Madoka fell into their pen at the zoo. Madoka begged her to stay with her the rest of the day.

By the twenty-first time, Homura had developed a noticeable twitch.

On the forty-second time, Homura calmly walked through a Yakuza base, not even breaking stride as she shot out the kneecaps of every man present. She did pause to stock up on money and guns-old habits and all.

She finally found her target-a room with Madoka tied up in a chair, along with two thugs and a flashy man in a suit.

She took her time, lining up shots to each man’s kneecaps. After another glance at Madoka, she added more aimed at their elbows. For good measure, she added more shots to their crotches.

She delicately picked up her precious…”friend’s” chair, and was already several blocks away before she allowed time to resume again, the distant thunder of guns bringing her a grim sort of satisfaction.

“Honestly Madoka, I feel like I can’t leave you alone for five seconds without you getting in danger.”

“Then stay with me.”

“Always.” Homura promised.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Propheteering 2 Next>>

Tomoe Mami wasn’t sure what to feel about Homura’s new…”friends.”

They seemed nice enough, for the most part, and she was always happy to meet fer fellow Puella Magi on friendly terms.

Still, the way they looked at Homura was…disconcerting.

Sakura Kyoko knew exactly how she felt about Homura’s little cult-a lot. There was a lot to unpack.

She’d known about the other magical girl’s faith for a while-as cagy as she could be about this “Madoka,” it was clear Mitakihara Middle school’s weird glass walls that she believed, in a bone-deep sort of way that becomes knowing.

This brought up a lot of memories by itself, but Kyoko could ignore it easily enough-Homura was a good teammate, and mostly kept her thoughts to herself.

But it was hard to ignore the birth of a new religion, or at least it was when the founder was a…friend.

The throng of magical girls that collected around her, the looks in their eyes, the preaching? Yeah, she had a lot to think about.

Which was why Kyoko was sneaking into an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night. Sure, she could have just walked right in-it was a magical girl religion, she was probably welcome-but it would have felt wrong, for reasons she decided not to think too much about.

She found a perch on top of a rusted out old container, only to find it already occupied. Of course. In any large gathering of magical girls, there’s going to be someone hanging out in the shadows.

And this was the largest group of her kind that she’d ever seen-only a couple dozen, but still. She found another perch, slightly less shadowy but unoccupied, and watched the crowd.

They were an odd bunch, of course. They stood alone, or in small clumps-presumably with their teams, if they had any.

She halfway recognized a few-a couple from the next city over, a mercenary that had passed through Kazamino once-but most were complete strangers. A couple even looked like foreigners.

All were girls, of course-though a couple were old enough that “woman” might be a better term-veterans then, or they’d contracted relatively late.

Some came in civilian clothes, others were in full costume, weapons held casually.

They were hungry, these pilgrims, for a need food could never fulfill. They didn’t have the glossy stares of a brainwashed flock, or the mad look of her own father, near the end-those would have been almost preferable.

When Homura arrived, they looked at her like she was the last Grief Seed in the country.

That hurt-it reminded her of the good times, when her father was still in good with the church. There were a few visitors, then, that had that sort of look. She was young, but those moments stuck with her.

Homura’s eyes swept through the gathering, resting briefly at the figure on the container-ha-and then on Kyoko herself, arching one eyebrow-damn.

Homura nodded to herself, and addressed the crowd-the little clumps gathering together, as they all moved to hear her better.

“You’re here because you heard of me, or of Her,” Kyoko was always impressed by by the ability to Capitalize pronouns in speech, “or what she does.”

Kyoko listened to the rest of her little sermon with a critical ear-she knew preaching well enough, and had a bit of theology in her when she felt like using it.

Really, there wasn’t anything radical or groundbreaking about it-besides the fact that it was bound up in the realities of magical girl’s life.

It was pretty familiar-life after death, divine forgiveness, a martyr who bound herself to a Great Wheel (instead of a cross).

It was the same sort of shit she grew up with, minus the pretty pink princess of a savior. It was the same stuff that religions had been offering for…a long-ass time. Hope.

There wasn’t even anything about divine wrath or sin-it seemed that all you needed to do to qualify for paradise was make a contract with the villains of the tale-pretty ironic, really.

Glancing back at the crowd-reactions were pretty positive.

There were a few who looked suspicious-they knew first hand the cost of a miracle, and were probably wondering about what hidden price salvation must hold.

A few looked conflicted-maybe they were just slightly less jaded than the others, a bit more tempted. Maybe they already believed in something, and weren't sure how to handle this new goddess.

Most, however, were eating it right up.

Maybe some had been religious, before magic became horribly real to them. Maybe they never had.

In any case, someone was telling them that the fate of magical girls they knew, that they were doomed to disappear-that was just the first step of a far sunnier outcome. Homura told them that there was a reason for their existence, that someone out there was watching them, and would forgive their every fault and failing.

It was heady stuff.

Homura really lived up to her name, with a passion and fire in her words that seemed completely at odds with her usual cool poise.

She finally guttered out, her body sagging.

“That’s enough for tonight. If you have questions, I’ll be on the roof.” Shining wings carried her aloft, through a window Kyoko hadn’t even noticed was open.

A few followed immediately, others left.

Most broke off into smaller groups again, discussing the…sermon. Notably, the groups were mixed up a bit from their earlier composition.

A few more slipped out, Kyoko among them.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, or what she really found.

<<Previous Propheteering 2 Next>>

Chapter Text

Familiarity 1 Next>>

There is a girl. She is everything.

You live so that her life may have background characters, depth.

You breathe because she enjoys fresh air.

You die so that her own life may be affirmed.

She does not do this to you, does not ask for this-but that doesn’t change reality. Our world is her Eden, though the serpent hides the fruit from her.

The birds seem to love Madoka.

Kyoko sometimes complains about the “ingrates” (good-naturedly, though, as amused as anything else) who gladly accept her spare food, yet forget about her the moment they see a flash of pink hair.

They flock to her at the merest invitation, perch on her shoulder as if tame. When she’s happy, they fill the air with triumphant calls. When she feels down, they croak out sympathetic crys.

Their rare, giant cousins seem just as eager to please-Madoka once got one to carry her, though never very high. It seemed almost afraid, then-as if the slightest harm to her would end in its death.

Sayaka takes all this as proof that she’s some sort of lost Disney Princess.

She can’t recall if she saw any in America-perhaps they’re native to Japan, or even the area around Mitakihara.

She knows that they’re called Liese, though can’t recall where she learned that-its one of those things that she’s always known.

Once, while stroking one of their soft, felt-like beaks, she felt the slightest bit of wrongness.

Some people like to ignore the tin guards, the soldiers that stand at attention at every corner.

She can’t help but feel that that’s unfair-they were always working in the background, keeping people safe, directing traffic, exterminating vermin. Countless little tasks that keep civilization afloat.

Madoka once heard her mom say that you can judge someone by how they treat their waiter. She figured that that held true for all the people that get ignored by polite society.

So she always smiles and waves at them, as she passes by. They usually respond with a salute, or a wave of their spear.

She thought that they must appreciate her efforts, as they always treat her with kindness-she’s far too humble to recognize it as deference.

Madoka asked one, once, what her name was. She didn’t answer, but Madoka knew.

“Lotte,” she said to herself. And all around the great devil’s labyrinth, the stiff soldiers stood straighter.

She doesn’t see the teeth-the Lilia, as her civics class teaches-very often.

Probably for the best-their tough exterior and ability to eat just about anything makes them well-suited to a number of distinctly unpleasant tasks.

Still, they seem as eager to please her as her Lotte and Liese friends, whenever she does see them.

Once, she sits and watches as they chew through a pile of rusted scrap-one of their less nausea-inducing or flesh-melting jobs. They bite through it like Kyoko goes through pocky.

She wonders where it all goes.

She’s only met a dark rider once.

She was lost, it was late, and she thought she saw a white thing out of the corner of her eyes. Panic was setting in when she heard the clip-clop of enamel hooves, and a girl-shaped shadow rode in on a pale tooth.

The shadow-not, she realized, a shadowy figure, but a figure made from shadow-pulled back, the tooth reared up, and the two abruptly stopped right next to Madoka.

The white creature was gone, if it ever was there.

Madoka could readily admit that a shadow-girl on a giant tooth bursting in on her in a dark place while she was already lost had her more than a little spooked. To her credit, she held her ground.

“Um…hi?” she asked, already shrinking in on herself.

The shadow held out her hand-the one that wasn’t already holding a spear longer than both of them combined. Madoka hesitantly took it in her own, and the world blurred.

She blinked, and was suddenly mounted on the tooth, one shadow-arm wrapped around her waist. The arm-and the rest of the shadow’s body, pressed against her back-was cool.

The world blurred again, and she yelped. This time it stayed blurred, as the tooth rocked beneath her, its legs eating up distance much like the other teeth ate in general.

The shadow-girl was still, the only steady point in a world of motion.

It ended as suddenly as it began, and Madoka let out a sigh of relief at the sight of her own home.

The shadow leapt down, and turned to help Madoka dismount. She held her for a moment, until the ground stopped swaying. The shadow was atop her mount in an instant, already preparing to leave.

“Wait!” Madoka was almost surprised when it did, all but freezing in place.

“Um-thank you...” She bowed-though this seemed to discomfort the shadow, as she shifted awkwardly.

It spoke, then, in a voice like cracking ice. “Luiselotte.”

The tooth broke into a gallop-Madoka never did get a chance to ask how it was related to the other, more common type of tooth.

She stared after them, curious.

The hoofbeats had barely faded when her parents burst out of the house, pulling her into a hug and promptly grounding her for the next month.

Madoka doesn’t think much of the blimps-a distant, though comfortably familiar presence.
And that is just how the Lisa like it.

Madoka is used to the doll-like girls, always lurking around the corner or behind a window.

Some people might be creeped out by this uncanny surveillance, but she can’t think of them as anything but cute, eager younger girls.

She thinks that they know Homura somehow-the other girl looks at them with the sort of look (of combined exasperation and fondness) that her parents mostly reserve for Tatsuya when he throws a fit.

She makes a note to get to know them better, in case if they’re her future sisters-in-law or something.

Familiarity 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

Cuckoo 1 Next>>

Sleep peeled away from her like an especially thick cobweb being spooled around a stick. It started with a floating void, then a tingling around the edges of her consciousness. Awareness of her own awareness began to seep in, though she wrapped herself in the ignorance of sleep as long as she could.

Then she heard her mom’s inhuman screeching, and that put an end to that.

She groaned, and slinked bonelessly out of bed, flopping to the floor. She was just about on her feet when Madoka peeked in.

“Hey sis.” (Or nee-chan, if you must). She radiated concern, familial love, even a bit of respect-what a good girl, to actually look up to her sister.

The sleepy girl groaned, though managed something like a smile for her little sister’s sake. “Morning ‘Doka.”

The pink girl looked around, then exaggeratedly snuck into the room, coming right next to her older sister. “Still tired from your magical girl stuff?”

Her reply was an affirmative grunt.

Madoka hugged her. This prompted a slightly kinder grunt, a ruffling of the hair, a giggle. The sisters parted, and prepared for the day.

She helped with breakfast, just a little. Madoka was always closer to her mother-oh she loved her father, that was foundation and bedrock, a truth to set the world upon, but mother was her confidant.

Her older sister never felt quite the same. Oh, she loved her family, as much as her heart could manage, but her place in it was simply different.

Kaname Junko was admirable for many reasons, but her first daughter could never have those quiet morning talks with her. Maybe it was a faint memory of her drunkenness, maybe she felt intimidated by the ambitious and driven woman, maybe it was a magical girl thing-in the end, she thought that it was mostly just her own nature.

So, she spent the quiet parts of the morning-after the rush to prepare, before the rush to leave-with the men of her family.

Tatsuya’s bratty innocence was a good thing to greet the morning with-she liked children in general, their simple yet strong emotions.

Her father, though-if her mother was a comet streaking through the stars, if Madoka was the ever-loving sun, then her father was the earth. His emotions, while strong as the others, were steady as stone, as nurturing as the soil in his garden.

She was pretty sure he knew how important these little moments were for her, roughly at least.

Then the other women arrived, frenzied and overwhelming love spilling out of them, and she basked in their glow.

She supposed that that made her the moon-circling the earth, a pale reflection of the sun.

“I wish that I could keep my family happy!”

They walked together, Madoka’s voice fluffy and her steps light. The air seemed clearer around her, touched by the joy of life. She, by contrast, was quiet, fiddling with the ring on her finger, the moonstone set in it.

She did quirk a smile at her sister’s antics. Managed a polite greeting, when her sister’s friends joined them.

Even Kyosuke was there, his hand clawed in some sort of exercise, for his physical therapy. Self-pity was there, but backed by a surprisingly firm determination. The moonstone was clear.

Sayaka claimed Madoka as her future wife. It was a joke, of course-almost entirely so.

She threw an arm around the blueberry’s shoulders.

“Have you ever heard of shovel talk?”

Sayaka, for her part, was pretty shocked. The elder Kaname sister didn’t talk much, and wasn’t known for being very touchy-feely.

“No?”

She actually managed a chuckle, which only grew louder at the sight of her little sister, hands covering her face. Madoka did know what a shovel talk was, judging by the embarrassment she gave off in waves. She felt so much-as if she was born with both her and her elder sister’s share of emotions.

“Its when I promise my sister’s suitors that I’ll dig them a shallow grave.” The delivery was precise, cold. If there was one advantage to being a veteran magical girl with trouble showing emotion, it was intimidation. No one could pull off the cold-blooded murderer act quite like her.

At least, she thought it was an act. Hoped. She couldn’t muster up much hope, though, not the night after an especially tiring fight. Her Soul Gem might be clear, but her mind wasn’t.

She waited a moment, for Sayaka’s face to go from surprised, to embarrassed, to amused, and then-the elder Kaname’s stoic expression starting to get her-worried. A few of the others shifted slightly, a chill they couldn’t quite explain running up their spines.

A beat longer, then she let her go with a laugh, a slap on the back.

The group’s tension fluttered off, carried on a wave of giggles.
Her fingers toyed with her ring again.

She parted from the group as they reached school, promising to meet up again for lunch.

“Make sure to invite Mami-senpai!” Earnest desire-she honestly wanted to see her sister’s partner-in-fighting-eldritch-terrors.

She wondered, not for the first time, how she and her sister could be so different.

Madoka didn’t scare her friends, she didn’t get exhausted just by talking, she didn’t worry that her parents would realize that she was defective. She didn’t lie awake at night, wondering if she was still human.

Sure, she was a magical girl and Madoka wasn’t, that was plenty of reason for angst. But she couldn’t blame this on a contract-her memories from before were vague, but she wasn’t ever an ordinary girl, not really.

She felt like a changeling. A cuckoo bird.

At that, a hint of steel bore through her morose moping. This little cuckoo wouldn’t be pushing any eggs-and she’d peck the eyes out of anyone that tried.

“I wish that I could keep my family happy!”

Bile rose in her throat. Emotional manipulation magic. Even her magical girl ability was fucking creepy.

But it had its uses. If Madoka ever did get a girlfriend-and she wondered when her sister would notice that part of herself, if she should mention it or let it come naturally-then the Cuckoo-bird would have already judged them.

This was her place, parasite turned guardian. Woe betide whoever hurt her broodmates.

Her ring reminded her that she did have a soul, after all.

She slinked into the classroom, ignoring the heady mix of emotions she always got from a roomful of hormonal teenagers.
She fell into her seat with all the lazy grace of a cat, clumsiness burned out of her through magic and training.

The desk next to her belonged to the only person in the class she respected, including the teacher.

“Good morning, Mami.” No honorific-if two years of fighting side-by-side hadn't earned them a casual friendship, she would have at least faked it. The other magical girl’s all-consuming need for companionship frightened her.

“Good morning, Kyubey.”

“I wish that you understood what it's like to be human, and a magical girl!”

Cuckoo 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

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What was pride to Homura, really?

In her early days, she didn’t have much to be proud of-her shamefully weak heart, her timid and yielding personality.

After some time, she started to build herself up, and she could feel some pride in her growth. She was no longer that old weakling, she was cool and collected, a nightmare to fight, she would surely beat Walpurgisnacht and-

And-

And then Madoka held out her Soul Gem, black as tar, and she did what needed to be done.

It took a long time for her to feel much of anything again after that, much less pride.

She kept going-she didn’t know how not to, by then-but the shame of that day stayed with her, only compounded by each new failure.

It came back, eventually. She cloaked herself in it, held herself above the rest. Only she could save Madoka, only she could survive knowing the truth of magical girls and witches. Miki would break, Tomoe shatter, Sakura fall, and Madoka…

Damn that girl, why couldn’t she understand how important she really was, the value of her life? Why could she never listen?

Now she was getting somewhere.

Her self-righteousness grew, though battered and bruised by Walpurgisnacht and sometimes Kriemhild Gretchen, and gnawed away by dark thoughts she never allowed herself to think.

It had to grow, to her very core, else she might just stop one day, lay down and let herself die.

Then Madoka became God.

Ibari was the first Madoka approached-it just felt right, somehow. Maybe it was the way the other girls-sometimes, when they felt like it-deferred to her as a leader. Maybe it was just the way she held herself-as if to say that of course she should be first in all things.
It took a while-Homura’s…whatever they were, could prove elusive. Always around, never present.

Looking for one specifically-now that took some doing.

Her ultimate failure.

Madoka contracted and dead-or unmade, never born.

Worse yet, Homura had lost her time magic. She could never try again-in fact, she probably couldn’t have even with time travel, seeing as the entire universe had been remade with a new timeline. At best, she could have saved Sayaka, and on bad days she would wonder if she would have bothered.

She put on a brave face, in case Madoka could see her, but inwardly cursed this new world.

Her pride slunk into the shadows, wounded.

Madoka finally got a lucky break, seeing Ibari and her presumed sister (Mie-Madoka memorized all their names and faces as soon as she realized they were related to Homura) striking poses, admiring their reflections in a shop window.

Their eyes went comically-inhumanly, though Madoka was polite enough to ignore that-wide as soon as they saw her reflection behind theirs.

Expecting them to bolt, Madoka’s hand shot out to grab her target’s shoulder. “Ibari-san, I’ve been looking for you.”

It was interesting, seeing her simultaneously shrink in terror and puff herself up in pride. Had she really made that much of an impression?

Mie was already long gone, laughter at her sister’s plight trailing behind her.

She cursed the world, and the world cursed her back.

Incubators denied her her fate. She, in turn, defied a deity-her deified dame.

She defied the universe itself, remade it in her own image.

Out of love, yes, but also pride-for so long, she had thought of herself as the only one who knew what was best for Madoka, even herself. That was not something she could reverse easily, nor something that she wanted to.

So she tore Madoka apart.

After having spurned god, and becoming the ruler of her own realm, it seemed obvious to model herself after the demon prince of Pride.

Ibari positively gleamed on that day.

Ibari positively beamed at Madoka on that day.

The latter girl wasn’t sure why, but she seemed to outright exult in her company. It’d be adorable, if she had any idea why. Maybe Homura talked about her a lot? Her cheeks started to match her hair at that idea.

She distracted herself from her thoughts by interrogating her presumed future in-law.

“So, how long have you known Homura? Oh, since you were born.” It was odd. She never heard her say anything, but she found herself saying her answers anyway.

“What do you do for fun? Rat catching? That’s…interesting.”

“How many sisters do you have anyway? Fourteen! Wow. Is Homura one of them? No? Then how…”

“She’s your what?”

Elsewhere, Homura felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to throttle her firstborn doll.

<<Previous Familiarity 2 Next>>

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The Goddess is after Nekura, and that can’t mean anything good.

Why? Why was the epitome of all light and grace and love chasing her? All she knew came from Ibari, who had merely said that Madoka was looking for her.

Her elder sister had added, off-handedly, that she had already told her where to find her.

Needless to say, Nekura had torn out of their meeting-place (a little clearing in a park, a bit out of the way of the usual walking paths) like a bat out of hell.

Granted, the entire universe was technically hell at this point, but that’s just semantics.

Which led to her current predicament-wildly flailing from hiding spot to hiding spot, only to have to divert course when she sees a hint of pink hair.

Madoka huffed. She could already tell that Nekura was going to be a particularly difficult stepdaughter.

No, she and Homura weren’t betrothed, or even dating-the other girl might not even know that she was into her. Madoka just knew that they were destined to be together, with the same bone-deep certainty that she held for gravity.

(She briefly considered inviting gravity to the wedding, but shook it off. Why would a fundamental, omnipresent force be at all related to her?)

Ibari giggled next to her, pointing the way to Nekura’s next hidey-hole.

Nekura worried.

How was Madoka keeping up with her? Did she have her powers back? Was she eliminating the devil’s daughters before going after mother? Nekura knew that She would never forgive their betrayal. And what about Ibari? Was she tricked, or a traitor?

She stopped. She might just be one doll, and not the strongest, but she still has her…not pride, not with her sister’s loyalty in question…stubbornness. If the Goddess wanted to strike her down, there would be a fight.

The Luiselotte slowed her mount to a stop. Madoka steadied herself with her arms around the shadowy girl’s figure, so reminiscent of the Devil’s youthful form. The Goddess’s position meant that she couldn’t see the familiar’s face, which turned from unfathomable black to cherry red.

She tended to have that sort of effect on Homura, or any aspect of her.

Madoka, peering cutely over the shadow’s shoulder, pouted. A formation of Lisa overhead nearly crashed into each other at the sight.

Madoka sighed. “She’s not here. Looks like she’s onto us.”

She turned to a flock of Liese. “Have you seen anything?”

Nekura stared at the tableau in numb horror. Ibari, Liese, Lisa…even a Luiselotte, pulled away from her eternal hunt.

Of course Ibari had betrayed them, she personified the very sin that had led the devil into rebelling against God (both in the christian and puella magi versions).

And of course the other familiars flocked to the goddess-love for her was tied into their very essence.

This was a coup.

She steeled herself. She stood no chance here-she wasn’t sure what had come over her, that she had even thought of fighting this alone. At best, she’d die quick-at worst, she would be the Goddess’s latest pet, and turn against her own mother.

Probably not, though-the Goddess’s love may be endless, but extending it to her would still be a waste. She couldn’t really blame her sister for turning coat-any opportunity to curry favor from Her was worthwhile.

Nekura shook herself, mustering up some few scraps of courage. She would leave here, find the others, warn mother. They would make their last stand together, for whatever good it did.

Once again determined, she turned to leave-and found her field of vision filled by Madoka’s face.

Madoka blinked, not sure how to react to the doll-like girl fainting at the sight of her.

Tea. She wanted tea.

The Goddess wasn’t awake. She wasn’t trying to strike her down. She just wanted to have her over for tea.

This was too good to be true. Nekura carefully checked the tea for any hint of poison-not that it would hurt her, she would just be relieved if something was about to go wrong. It was minty.

The Goddess shifted in her seat. “So, Nekura-chan, what do you do for fun?”

The doll relaxed. Ah yes, an interrogation. That explained everything.

The two girls enjoyed the rest of their afternoon, and each walked away feeling like a victor.

Nekura stopped mid-stride. Ibari knew about this, could have explained it in a matter of seconds.

Her eyes narrowed. It was time for Pride to have a little fall.

Madoka hummed merrily, almost skipping on the way home (at least one Lotte had a heart attack at the sight, which was odd considering that she physically didn’t have a heart).

While she wasn’t quite aware of it, she had humbled Pride and brought hope to Pessimism. In the back of her mind, a plot was already brewing. The children of the false city would soon know Truth.

<<Previous Familiarity 3 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Propheteering 3 Next>>

Kaname Junko might admit, under duress, that she should have noticed something sooner.

To be fair, she lived in a residential area, with plenty of families. If she saw a few more girls around than usual, it wasn’t a big red flag.

Perhaps a few families had moved in recently, or some of the girls were taking a new path to school, or maybe her street just happened to be a good place for local friend groups to meet up. Maybe all were true.

She didn’t pay much attention to the number of said girls in the area around her workplace, either. If a couple of young women with matching rings always sat outside the nearby cafe when she passed by-well, that was their own business.

The first time she gave the recent uptick of mostly teenage girls more than a passing thought was when she found one in her driveway.

She kinda felt bad about it, afterwards.

The girl-a brunette, somewhere in her mid teens-was standing in front of the Kaname house, eyes glued to her cellphone.

She was muttering to herself, and Junko caught a bit of it despite herself.

“Let’s see, after the Goddess’s birthplace I can pay my respects at the Warriors’ grave…the Prophet’s sanctum shouldn’t be disturbed without good reason though…”

What was she, a tourist? Junko didn’t recognize any of the place names as local landmarks, but then again, locals can often overlook these things. Or maybe she was some kind of pilgrim, considering the kinds of sites she’d named.

Or maybe she was just in her chuuni phase.

“Hey kid, you’re kinda in the way.”

It was meant to be neutral, or at the most slightly annoyed. But the tourist/pilgrim/chuuni looked like someone had just pulled a gun on her, eyes wide, mouth agape, all but shaking in fear. Her hand holding the phone jerked off to the side, and Junko caught a glimpse of her ring and nail.

Junko started to backpedal, apology on the tip of her tongue-this girl was obviously delicate-but was soon overrun by the younger woman’s assault.

“I’m-sorry-so-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-to-offend-you-please-forgive-me-oh-holy-one!”

Perhaps it was for the best that Junko didn’t really catch the last bit. Either way, the brunette ran off with surprising speed, eyes gleaming with panicked tears.

The older woman blinked. “I just wanted her to step aside…”

Junko stared after her, poleaxed and slightly guilty. She looked around, hoping that nobody had watched that exchange and assumed the worst, but saw no one (the angels and magical girls watching were far more discreet than the pilgrim).

She shook herself. “Am I really that scary?”

The new intern looked at Junko with adoration, even a hint of fear. She dismissed this at the time-thinking that the kid was just eager to please a successful businesswoman, maybe saw her as a role model.

Then she noticed the ring.

“Is that kind of ring popular nowadays, Ige-san?” She had been shadowing Junko that day, learning by her example. They were now in the latter’s office going over the various tools she used everyday, and were just about finished.

The intern, one Ige Shika, froze like a startled deer.

Junko frowned. What was it with her and scaring younger women nowadays? Was it something in her expression?

She briefly considered practicing by talking into a mirror, but was interrupted by Shika’s answer.

“Oh-um, yes, yeah, they seem to be getting popular around here lately.” The young woman paused, as if unsure if she should continue.

Junko prompted her to say more. “Where’s it from?”

Shika seemed even more terrified by this question, but rallied enough to reply. “Um-I don’t know, really. I think that it’s a good luck charm?”

Junko raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearing it when you don’t know what it means?”

The intern surprised Junko by suddenly straightening, calming herself with a deep breath.

“I know exactly what it means to me-a friend…got me into it, before she passed away.” Shika’s smiling now, if faintly.

Junko blinked at the sudden reversal. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

The girl just smiled, then made her excuses and left for the day.

She probably should have noticed it the next time, but she wasn’t in the best of conditions.

She walked in a despairing daze, not quite knowing why. All the petty problems of life, of work and family, all seemed to wear on her more than usual.

An aching emptiness she sometimes felt, as if something was missing, reared up with more force than ever before.

So deep was the funk that she didn’t notice the battle raging around her, nor when it stopped.

“Hey miss, are you okay?”

The angel watched the Goddess’s mother and her savior with a discerning eye.

At her side, a second angel nodded towards the magical girl. “That was well done, fighting off so many wraiths without letting any touch her charge. She should go on the list.”

The first angel grunted, but wrote down the name. It was a short list, made up of the still-living magical girls that had done some service to the Kaname line. There wasn’t much that they could do to repay the living, but they at least deserved to have their contributions recorded.

A third angel came up from behind, and caught sight of the girl in question.

“Oh, I know her-she’s my ex.” The angel frowned. “Or at least, I assume that my dying means that we broke up.”

She went quiet in thought for a moment, then unleashed a wicked grin. “Hey, I know-get me on dream duty tonight, and I’ll make sure that she gets…properly rewarded.”

The lead angel grunted, but made a note of it. The Goddess did have a thing when it came to lovers reuniting in dreams.

The girl watching Junko walk home shivered slightly, as if a ghost had touched her spine. It seemed like she should return home, too, and get to bed. She hoped her dreams would be kind.

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Chapter Text

Purgatorio 1 Next>>

Madoka thinks she’s dreaming, the first time it happens. She opens her eyes in the middle of the night to find the Devil watching over her-though at the time, she only thought of her as a classmate in weird cosplay.

Homura Akemi places her finger over her lips, wearing an odd smile. Something inside Madoka prompts her to smile back, and she holds her grin even as she slips gently back into oblivion.

Guileless, Madoka asks in the morning: “Mom, what does it mean when you have a dream about another girl sneaking into your room at night in a skimpy cosplay dress?”

Junko nearly chokes on her toothbrush.

Madoka doesn’t quite get everything her mother says in response, but she understands enough to blush the entire way to school. She can’t quite meet Homura’s gaze. Sayaka glances between the two of them before leveling a glare at the Devil.

Next time, the small hours of the night find her feeling a level of warmth and contentment she didn’t quite know was possible. This was probably thanks to Homura Akemi spooning her.

Madoka feels like she should blush, be flustered, but can’t quite bring herself to. It feels far too natural, like she’s been waiting to do this a very long time.

She does blush in the morning, when she finds a single, large black feather on her pillow.

She carries the feather downstairs. “Hey dad, do you know a good way to keep these?”

As it happens, he doesn’t. They spend a decent chunk of the afternoon looking it up, how to disinfect and clean it. The hydrogen peroxide burns a little cut she didn’t realize that she had.

Madoka suspects that they didn’t really need to bother, but refrains from mentioning it. Somehow, she doubts that her father would be especially happy to learn of a winged, cosplaying girl sneaking into her bed at night and leaving her feathers.

The feather doesn’t need to be straightened out-it's a perfect, gleaming shard of black, a tiny dagger of the night itself.

She smiles at Homura in class. Sayaka looks worried.

The feather sits in a little glass display case-a relic of ages long past, when her father collected little figurines.

She smiles at it as she goes to sleep, and again when she awakes. There’s a soft warmth beside her.

Homura stares at the feather, an unreadable expression on her face. Her expression changes rapidly when Madoka pulls her down to cuddle.

She has quite the collection of feathers now, all but spilling out of the frame. Her friends and parents wonder about them. She concocts a tale about one of the great brocken Liese, saying that it likes to perch nearby.

She’s not sure that they believe her, but they don’t question it.

Sayaka definitely doesn’t believe it. She sometimes stares at the collection, her expression an odd mirror of Homura’s.

Sometimes Homura appears while she’s still awake, even waiting for her in bed once. They never speak, communing through looks and actions.

She has a corkboard now. The overflow from the frame goes there, bundles tied together by old ribbons.

She attaches one of the bundles to her school bag. Homura blushes all day long.

The feathers are soft, never dirty, the pins never seem to prick her. She learns to sew.

When she arrives at their date wearing a dress of feathers, Homura’s heart stops, she briefly dies. In the Devil’s absence, Madoka’s eyes gleam gold.

It is the kindest of prisons, a pocket universe all her own. There’s enough room for her familiars to run about.

On a luxurious bed, the (former?) Devil lays back.

She should despise this. Madoka’s gone back to the Law.

Yet, she can’t bring herself to hate much of anything, as she holds up a single, perfect white feather. The first of many.

Purgatorio 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

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Excerpt from Notes on the Faith of Prophet Akemi and her Disciples

By Arch-Cyclian Alice of the ring of Geneva

The cyclic faith was a very loose one, in its early days.

There was not much in the way of a cosmology to it-the prophetess spoke of Salvation, but rarely in any detail. When pressed, she sought out a Revelation, and returned to confirm that there is a paradise, a (metaphorical) gem-studded throne.

There was no need for any hell-Her mercy comes to even the most vile. This sits wrong with some worshippers, even today, but cannot be denied-there is no record of any magical girl, given into Grief or magical exhaustion, not being taken by the Law.

Later generations of worshippers would produce theologians, who would build up an entire system of afterlives (mea culpa).

This empty cosmology was also deserted-only the Law herself populated this nascent mythology. Homura will add more, after receiving revelations in her dreams. First the Goddess’s Companions, then her version of angels, “secretaries” and messengers.

There are several competing groups for the role of “demons.”

First comes the Wraiths, familiar to any magical girl of this age.

Second are the Witches, our inner Grief that She takes away at the end.

Third are the incubators, those serpent-tongued “truth”-tellers.

The second group presents an interesting case, as some of St. Akemi’s writings imply that the Law’s secretaries must bond with their Witch in some manner (this is how we learned of St. Momoe, best known from the holiday of sweetsmas, or cheesemas in some circles).

Thoughts of paradise and demons naturally lead to the concepts of sin and virtue.

The Law’s merciful nature means that sin and virtue lack any definite divine mandate-morality and taboo were both formed from human thought.

Several traditions have their roots in those early days. Perhaps the most famous is the taboo against destroying Soul Gems. Theologians still debate whether or not the Law collects those who die in this way, but even the risk of doing so was enough to make it abhorrent.

Still, the most famous and influential of these early sources was St. Akemi’s 15 Virtues of the Law of Cycles.

This seminal work, still of great importance to Cyclian canon, names the Law’s great virtues: Humility, Optimism, Honesty, Empathy, Selflessness, Integrity, Cleverness, Charitability, Diligence, Modesty, Bravery, Beauty*, Self-Contentment, Adaptability, and Love.

*defined as “the ability to perceive the beauty in others, and the world” as opposed to mere physical attractiveness, though St. Homura was quite clear that the latter also applied.

These virtues form the core of most modern systems of Cyclian morality.

Now let us turn to the early Cyclians themselves (“cyclists” was taken).

These early converts were a diverse lot, each approaching the Law in a unique way. Some of these approaches have lasted to modern times, in one form or another.

Most were, of course, magical girls, but a few weren’t-potentials, or others who somehow learned of our world. They often sought the Law for comfort, either to help decide whether they should contract, or to pray for the souls of a girl they knew.

Prayer was-and is-less important in Cyclianism than other faiths. We know, from the prophetess, that She listens to us, and some take comfort in that. Others see that She only intercedes upon death (except, perhaps, in dreams), so they think it best to save any words for Her until then.

Back to Cyclians, the bulk of us were and are magical girls, and our unique relationship with reality encourages a diverse pool of theological thought.

We can see the beginnings of this in St. Maruyama’s The Barkeep’s Gospel:

This passage seems to refer to the first Atheistic Cyclians, who prefer to see Her as an especially powerful and selfless magical girl, not a god.

They have a foil in theistic Cylians-who, despite the name, are not simply Cyclians who accept Her divine nature. Instead, these followers revere or worship Her while still adhering to a second faith or religion. Some simply worship Her as one god among many, or as an aspect of another god. Others use the moral system of another religion or philosophy while still worshiping the Law.

It is worth noting that the prophetess’s writings can be interpreted to support both approaches. For instance, Her status as an ascended mortal leaves the window open for some older god, gods, or general cosmic force before her. St. Akemi also never said that She required Her followers to worship Her alone.

Other Cyclians follow a doctrine of Contractualism, that the Law is a fundamental force of the universe that responds to magical girls…

The Geneva apartment was bare and dusty-the magical girl who lived there neither ate nor drank, left only for hunting and research. Much of the space was taken up by boxes of records-ones that should have been converted to digital form almost before they were written. Cyclians of the past valued the solidity of a written book for their scripture.

On the one bare desk in the place, Arch-Cyclian Alice typed furiously, writing with a fervor. She felt almost as though St. Akemi herself stood beside her, guiding her work.

She would have been overwhelmed if she knew how she was almost right-Homura Akemi was slightly behind her and to the left.

She was, however, not so much guiding the girl as she was facepalming.

“Man, you really did a number on them, Transfer student.”

Homura looked up from her own hands to level a glare at Sayaka. “How many centuries are you going to keep calling me that for?”

“All of them.”

Alice kept typing away at her work, completely heedless of the right and left hands of the Goddess (who was which varied by the week, as they played rock-paper-scissors for it) bickering behind her.

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Chapter Text

Homura once heard-or rather, read-someone described as being “so holy that angels bear his words directly to God.”

Homura was not like that-though not for a lack of angels in her vicinity.

No, while she might not have been aware of them, she had no lack of divine messengers. They walked beside her, flew overhead, flitted about, floated in her wake.

“Homura duty,” as they had come to call it, was an ever-popular pastime. Gossip was the nearest thing the heavens had to a currency, and gossip about their Goddess’s beloved-and the new religion she was spreading, much to Her chagrin-was ever popular.

They watched her battles against the Wraiths with appreciative eyes-Madoka’s host was populated by plenty of warriors of renown, but few could have matched the Goddess’s beloved in a fight-at least, not without calling upon their witch. That her combat style bore a strong resemblance to the Goddess’s was often noted, her watchers exchanging knowing smiles.

In Homura’s quieter moments, when she spoke to herself of her longing for Madoka, the angels listened. Some would shed a few tears, some would sigh after the romance of it all.

Homura, in general, had quite a few fans among her unearthly watchers-if Madoka weren’t a very jealous and possessive god (when it came to Homura), then she would have had quite a welcoming party awaiting her eventual entrance to Magical Girl Valhalla.

The latest piece of gossip involved a magical girl Homura had recently encountered, one Iroha Tamaki. The latter had found herself nearly overrun by wraiths when Homura flew in with her usual avenging-angel-of-Madoka look (funny that she looked more like an angel than the actual angels watching her), all shining wings and bright, terrible arrows.

“Did you see the look on her face? I thought that she was going to just grab her and push her down!” That was from the youngest angel present, an English girl who’d fallen in the Great War. She’d taken quite readily to the magical girl afterlife’s rather…enthusiastic view of love and physicality.

True, Homura’s expression upon first seeing a pink archer had been…complex. She still wore the expression of someone hit in the face with a cast iron pan, even after realizing that Iroha was not her goddess/girlfriend.

The second angel, senior to the first by a few centuries, the daughter of a crusader, scoffed at the notion. “Please, as if she has any place in her heart for anyone but Her.”

Homura, somewhat recovered, stared down at an enthusiastically bowing crossbow-wielder. The pinkette seemed to be thanking her profusely.

“Well, if the heart’s out of reach, there’s plenty of other places worth touch-” the first angel began.

The third angel, a niece of a sultan and contemporary of the second, interjected: “The resemblance is uncanny.”

The gathered angels looked at the girl in question-currently enthusiastically thanking a beleaguered Homura for agreeing to tutor her in archery.

A fourth angel alighted nearby. This one was Japanese, Taishō era. She wasn’t part of their group, and they eyed her with interest.

She bowed. “”I am this one’s guardian” she motioned towards Iroha, all but clinging to Homura.

The guardian frowned. “This isn’t like her-she’s normally much…shyer?”

The other angels glanced from the newcomer to her charge. Doubt crept onto more than one face at the claim.

The second shrugged. “She’s been through a near-death experience, that can throw you for a loop.”

The gathered angels nodded-they had all gotten close to death before…very close, considering that they were all dead.

A cough drew their attention to the fifth angel. The eldest by far, she could recall the taste of fresh mammoth on her tongue. Wordlessly, she pointed them to the real issue at hand.

Homura didn’t need angels to carry her words directly to God, because She was already there.

The five angels turned to the last of their group, who was glaring at the two magical girls in holy fury. “”Homura you lousy two-timer…” Madoka all but growled.

The angels collectively gulped.

Homura frowned as a chill crept down her spine. At first she thought that it was another group of wraiths, but a glance around the street showed no one nearby, save for Tamaki.

So why did she feel like some great, malevolent presence was bearing down on her?

Chapter Text

It started when she noticed that the sky was two different shades of blue, one at each end.

Homura slipped away to her usual spot, sitting by the edge of the half-hill, the sheer drop ever calling to her. Now, though, she ignores the call, and keeps her eyes to the east.

It really was a great view. She thought that she should reintroduce it to Madoka someday soon.

It came slowly, to the point where she almost thought that she was imagining it-but was there any difference between reality and her own imagination, really? She was, after all, the one who usurped a god.

In any case, it came. The sky turned ever lighter shades of blue, though the west remained darker throughout. The grass around her became more visible by the moment, or so she felt.

Then, a hint of color-first came the barest hint of a greenish yellow, right at the edge of the blue. True yellow started to peek out, then everything happened at once-the clouds burned with orange, and a pinkish haze crept around in a flanking maneuver. Some clouds and buildings and distant mountains were backlit by the predawn light, forming a dark landscape of their own. The effect pleased her, and she considered making that their actual color.

She wasn’t sure when the birds started their songs-it felt like they all started chirping and chattering at once, naturally coming to an agreement. Her Liese remained silent, populating the trees around her, staring to the east.

Down in Mitakihara, her Luiselottes reigned in their steeds and paused in their hunt, spears and eyes pointed upwards. The other tin soldiers, the Lottes, stoic as ever, kept their gazes earthbound. The Lilia chewed, eyeless and often underground. Up above, the Lisa paid no heed to astronomical events.

The Clara Dolls danced and giggled and sang songs not even she knew, seen out of the corner of every eye, words not quite reaching any ear.

All of this without a hint of the actual sun, just the promise of its arrival.

She noticed a single star in the sky, shining gamely throughout. It must be very bright or very close, she thought. It did not blink, or move perceptively. Perhaps this was Venus, the Daystar, Lucifer-and that brought a smile to her face.

It fit her, really. A star (in an ancient meaning of the word, when planets were stars and the sun was not), shining ever on. It stood out, an interloper in the heavens. No matter how bright she shone, she would always pale before the coming dawn.

She supposed that that made Madoka the sun. Or maybe she was the crisp half-moon, and the sun was the eternal glory of her Law.

At that thought, a shudder of panic ran through her, and she reached out instinctively.

Dawn came an hour late to Japan that day.

Nobody really noticed. The clocks kept pace, freezing with the sun and unfreezing when it moved again. People slept in an extra hour, or remarked at how much more time it felt like they had to prepare. Those already up and working found that the hour passed in a meditative blur.

The Lisa went to work, making sure that nobody questioned it too much.

The Devil chided herself for her sentimentality-Madoka would not reascend simply because of some pretty lights.

Still, throughout the hour, her eyes never left the frozen dawn.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 4 Next>>

A lie isn’t just the opposite of truth, nor is it a simple falsehood (though Usotsuki used both quite readily, as they were easy to pull out at the drop of a hat-good lies take preperation)-after all, all the best lies are completely true.

Just look at the Incubators-they never spoke a mistruth, but still arranged for their targets to construct an entire false narrative by telling them just enough, holding back the rest.

She almost admired them. Granted, that didn’t do anything to stay her hand when they got uppity and needed a good stabbin.

The little clearing was a peaceful place-the sounds of traffic were a distant rumble, enough to reassure you of civilization’s presence without having to see it. Birdsong predominated, though the Liese vastly outnumbered normal birds here, so close to Good-for-nothing’s favored hill.

The half-moon glared down at Usotsuki, spearing through the canopy. She glared back, not paying attention to the marshmallows she was roasting with a spear she’d “borrowed” from a Luiselotte.

She was interrupted from her celestial staring contest when Ibari came crashing through the brambles, rather devoid of the gravitas her eldest sister usually tried to project.

Ibari skidded to a halt, and the two dolls looked at each other in surprise.

Ibari held a finger to her lips and started to run off, then paused. Usotsuki raised an eyebrow in response.

Ibari gestured to the spear. The marshmallow was a blackened husk. Perfect.

As Ibari ran off into the night, the doll of lies slid the charcoal brick of a marshmallow off the spear, heedless of the heat. She popped it directly into her mouth, savoring the taste of wasted potential.

She was just about done when a second doll-the second doll, Nekura-burst into the clearing. She must have raided Good-for-nothing’s stash, judging by the flamethrower strapped to her back and the small autocannon in her hands (that was supposed to be vehicle-mounted).

Once again, the two sisters looked at each other in surprise. Nekura recovered first, raising an eyebrow in a way that spoke volumes.

Where is she?

Usotsuki thought about who she should help. On the one hand, the eldest doll had a certain amount of clout, and could be a terror when she felt like her pride had been wounded. On the other hand, Nekura looked about ready to take on an entire company of soldiers, or possibly storm the beaches of Normandy (she made a note to ask Good-for-nothing about using her god/devil powers to recreate major battles-it sounded like fun).

She shrugged, and pointed in the opposite direction from Ibari.

Nekura nodded her thanks, then started to run in the opposite direction from where she pointed, but unknowingly copied her older sister by stopping and turning back around.

The Goddess is looking for you.

Well. Fuck.

Usotsuki is very good at lying, but moreover, she’s very good at detecting others’ lies.

This comes with a corollary-she, among all the Clara dolls, is the best at recognizing the truth. This extends even to her own lies-she’s terrible at lying to herself.

She can lie to herself about lying to herself (and add many more layers upon that), but even her most elaborate webs of lies fall apart the moment she even vaguely introspects in their general direction.

So, she cannot pretend that seeing Madoka wouldn't make her almost disgustingly happy-she and her sisters were, after all, extensions of their “mother.” She also has to admit that, if She wanted to find her, She probably would.

Which is why, when Madoka stumbled out her front door the next morning, a resigned Usotsuki was there to steady her.

Good-for-nothing was going to kill her. Probably in an especially visceral matter, like by tearing her apart by hand-hopefully she would appreciate the…not irony…appropriateness?

Because, of course, she was going to kill her lying child for daring to hold Madoka’s hand. Then again, Usotsuki’s porcelain heart might just explode first, saving her the trouble.

Because hand. Madoka. Holding. Madoka holding.

She was pretty sure that She was saying something, but Usotsuki was rather preoccupied with trying not to have a heart attack.

At the same time, Madoka thought that everything was going swimmingly.

Usotsuki, the sweetheart, had even saved her the trouble of tracking her down. Too bad, she was looking forward to releasing the bloodhounds.

“So how do you like your eggs?” Madoka’s shining smile threatened to burn her to cinders-and that would be quite impressive, seeing as she was made of porcelain-but the doll gamely persevered.

Scrambled. Of course, her true favorite was raw and in the shell, but her instinctive need to lie even worked on Her, assuming that she could open her mouth without screaming or singing Her praises.

Madoka frowned-this put several lurking familiars into a state of near panic, though she missed this-at her food.

The meal itself was fine, it was the conversation that was bugging her. Every answer felt…off. It was almost like-

Madoka sat up, an almost mischievous look on her face.

“Hey Usotsuki-chan, what’s your hair color?”

There was a tone to her voice-she thought that it was sly, but was mostly just cute. Her conversation partner needed a moment to recover (as did the Liese watching from a nearby tree, the Luiselotte two tables over, and the various dolls lurking around).

…Orange.

Madoka leaned forward, scenting blood. “And what’s your name?”

Wagamama.

The currently amnesiatic goddess bore an actually quite intimidating grin, and went for the kill. “Do you like me?”

Usotsuki froze.

Inside, her very essence fought in the most brutal of civil wars. The always-lie-when-possible side held the center, but partisans from love-Madoka-above-all-else burst out of every shadow, with their snipers in every window and mines in every street. The liars tried to suppress the lovers with an armored assault, but they were soon bogged down as every corner seemed to grow AT guns.

All this manifested as the doll sitting very still, skin somehow paler than normal.

Madoka giggled. “You really take your name seriously, don’t you? That’s pretty cute.”

The liars were suddenly subjected to heavy artillery bombardment.

Madoka reached forward and ruffled Usotsuki’s hair.

The liars fucking exploded, along with her heart. Literally, there was an audible boom and smoke puffed out of her ears, after which she blessedly fainted.

<<Previous Familiarity 4 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Cuckoo 2 Next>>

Not all Puella Magi rely on roof-jumping for everyday travel. There’s plenty of us who use the bus, or drive, or even just walk. The stereotype that we’re all shingle-leaping fanatics is blatantly wrong and ignorant.

So, I was roof-jumping on my way to the eastern edge of Mitakihara town. Don’t judge me-the tower near the border with Kazamino is pretty tall, and I don’t like elevators.

It was evening. An unseasonably chill wind swept in from the seaside. I kept my eyes-and other senses-open the whole way, but didn’t catch hide nor hair of our predators-and-prey.

It was just as well-It’d been a while since I last fought solo. I was very used to the constant crack of Mami’s muskets, and their absence would have put me off balance.

I finally reached the tower itself, and I burst into one last flurry of jumps, leaping from strut to wall. The wind gave me a sighing chorus, and the last leap sendt me over the roof. I hung in midair ever so slightly longer than the laws of physics would prefer, briefly forgotten by gravity.

The universe remembered that I had mass, and I landed with the lightest of thumps, scattering a few feathers left behind by the birds (they were just about the only things that came up there, besides magical girls and the odd repairman).

It was a pretty good view, up there-the city below shined to outmatch the stars.

I barely had time to catch my breath before the elevator gave a little ding, and out walked one Sakura Kyoko.

“‘Sup Kyubey.”

We took a longer path back, on the way to Mami’s apartment-I thought that we might as well turn it into a little patrol, and Kyoko was always up for a fight.

We chatted through telepathy-normal conversation’s pretty hard when the wind’s roaring in your ears. It’s a very good thing that all Puella Magi instinctively know how to make “windshield” magic, else we’d be splattered in dead bugs.
So, what’d I miss?

Curiosity. Concern. Worry. Fear. She was right to feel these-while she came and went as she pleased, Mami and I very rarely called for her to return early.

First, it appears as though Verschlingendenacht is coming soon.

Shock. Fear. A bit of anger. Determination. She was always someone to count on when the chips were down.

Realization. Curiosity again.

How do you know?

I sighed.

New magical girl in town. She’s prickly, but feels honest about this much.

That brought up-a lot of feelings from her, really. Meeting a new magical girls was always a crapshoot, much less those bearing tidings of the gods-be-damned (localized) apocalypse.

I started answering before she could even ask.

Akemi Homura. Purple gem on the back of her hand. Has some kind of buckler. Uses guns and explosives. She can move, but I can tell that she doesn’t use my method.

If it were Mami I was explaining this to, she might want details-looks, personality, if she felt like she was open to a truce (I would, in this alternate reality, politely pretend that she didn’t mean “friendship”), but Kyoko was generally fine with the tactical stuff.

We kept moving, as she digested that.

And I refrained from mentioning that Homura Akemi might have been insane.

<<Previous Cuckoo 2 Next>>

Chapter Text

She awoke the same way as always, bolting upright from the fresh taste of failure. She was in the same room as usual.

For the merest moment, she thought that it was all a terrible-wonderful-dream, that meeting Madoka and everything afterward was her mind playing the cruelest of tricks on her.

The ring on her finger proved otherwise.

Homura sighed. Another lost to Walpurgisnacht. Another contract for Madoka. Another Kriemhild Gretchen.

Sakura stayed away. Miki contracted early, then fell, overconfident. Tomoe lasted a while this time, but the loss of her kohai wore her down.

She sighed again. There’s an Idea that she’s been contemplating, over the last few loops. It festered at the back of her mind, growing in strength with every setback. It whispered in her ears, telling her of might-have-beens.

The idea itself was sound, but also played to her weaknesses, going against her nature. That alone had kept it from implementation.

She thought of Madoka, and steeled herself.

She fought Walpurgisnacht alone, and failed.

She fought it with a few allies, and failed.

Only with Madoka’s sacrifice-unacceptable-had they ever won.

She needed more firepower and for that…that would require that she face an old fear, perhaps her oldest fear:

Social interaction.

Madoka didn’t know what to make of Homura Akemi at first-or rather, she knew exactly what to make of her, but not what to do with it (though her mind was quick to supply her with ideas).

Aloof, pretty, athletic, smart-and, quite literally, the girl of her dreams. That last was kinda weird, but she could roll with it.

At least, she thought she could until Akemi-san asked her to walk with her, alone.

Granted, it was to the nurses office, not the beach or a park or something, and the hallways weren't the most private of venues…

Still, she had to fight the fluttering in her chest, telling herself that this was a perfectly innocent little trip, not some…illicit tryst.

This thought lasted just about until she found herself pinned to the wall.

Well, perhaps “pinned” wasn’t the best word-there was plenty of room for her to get out, if she wanted.

She stayed put, partially out of her preference, partially because she didn’t trust her legs to carry her weight just then.

Homura-chan (holy shit, they were already on a first-name basis) started saying something, but it was wasted on Madoka-not out of any lack of interest, but instead her inability to hear much over her own heartbeat.

She was pretty sure that she heard a snippet about her being “perfect the way you are,” which was a pretty big claim to make on their first (date? Did a random hallway count as a date venue?) conversation, but she wasn’t complaining.

The girl of her dreams said something else, pulled away (which was probably good for the sake of Madoka’s heart), and walked off.

Madoka watched her leave, then stayed put for a while.

“Did…did the ribbons actually work?”

Homura walked away from her little talk with Madoka much less enthused-the poor girl was obviously terrified of her, with how she was shaking and averting her gaze. She did seem to react when Homura told her not to change, so perhaps there was some hope after all.

Madoka was, of course, always priority number one, and she needed to come on strong for this loop-if she was successful, then a lot of magical girls would be hanging around. Madoka would get sucked into it somehow-the incubator would see to that-and she needed some warning ahead of time.

Homura left school in a rush-there was a lot of groundwork to be laid in this loop.

She figured that she had three priority targets.

The first was the most familiar, and was especially vital this loop. Tomoe Mami was powerful, a veteran, and Walspurgisnacht would mostly impact her territory. Any sort of defense force would naturally form up around her.

She was also pretty good at the whole “interacting with people” angle, when she had her head on straight. That could be useful.

Luckily, she was always eager to make new allies (friends, she would hope), so Homura shouldn’t need to work too hard on convincing her.

Still, first impressions matter.

“I do love the smell of gunpowder in the…afternoon.”

Her muskets cracked and mustachioed puffballs died, their bodies crushing the roses they worked so hard to grow in life.

The slaughter continued until their mistress took to the air, crying out in her wrath.

Mami grinned, already anticipating the great blast she would use to put her down.

A final fusilade cut down the ranks of familiars, and she jumped up, already forming the cannon for her finale. She took her time, making it especially fancy. Gold filigree sprouted at an alarming rate before the barrel was even finished.

Then the witch exploded, rended apart in a series of deafening bangs.

Mami blinked, and glanced down at her great gun-still unfinished, no chance of a misfire.

She let it fall apart, and landed on the ground just as the roses faded away, leaving the dull flooring of the mall’s backrooms.

She didn’t need to look far to find her little (friend?) killstealer-a goth-looking chick with a drying pan on her wrist. Or maybe a shield, that actually made more sense.

She already held the Grief Seed, her eyes on Mami.

“Tomoe Mami.”

Well, so much for her being an uninformed newcomer. She shifted slightly, reached up to tip her cap at the girl-ready to pull a bundle of muskets from it at the drop of a-well, hat.

“I’m afraid that you have me at a disadvantage.” Was that too formal? Did it come across as unfriendly? These sorts of thoughts swirled over her, though she held her ready stance throughout.

“Akemi Homura. I’m new in town.” If she was, she had apparently done enough research to find the name of the local magical girl and recognize her. She had some sense then, though not enough to let Mami have her big boom (though whatever Akemi had done did produce a satisfying enough explosion that Mami decided to let it pass).

Akemi started walking forward, bold as you please. Mami had to respect someone so brazen while on another girl’s turf.

The new girl tossed the Grief Seed. Mami blinked, barely moved as she caught it left-handed, guard still up.

“You know, you’re the sort of person that people look up to.” Akemi sounded thoughtful.

The guard didn’t so much fall as get hit by close air support.

“Eh?” That rather eloquent statement summed up Mami’s initial reaction, followed up by a hint of pink coming to her face.

Akemi, for her part, walked way too close, and reached up to cup her cheek. Mami held her breath. This girl really was quite bold.

The other girl studied Mami’s reddening face, for what she could only guess.

“Take care of yourself.”

Akemi stepped away and was gone, leaving Mami bewildered and…excited.

The veteran magical girl stood up straight, her lips curling into a grin as her blush deepened. “My, I certainly am charming, aren’t I?”

Homura fought the urge to skip as time resumed around her-that went as well as she could have hoped for.

She’d arrived in time to demonstrate that her own skills were formidable, made a peace offering with the Grief Seed, introduced the idea that other magical girls could look up to the blonde veteran, and even threw in a reminder to watch out for herself.

Surely, she was a master of clear communications.

Homura’s second priority target was less important than the others, but required swift action.

She had once tried, for several loops, to prevent the births of local witches-removing a threat and potentially getting an ally. Most of these were failures-either the witches were older than the beginning of her loop, or they came in from elsewhere, or she simply couldn’t locate them.

Momoe Nagisa was her greatest (and only, but sush) success so far.

Her standard procedure was to walk up, shove a cheesecake into her hands, use the distraction to hold a Grief Seed to the girl’s soul, and throw the now marginally less depressed girl over to Tomoe’s (or, in one memorable case, Sakura’s).

For some reason Tomoe seemed oddly angry about it this time, her face going red. She muttered something about not “adopting before the first date,” whatever that meant.

Homura was already moving on to target number 3.

Oriko sipped at her tea, blushing ever so slightly.

Her latest vision had been…enlightening. That dark-haired girl was very…flexible. The sight of her pinning Oriko to the floor, chest heaving with exertion-well, her blushed deepened every time she thought of it.

Granted, said vision had only looked pleasant because she didn’t see the immediate followup, but let her have her delusions.

“Mikuni Oriko.”

The words sent shivers down her spine, as the figure from her visions appeared behind her-she knew that their meeting might happen then and there, but that did little to prepare her for the effect of her name on her destined lover’s (so she thought) lips.

Said lips were dangerously close to brushing her ear, which was all but glowing red.

“You know why I’m here, yes?” Homura thought of Walpurgisnacht.

“Yes.” Oriko gulped, mind racing with (misinterpreted) images.

“Good girl.” Homura said, patting Oriko’s head. “Bring your friends.”

Oriko discovered that, yes, she was capable of blushing a yet deeper shade of red.

Her visions-those that gave her a meaning to exist-were full of scenes with this girl, and countless other magical girls in “suggestive” positions, sometimes more than one at once. She recognized a few faces, too.

Not trusting herself to speak, Oriko merely nodded.

And just like that, she was gone.

Oriko collapsed in her seat.

Homura stalked away from the Mikuni manor, a pleased smirk on her face.

That oracle would need watching, yes, but she was obviously cowed. No doubt her visions were full of scenes of her own gruesome deaths, among other painful things.

A few years later, at the third annual Puella Magi International Wrestling Exhibition (PMIWE), Oriko refused to look anyone in the eyes-especially not her wives.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Cuckoo 3 Next>>

Kyoko and I traveled a bit more before I felt them.

I landed on a streetlamp, the nightlit Mitakihara fading away as I sunk within my power.

Most of the world was a dull gray, smeared with oily smudges where strong emotions had left their mark. Kyoko landed nearby, a blazing stack of desire and despair and hope, held together with bands of pure contrariness.

I stared at the nearby buildings, and gray walls fell away to show the people within. Some wore the frenzied confusion of dreaming emotions, a few bound up in earth-shattering fear. Some were still awake, emotions dulled by tiredness. One person seemed rather content-must be a nightowl.

I concentrated, and more walls fell, then more and more-soon the city was gone, its shape formed by a sea of stars-distant people, all wearing their own corona of emotion.

My eyes were drawn to the voids-the black holes of this bright galaxy, patches of utter blankness.

They were wrong.

I blinked, and once more found myself in a city lit by electricity, not feelings.

Kyoko quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Hunting pack, two klicks west-north-west, at least twelve.” I pointed.

My companion grinned. “Good, I could use a little warming up.”

We were gone in a flash.

Kyoko landed on the roof next to me, staring down at our quarry. “You know, this is kinda creepy.”

She said it dully, without any real feeling behind it. Mostly because she didn’t have any at the moment.

I agreed with her, really. Even the most minor and innocuous use of my ability left me with a gurgling stomach, a burning esophagus. Draining her emotions to the point of oblivion was far from a minor use, and felt wrong on countless levels. It reminded me too much of the monsters we hunted.

But it was damn useful-we had snuck up on a whole pack of them, where most magical girls would have arrived to see them ready to fight.

My magic didn't work on me directly, but I didn’t really need it to: they tended to ignore me up until I was about to split their skulls open, anyway.

I tried not to think about why that might be.

Instead, I focused on our targets.

Twelve of them-one great big one on all fours, like a tiger; two hulking, stooped brutes, like gorillas; two floating, magnifying glass-like scouts, and seven runts, housecat sized.

Long, ribbon-like tentacles extended from the big one’s head, wrapping around what looked to be a homeless man. I could see pulses of color running down their length, as the man’s emotions faded, pulled into that ever-hungry abyss.

Kyoko and I exchanged a few looks, some sharpish gestures, and we hashed out a simple plan, or rather a general policy: she would go in directly, using her greater killing power to good effect. I would follow behind, using my relative stealth to take out anything that tried to flank her.

We exchanged nods, and she leapt from the roof. At once, I allowed my grip on her emotions slip.

It was almost blinding, how she went from dull gray to a rainbow inferno. She always burned brightest in battle-all regrets faded away, while anticipation and rage and glee surged to fill the gap.

Down below, the emotivores’ eyes snapped up to her in precise unison-were they, too, blinded?

The lion-thing dropped its meal, forgotten from the sudden appearance of its favorite food.

Kyoko crashed into them like a jousting armored car, spear tearing straight through one of the gorilla things.

I, for my part, chased less formidable prey.

My jump carried me higher than hers, as I pulled my axe from wherever we puella magi got our weapons. It wasn’t an especially intimidating or over the top weapon-it couldn’t ensnare like Kyoko’s, was rather plain compared to Mami’s: white wood handle, a bit of filigree on the head. It was a simple, solid axe that a horseman might have used.

I did some research on it, once. Turned out to be a “Shepherd's Axe,” as much a walking stick as a weapon. Maybe I should take up herding, leading sheep to the slaughter and all that.

I landed squarely on one of the floating glass-things. Its great eye blinked, but I was gone almost before it reopened, axe shattering it behind me. The second one fared no better.

Kyoko had already ensnared the second ape-thing, and was finishing it off.

The smaller beasts tried to swarm her, but I was already poised to intercept-my feet squished one each as I landed, axe accounting for a third. I pulled a second axe in my off hand, evidently from my scarf, and a low sweep took care of the remainder.

In that short span, Kyoko and the lion had already come to blows. It clawed at her from low down while its ribbons struck at her from on high-she parried with her spear, countered with her latticework.

Its mouth tore open wide, and dozens of ribbons burst out in a cone, ensnaring her through sheer numbers and speed.

I moved, snagged the ribbons with one axe while the other struck at the thing, shocking it with an attack from a direction it had thought empty of foes.

It reared up, its neck suddenly exposed.

The monster’s milky flesh parted as a spear rammed through it.

The entire exchange lasted perhaps a minute.

We took a moment to catch our balance on this sudden stillness.

The man was asleep, faint emotions still clinging to his form-far better than the soulless husk he would have been.

I cast around the ground, and we stooped to collect our reward-the eyes of the beasts, the only part left after their deaths. I used two of the little ones to cleanse my Soul Gem, while Kyoko needed one of the lion-thing’s.

I may not be the strongest fighter, but I don’t expend much magic in combat, either. Granted, that was balanced out by a constant drain-my powers don’t have an off switch, at least not for the empathy part.

Eyes gathered and souls clear, we turned to each other. She wore a little grin, radiating with triumph and pride and satisfaction.

“Well, that’s one pack down.”

“Let’s go get Mami.”

We nodded, and took back to the roofs, heading to where our most veteran teammate waited.

There would be more Incubators to hunt that night.

<<Previous Cuckoo 3 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 5 Next>>

Coldheartedness did not come quickly or easily to Homura. There were a few early glimmers of it, here and there, as she grew up-the life of an orphan with a heart defect was far from easy. Still, she was able to maintain at least some bit of empathy and kindness.

Then Madoka died.

Then her former friends eyed her with suspicion, a dangerous stranger.

Then her past-life mentor tried to kill her.

Then Madoka held out her blackened Soul Gem, with a request.

Reiketsu was born on that day-she wouldn’t actually exist in a physical or spiritual sense until the Master started to become a witch, yes-but the idea of her was there. She was there when the Master gave up on each of her friends in turn, and devoted herself to only Madoka.

As the rest of her diminished, worn down by death and mistrust and failure, Reiketsu grew.

Each of her sisters-especially Ibari-liked to think of themselves as the best, the strongest, the bearer of some vital part of the Master’s being.

Reiketsu knew better-AI was obviously the strongest, as all the others unconsciously bent to her will.

Reiketsu was the second strongest.

She was the scourge of weakness. When the Master was held back by something-someone, more often than not-she was the one to whisper in her ear, tell her how much more she could do if she just let go of some petty qualm.

Her sisters (save for AI, of course) were distractions, for the most part.

Usotsuki, Warukuchi, and Ganko were exceptions-they could all be useful tools, in the right hands.

Reiketsu was the hand.

It was disgusting, how the others trailed after Pink like lost puppies.

It was one thing for a Liese or tin soldiers to fawn over her-they were simple creatures, easily cowed by AI-but her elder sisters were Clara dolls, children of the false city, mourners at the Master’s funeral, princesses of hell!

They should know better than to get close to Pink-the Master’s great work required a certain distance. She could never bear to stay apart from Pink, despite Reiketsu’s suggestions otherwise, but the Master stayed as far as she could, an aloof classmate.
Why, then, were her strongest familiars-large chunks of her very soul-having a picnic with her?

“And you say that this will lure your sister out, Ibari-chan?”

The doll in question nodded enthusiastically, while her redheaded sister shook her own gingerly (she was still recovering from her case of headpat-related heart detonation).

She takes her name as seriously as the rest of us. The three of us engaging in apparent frivolity with you will catch her attention.

Ibari “spoke” with an oddly refined tone-it wasn’t simply a case of using the occasional fancy word, more like she thought that ever word carried great weight. Madoka thought that this was adorable.

This will never work.

Usotsuki gave her own endorsement. Madoka went to ruffle her hair, a move that the doll reluctantly dodged.

Nekura stayed silent, wearing a cute scowl.

She was noticeably ruffled, while Ibari was singed-apparently Nekura had gotten to use that flamethrower after all.

Madoka smiled at their antics-they really were good kids, in their own ways (it was probably for the best that she hadn’t witnessed their battle, which opened with Ibari trying to split Nekura with an axe and ended with the building burning down).

Ibari suddenly puffed herself up, a grin (a proud one, obviously) on her face.

Got her.

Pink and the other dolls packed up, and leisurely made their way out of the park. Their unhurried pace would make Namake proud.

Reiketsu followed, of course-someone had to keep an eye on this unruly lot.

Now.

Nekura suddenly tripped, bowling over Ibari. The latter screeched in anger, and the two wrestled at once.

The pessimist broke pride’s hold and bolted into the woodland, the latter pursuing with pin-spear held high.

Madoka put her hands to her mouth, the very picture of shocked concern.

“Oh my, I hope that they’ll be fine. This is pretty normal for them, right?”

No, the eldest two have no form of rivalry whatsoever.

“Oh, good.”

Just then, a Liese landed on Usotsuki’s shoulder, carrying a letter. The doll read it, her face morphing into a worried frown.

It looks like Good-fo-

Madoka cleared her throat.

It looks like…mother has no need for me at this moment, and I can walk you home. I have hated every moment of this.

The liar bowed, and sprung away towards a certain apartment.

What the fuck are they doing?

Reiketsu yanked out a lock of her hair in pure frustration, taking a bit of porcelain with it (she would heal quickly enough, anyway).

While she appreciated that the poor excuse for dolls were finally away from Pink, if for stupid reasons (though she appreciated that Usotsuki was actually following orders for once), they also made a mistake:

They left Pink alone.

You do not leave Pink alone-not when she threatened to return to goddesshood at any moment..

The fourth born growled-now she had to pick up the slack for her useless sisters, as always, and watch over the being that gave their universe a purpose, until another came to relieve her.

Madoka walked alone for a while.

At least, she seemed alone-a Lisa flew off near the city center, still flashing a small light-it would go dark if Homura’s fourth daughter stopped following her.

It was odd, almost creepy to be aware of her stalker, while not seeing any sign of her.

The sun beat down on her, and she swayed.

She caught herself on a wall, sliding down it.

“Ah,” she said, “Heatstroke. Should have brought more water…”

Reiketsu was going to kill her sisters, break them apart and feed them to the Lilia.

Stupid, stupid, stupid-you should all have kept an eye on her health. She resolved to carve that on their tombstones (the funerals would be closed-casket and empty of mourners).

She sent out a mental ping to her fellow familiars, but none were nearby-not even the useless damned blimps.

She sighed. There was only one person around to help Pink.

She emerged from her hiding place, and crept closer to her bane.

It burned. No matter what, there was always one person who could melt right through Reiketsu and get to the Master’s heart.

She was sweating-since when could she even sweat?-by the time she reached Pink, breaths were coming short and quick. She willed herself not to shake, not to panic as she reached out to the girl she was born to protect.

Then the earth lurched and Pink was above her, pinning her down, smiling apologetically.

“Hello Reiketsu-chan, I’m your future step-mother.”

Homura looked up from the Incubator she was lightly torturing (forcing it to listen to a bad mixtape Sayaka had made in one loop, as a confession to the violin boy, on repeat, forever).

“Why do my dolls keep dying?”

Madoka looked down at the puddle that used to be a girl.

“Huh. Maybe I should put her in the freezer?”

<<Previous Familiarity 5 Next>>

Chapter Text

Homura had a list.

It was long, taking up several notebooks. Every obstacle she’d ever faced, every failure and the odd petty success, all of her efforts to save Madoka were given a physical form in those pages.

The notebooks were well-worn: they had been shot, burned, stabbed and waterlogged, one of them had even had a grenade go off next to it.

Inside, the pages were covered in an eclectic assortment of content-clean and precise diagrams could cover one page, while others were almost completely crossed out.

Here, there was a chart showing variations in Walpurgisnacht’s precise arrival time and location, there you might have found the outline of a plan to keep Madoka out of town by taking her out on a honeymoon (she was, to be fair, very tired when she wrote that one-and evidently very lonely).

There was, however, one particular observation that she had never written down, perhaps thinking it obvious: don’t break your freaking spine.

“Homura-chan!” Madoka came running-a sight that would normally demand Homura’s complete attention, except that she was rather busy not dying.
The ground was rough on her back, little stones digging into her flesh, shell casings still hot against her skin through her ripped magical girl outfit.

That little hint of pain, dulled by her nature as a magical girl, is far preferable to the dreadful oblivion that was her lower body. Even after all her years of fighting, the prospect of paralysis-no matter if she could recover from it-still made her hindbrain gibber in terror.

This was the cost of hubris, she supposed-she had been so focused on saving Madoka from the rose garden witch that she’d left herself open to attacks.

No matter how strong you were, carelessness could still get you in the end.

Madoka was next to her now, tears in her eyes. Even Miki Sayaka looked concerned-evidently saving Madoka (and Miki, but mostly Madoka) from being pruned was enough to dampen the blueberry’s suspicion.

Madoka didn’t ask if she was okay-evidently the shape of her spine was obvious from its…shape.

“She’ll need a Grief Seed.” Tomoe Mami-she’d arrived just in time to witness Homura’s failure, finishing off the witch (Homura had still kept the familiars at bay, even from the ground). She held up Gertrud’s former Soul Gem.

Seeing the looks of confusion on their faces, Tomoe made a little “oh” of realization, and explained how magical girls worked-to her limited understanding.

A glance at her Soul Gem showed quickly clouding lavender, as her magic poured into healing her. It didn’t care that she would turn into a witch at her current rate-probably an intentional design choice.

Tomoe advanced with the Grief Seed, but Homura held up a hand to ward her off. Being in the blonde’s debt, after the latter had fought so many times, in her pride and ignorance-it would rankle.

“I have spares.”

Homura reached into her shield, grabbing for a Grief Seed from a previous timeline. Her hand caught something unexpectedly stringy.

She frowned, let go, and reached for the Seed again, only to reach the same result. That was beyond odd-she had never pulled something out of her shield besides what she intended, and nothing in there should have felt like that.

She reached around to the other side of the Seed, finding something more solid.

She pulled it out, gently, ready to shove it back in if it proved dangerous.

First came a shoe.

She blinked. The others couldn’t see it yet, and looked on with concern.

There was a small gasp when she pulled more, revealing polka-dotted brown leggings.

“She’s got a body in there? Do magical girls eat people?” That was Miki, backing away. Tomoe said something in response, which Homura didn’t quite catch.

She felt oddly calm-there was something odd happening, yes, but she would deal with it as it came-for now, she just needed to pull.

A second leg emerged from the shield, followed by a puffy skirt with suspenders.

Homura set the legs aside, grabbed the waist and yanked hard-out flew a flash of belly, some sort of orange coat, brown puffy balls (connected to a cat-eared hat), a mane of white hair (the first part she’s grabbed), and the confused face of an odd-eyed magical girl Homura had never met.

“She kidnaps little girls with her shield, run Madoka!”

Everyone, blessedly, ignored her, too focused on the new girl.

She stumbled to her feet, looked around, spotted Tomoe-and tackled the older girl.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry I didn’t mean to-” the veteran magical girl found herself overwhelmed by this aggressive apology, could only muster the lucidity to start mumbling words of comfort.

On a hunch, Homura yanked out another Grief Seed, revealing a rather bewildered Miki Sayaka in full magical girl regalia.

“What.”

Chapter Text

It felt like the gravest of sins, but Homura hated Madoka, just a little. She left her alone. The same self-sacrificing nature that had led her to death and witchdom again and again, her damned martyr complex, had finally taken her away to a place that no amount of time magic-even if she still had use of it-could snatch her away from.

It kinda pissed her off.

Yet-it was that same kind, generous, all-loving nature that had drawn Homura to her in the first place. Part of her still admired it.

She could admit that the new world, Madoka’s creation of wraiths and cubes, was far superior to the old ways. She even, in her infinite mercy, allowed the incubators a form of their great work (and surely any universe born of Her was too important to allow it to succumb to entropy). Perhaps she wouldn't mind it if Madoka had become a magical girl in this world, without the horrid revelation of witches.

But that was the problem, of course-there was no Madoka.

She could not stand such a world order, and so she Rebelled.

Her Soul Gem, Grief Seed, Dark Orb, whatever it was, expanded to contain the universe (which meant that it was inside of itself, something Homura deliberately avoided thinking about, just in case if reality started paying attention at that moment). Her familiars became as part of the “natural” world as anyone else.

Madoka returned, her role forgotten.

Homura all but danced with glee at this-later, she actually did start dancing-but a faint twinge of regret tugged at her.

Should Her sacrifice be so easily forgotten? Should not the whole world see Madoka as she did?

Of course the latter was unacceptable-Madoka could hardly live a normal life with such attention.

Still, it nagged at her, this thought of Her going unacknowledged.

These ideals-a normal life for Madoka versus recognition of her greatness-stirred and clashed within her, even as she rewrote the universe without.

Some ideas seem universal, or nearly so, with peoples that arose in very different places coming up with similar concepts.

Look at the myth of the storm god and the sea serpent-this seed of an idea has bloomed into many a tale, from Thor and Jörmungandr to Susanoo and Yamata no Orochi.

None, of course, are as widespread as the Cyclic Maiden.

The specifics vary from culture to culture, but the basic idea is simple enough: one girl (usually the purest/kindest/most hopeful maiden in the land) sacrifices herself to bring an end to some great evil. This evil is generally some sort of self-sustaining Cycle of suffering (hence the name “Cyclic Maiden”) that she breaks or reforms in her own image.

This process generally leads to her leaving for the heavens-either death or ascension, it again varies by culture, and some versions are open to interpretation.

Many other characters appear in some versions-anthropologists have identified several archetypes, to name but a few: the Deal-maker, a trickster who creates or perpetuates the (first, harmful) Cycle; the Doomed Knight, who is lured by the first; the Wise Drunk, who advises the Maiden.

The most popular by far is the Devoted, who is usually the Maiden’s greatest ally. Most versions of her story have her throw herself into the Cycle to defend the Maiden. This very act inspires the Maiden to ascend/die.

The Devoted’s place in the story varies wildly after this point. Some versions say nothing more of her after the Maiden’s sacrifice. Others say that she ascends to the heavens herself, while yet more say that she is left behind, mournful of the Maiden’s passing.

A few even speak of a Usurper, who casts down the Maiden from the heavens. Of these, about half say that the Usurper is the Devoted, or is somehow born of her.

Whatever the variation, this myth has proved enduring and popular-the Greek version is taught almost as often as the Labors of Heracles, as an example.

As with any widespread phenomenon, some…individuals…claim that it proves the existence of aliens, or magic, or some sort of thing.

That is, of course, ridiculous-physicists have given conclusive evidence that magic solely belongs to the massive soul that seems to encompass the entire universe, and biochemistry studies have shown that the numerous piles of dead white creatures that pop up from time to time are of alien origin.

A significantly-sized world religion takes the Cyclic Maiden as thier chief goddess-as opposed to other belief systems, where she plays a moderately important role but might be overshadowed by other gods or the like.

Homura had a problem: she had a diary.

The main issue was, she never wrote it, or even thought about writing it. Yet it still existed.

That implied one of two things:

First: it was a forgery. Counterargument: very few individuals should have any knowledge of the contents-it was, essentially, an account of her life and experience as a magical girl (if couched in allegories). She’d already ruled out Miki and the Incubator-that only left herself as the possible author.

Maybe one of her familiars had done it, but she knew in her heart that that wasn’t the case (though her dolls probably wished that they’d done it, the little hellions).

Or, second: she’d manifested it unconsciously when she remade the universe. Counterargument: none, really. Evidence: the fucking Madoka-worshipping religion that suddenly existed.

The religion that had found her diary.

It was angsty, and poetic, and gay as fuck-and millions of people the world over saw it as holy writ.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 6 Next>>

The Devil is the epitome of selfish selflessness-or was that selfless selfishness?

Madoka is her anchor, her fulcrum, the center of gravity to her world. Only Madoka’s happiness allows her to smile, only Her dreams give her ambition, only Her needs give her a reason to live.

She will humble herself for Madoka.

She will abandon all hope for herself, for Madoka.

She will live a lie for Madoka.

She will kill her own heart for Madoka.

Whether Madoka wants her to or not.

Above all else, she wants Madoka to be happy.

Above all else, she wants Madoka to be with her.

Those last two are an issue-Homura “knows” that Madoka would be happier without a brooding devil in her life (meanwhile, Madoka wonders whether they should have a traditional Japanese or western-style wedding), but she can’t bring herself to stay away from the girl she’s devoted herself to.

It feels damning, but what’s one more damnation to the devil?

Wagamama was a cactus, riddled with spines. She was a wave, boiling and frothing as she raced to the shore.

She was, in a word, pissed.

Her damned (of course, being devilspawn, but obviously not enough) sisters! They were monopolizing Madoka’s time, basking in her presence, doing everything that she wanted to be doing, ignoring the Devil’s orders.

Wagamama paused. When was the last time she actually listened to the Devil’s orders?

Madoka and her dolls were in Her living room, drinking tea and plotting operation Securing Selfishness.

And then Reiketsu supplied, we break her legs and drag her down to Pink’s dungeon-

“But I don’t have a dungeon?” Madoka supplied, wondering at how they’d wandered into such yandere-ish territory.

-after we build Her a dungeon.

There was a polite round of applause. Someone coughed.

The coldhearted all but preened in her seat (far away from Madoka, in the coldest part of the room, several ice packs fighting off the searing heat of Pink’s presence).

Nekura was the first to reply, supplying her ever-helpful advice.

That would never work-how would we ever get our hands on that many bear traps?

I know a guy, Ibari interjected, but the Lisa can be very stubborn-they might not help us, even if She asks.

I thought that it was a good idea. This would have heartened Reiketsu, if it came from anyone besides her lying sister.

The fourth-born was too dignified to pout (she really could be mistaken for Ibari at times), but she did sink into her seat with an aggrieved frown. Madoka’s reassuring smile did lift her mood, but prompted a quick trip to the freezer, to restock on ice packs.

Tomohisa, making early dinner preparations, gave her an indulgent smile when she arrived in his domain-he wasn’t quite sure what sort of medical condition she had, that she needed to stay cool so badly, but he’d done his best to accommodate it.

It was good to see his daughter surrounded by so many friends, and he got a chuckle at them being introduced to him as his “future grandchildren-in-law.”

Though he had looked rather grim, up until he learned that their “parent” was a schoolgirl and Madoka’s classmate (he probably thought that Madoka was just copying Sayaka’s “Madoka is my wife” joke, and that they were the Master’s sisters, or kouhais, or other children from the orphanage).

It was for the best-he would just have to fertilize his garden normally, instead of with the body of whatever damn boy threatened to take his precious daughter away.

Icepacks acquired, Reiketsu gave a polite bow to Pink’s father and returned to the group.

By then, Usotsuki was giggling about something, Ibari looked disappointed, Wagamama was nuzzling Pink’s neck, Nekura was-

She stopped. Ran through the list again.

Yes, there was an extra sister. The next eldest, after herself.

Sitting on the couch. Leaning into Pink. Legs disappointedly intact.

She leaned over to Ibari, watching their younger sister warily.

So, are we still building that dungeon?

If Madoka had to describe Wagamama in one word, it would be clingy.

Getting an unexpected cuddle on the couch was a pleasant surprise (and just as well-she had been wondering about how to talk the other girls out of their increasingly violent plans). Spending the rest of the weekend with the girl stuck to her like a burr was…not entirely unpleasant, but certainly inconvenient.

At least the girl had given her privacy in the shower and suchlike, but she’d latched back on the instant Madoka walked back out.

At least her mom had refrained from commenting on the girl doing a koala impression during dinner (magic, bitches).

Wagamama was, in the end, not Jealousy. She did not personally care too much about keeping Madoka ignorant (so long as she could still hold Her). She didn’t even mind that her sisters would monopolize their own bits of time with Her, so long as she got hers.

Of course, her own bit of time would be eternal.

That was what she thought, at least, until she found herself dragged out of Madoka’s bed.

The Devil’s eyes burned, yet her voice was chilly.

“What. Are. You. Doing.”

It was not a question, but a demand.

Homura’s greatest desire is to be someone special to Madoka.

<<Previous Familiarity 6 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Propheteering 5 Next>>

Homura didn’t sign up for this, this prophet thing.

It was a moment of weakness. She was surrounded by strangers, magical girls, who might-just might, she thought-listen to a story of magic and miracles, and wishes with grave consequences. It came with the territory.

Mostly, she was just tired of having nobody but an alien ferret-rat to talk about her dead girlfriend to.

Also, copious amounts of alcohol may have been involved.

She had only held some faint hope in being believed, hadn’t known about Teruko and Akira (those two seemed to only come as a matched set, damn lie-and-madness detectors).

She didn’t think of the consequences of success.

It started small. A few of the girls from the bar followed her, asked her a few more questions.

They had told their friends, apparently, and soon Homura accepted the trickle of visitors as her new normal.

They came with a lot of different attitudes, preconceived notions.

The suspicious ones, she could handle. It was natural to question such expansive claims, especially since she lacked any real evidence. She answered their questions as well as she could, admitting ignorance when she had to.

The merely curious were even easier to manage.

She was never quite sure how much they believed, once they left, but she didn’t really mind one way or another-It was nice, just to talk about Her for a while.

The ones that gave her pause were the ones that did believe her, and fervently so.

They sometimes came alone, or in twos or threes. Sometimes she’d get one in an entire month, sometimes she seemed to have a visitor every other day.

Mami and Kyoko-she was calling them by name, since she didn’t have to worry about witches or walpurgisnacht, and couldn't do anything about Madoka-started to notice.

She shrugged at their questions, said something vague about keeping in touch with the wider magical girl community. They could probably smell the bullshit, but allowed her privacy.

Which was for the best, probably. She didn’t know how to tell them about Her. They were at once too close and too far, short a friend they never knew.

Later, she can’t quite remember who left her the first…”gift.”

One visitor brought a spare Grief Cube, another a bit of cash. She tried to refuse them at first, but they were insistent

The one that stands out to her, from her early visits, is a grave-looking girl from Fukui. She listened as raptly as any of her guests, asked questions and simply nodded when Homura could not answer them.

She left behind a bit of incense, the sort that you light at a memorial shrine.

When the next visitor saw the shrine, she offered her artistic talents. Soon, a statuette of Madoka graced her home.

It was a near-perfect likeness of Her, though it could not capture her glory, her beauty, the universe held within the inside lining of her dress. Something about the face did hint at her kindness, though.

Homura had shared a small bit of her memory, planting it within the sculpture’s mind. To ensure accuracy.

Later-much later-Homura would realize that she’d accidentally made an apostle.

Another early visitor asked her to inspect (bless) their weapon.

This striked her as odd, but she was in a generous mood at the time.

It was a rapier, an elegant needle of pointy death. Not sure what they expected of her, she made an offhand comment about being able to “strike at the heart” of the wraths (assuming that they physically had hearts). This seemed to please the girl, so Homura gave herself a tally on her short list of successful social interactions.

Much later, she learned that their very next battle ended in them skewering an especially powerful wraith right through the (presumed) heart. Weapon “inspections” became a regular occurance.

Eventually, guests-she was not quite ready to call them pilgrims-started arriving in numbers large enough to make meeting them in her apartment impractical.

She started directing them to meet her elsewhere, eventually settling on an old warehouse. She owned it, actually. Used it to keep weapons and vehicles too big to fit in her shield, in the old universe. By then it mostly held rust and empty containers.

She saw Kyoko lurking at the back of one such meeting. She hadn’t quite realized why yet.

Feeling herself a poor host, Homura started renovating the warehouse, removing the old abandoned containers and rusted heaps of junk. She started adding seating-benches, chairs, even some bean bags.

A visitor got her a good deal on roofing and flooring, and it soon became a large, barren, yet clean space.

A few internal partitions made the whole thing less cavernous. She started holding after-meeting (she was still in denial about it being a sermon) gatherings in a side room, for those with questions or a desire to hear more.

Homura started recognizing a few faces, regular and recurring guests.

A bit later, a girl with some sort of object duplication/manipulation ability offered Homura her services, and a life-sized version of the Madoka statue soon appeared near the back of the (still quite large) main room.

This seems to set off a frenzy of sorts, as various magical girls with artistic talent descend upon her warehouse. Statues, tapestries, frescos, and more soon populate every wall and corner-one especially ambitious painter turns the ceiling into one massive mural.

One night, standing on a rooftop, Homura had a revelation.

“Wait. This is a religion.”

<<Previous Propheteering 5 Next>>

Chapter Text

WvW 1 Next>>

Sayaka was pretty fucked.

Her own blood was congealing in a gunky mess over her rapidly-healing wounds, and she was surrounded by a bunch of giant, holey monk-lookalikes led by an oversized origami starfish.

A faint ache told her that her Soul Gem was getting cloudy.

“Well, this was really stupid of me.”

She eyed the wraiths, their impassive visages hiding an endless hunger for magical power-her power.

Something about that thought stirred something within her. It was a beast beating with her heart, clawing to burst out. It was pride and wrath and a hundred others that she could not name, yet she felt them burning on her tongue.

She sold her soul for her magic (for a wish, for hope), had earned it by committing herself to a life of secrets and battle, earned it again each day she found the energy to drag her corpse out of bed.

Those surreal fucks had no right to it.

The beast writhed-not, she realized, in her heart. It was trying to break out of her soul. It was a rather peculiar sensation.

She stood up straight, subconsciously shutting down the little cries of pain and exhaustion her muscles sounded at her, and the biting chill that just being near the rarer, geometrically shaped wraith-one of the upsides of being a damn zombie.

The wraiths loomed, seemingly content to wait for her to come to them-to die for them. A mistake.

She stepped forward, saber in each hand.

Her Soul Gem was, all things considered, in a somewhat inconvenient place-glancing down at her belly wasn’t the best idea in a fight, even against arrogant dipshits who were just waiting for her to die.

So she only felt the rapid darkening of her soul.

Mami had taught it to her, a little-though she’d made it clear that every magical girl had to figure it out on their own.

She idly threw her swords at the nearest wraith-a barrage of lasers swatted it out of the air. No matter.

She burst into a sprint, held out her hand, and swung with all her might.

A saber burst into being mid-swing, a massive blade longer than the basic wraiths were tall. It cleaved through their ranks like vengeance through feuding bloodlines, leaving behind a rain of cubes in its wake.

She thought she could hear the faintest stirrings of music, before it burst into a concert. She saw blue silhouettes-led by a black silhouette–playing in the corner of her eye, green-haired dancers emerged from her flanks.

She tried not to think about why the darkness of her soul made manifest so clearly resembled Kyosuke and Hitomi.

Her first sword disappeared as abruptly as it appeared, even as a second formed in her off-hand.

Two blades, two slashes, twelve dead wraiths. It wasn’t enough.

Several things happened at once: she ran out of steam; the concert broke down in a discordant flurry; all but one of the dancers faded away; her Soul Gem ached with spent magic and unmitigated Grief; and much of her body was encased in ice.

Perhaps she should have led off with that last one.

She wasn’t really afraid, as the geometric shape floated closer. She was mostly tired. Maybe a little disappointed.

The last Hitomi look-alike (a familiar, she recalled) placed a hand on her cheek. Its (her?) skin was odd, dry as anyones, but carrying with it the distinct feeling of water, as if it should be wet but wasn’t.

She closed her eyes-maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, getting some sleep. She thought that she could hear a familiar voice calling to her, see a flash of white and gold and pink.

Even through her eyelids, she could still see the competing flash of purple (lavender? Violet, maybe?).

She blearily cracked her lids back open, resenting every moment that tore her from her fast-approaching rest. A giant, purple, exploding bird was crashing into the wraith.

She closed her eyes. Reopened them.

It was still there, slightly more exploded in the passing moment.

More colorful bolts-arrows, she supposed-joined the fray, piercing the cold thing and erupting in magical wrath.

The wraith was too strong for even this to kill it, but it fled nonetheless.

The ice imprisoning her didn’t so much melt as disintegrate, leaving her body to flop to the ground. She felt no warmer, either way.

The Hitomi-thing knelt beside her.

She became vaguely aware of sounds and movement, of a dark figure looming over her, reaching down. Part of her wanted to lash out, fight off the thing as its claw neared her belly, but she was far too tired.

Then it reached her Soul Gem, hovering just over it, and suddenly everything was thrown into focus.

“Transfer student.”
Akemi twitched at that, even her mouth twisting into what someone with generosity and imagination could deem a smile.

Sayaka openly stared at the other magical girl, at her long dark locks and stoic expression and frankly dashing outfit and-dammit.

Stupid sexy Akemi.

Suddenly wanting to look anywhere but at tall dark and emotionally repressed’s face, her eyes jerked down to her belly. As expected, the other magical girl was holding several cubes over her Soul Gem, visibly pulling out the corruption.

Of course Akemi was holding the cubes all fancy-like, between her outstretched fingers.

“Miki Sayaka.”

“Akemi.”

The other girl looked uncertain as to what to say next, but was saved by the intervention of a third party.

“Sayaka-chan, you should really be more careful.”

“Oh, hi Madoka.”

WvW 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 7 Next>>

Homura was never well-suited to slander.

Trying to share her honest reasons to despise the incubators ended, at best, with the other Puella Magi being suspicious of her, at worst with her near death, and Madoka killing in her defense.

That clusterfuck of a loop was the start of her long path of self-damnation.

She gave up.

Not on Madoka-never her-but the others.

She watched them die, driven to ruin by their own nature, or the incubator’s games, or by their links to each other, far too many times. Just keeping one of them around until Walpurgisnacht was a real ordeal.

As the deaths piled up, as she watched her erstwhile friends die yet again, only to see them again within a month or so (at most), ready to repeat the same mistakes-something in her snapped. Something else grew through the cracks, and Warukuchi was born.

Warukuchi drank her tea from an empty cup while the water began to simmer.

She basked in the light of the sun while the moon shone overhead.

Each of the Devil’s daughters had inherited some aspect of her power-and that included an…interesting…relationship with time.

The first five had this manifest in relatively subtle ways-Nekura, for instance, could come up with a complete paranoid delusion in the span of a breath.

As for the middle five-that was when things started to get weird.

Homura could not blame herself for Mami, for Sayaka, for Kyoko-not when the burden of Madoka weighed down on her already.

So, she became…callous. She started seeing them more as obstacles than as people, blaming them for their fates. The sixth-born proved instrumental for this purpose, when she was merely a wisp of Homura’s subconscious.

She told herself little lies about destiny and flaws, to absolve herself of their fate. She had to.

These little lies were poison, seeping into her very bones.

The tallest (tied with Namake) of Good-for-nothing’s brood reclined in her favorite chair, something she would eventually find and drag home.

“Home,” here, referred to one of the apartments in Good-for-nothing’s building. All of the other inhabitants had been relocated when the universe was remade (the second time).
Good-for-nothing always did value her privacy (she had relocated her former neighbors to agreeable homes, taking the time to meet each of their preferences, because she was a complete softie).

Warukuchi stirred.

Enter.

The word came a second before the knock. She had a reply before her sister’s statement.

I know.

That’s not annoying at all.

Warukuchi grinned. Usotsuki pouted.

Slander is just a specialized form of lie, so one would think that they would get along, or at least be quite similar.

Not really.

Usotsuki is bad at lying to herself. Warukuchi hardly seems to do anything else.

I take it that you’re here to recruit me to your little club? Don’t bother.

The Slanderer sneered at her sly sister, her face a mask of disgust.

You lot may lose to a pretty face, but I’m made of sterner stuff.

Usotsuki simply grinned.

Warukuchi could not see the future, though it was easy to reach that conclusion after a brief conversation with her. She couldn’t read minds or memories, either.

Truth be told (anathema as it may be to present company), she could do very little by her own will, magic wise.

It was more that things had a habit of happening in her vicinity-or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that happenings thinged.

Effect came before cause, future flowed into past, the present was left of purple and consequence searched in vain as action snuck out behind it.

She was the cart before the horse, the chicken and the egg, the other shoe, y when y equals the square root of x and x is a negative number.

Not even she quite understood why all this happened-what did slander have to do with temporal distortions?

A chill crept up Warukuchi’s spine (did she even have a spine? She’d never bothered to check).

Her third-eldest sister, her fellow incarnation of deceit, looked unbearably smug (Ibari almost felt superfluous, most days, with all the others seemingly a match for her).

What are you playing at?

The redhead’s grin split open impossibly wide, as if to bite down on some blonde.

I’m definitely not a distraction

She heard a thud and giggling resound from the door before she even stood to slam herself into it.

She started to turn to the window, but froze. An array of expressions crossed her face, first shock, then fear, then a heavy blush.

She was already unconscious when Madoka burst through the window, rappelling from a helicopter (no one was quite sure how Nekura had gotten her hands on a Chinook, and no one quite wanted to ask).

A steady thumping came from outside and above, faint at first, but gradually building up in volume. It seemed that even Warukuchi’s ability had conspired against her.

Her mind caught up, realized that her body was dead to the world, and decided to follow suit.

Usotsuki skipped over to her fallen sister, as causality snapped back to its usual mode.

Giving Madoka a casual salute along the way, she leaned down to examine the Slanderer, making a little thoughtful noise in the back of her throat.

Wow, that was some stern stuff.

<<Previous Familiarity 7 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Purgatorio 2

“You didn’t used to have feathers.”

A question disguised as a statement.

Homura could remember her old wings, those insubstantial limbs emanating from her beloved Madoka.

Now, though, the goddess sported several pairs of white, fluffy wings. Homura had always thought of her as an angel, but this was a bit much.

Granted, she wasn’t really going to complain, especially with those (soft, fluffy, surprisingly solid-feeling) wings wrapped around her. That Madoka’s arms were also around her was something she steadfastly ignored, on the grounds that doing anything else might give her a heart attack.

It was like being wrapped up in a pink and white cocoon. There was Madoka above, Madoka below, on each side, into the past and future, an eternal moment of near bliss as the supine goddess held Homura close.

Homura, for her part, valiantly pretended that her head wasn’t being squeezed into the Goddess’s chest. Madoka really was quite dangerous, once her mind was set on something (or her heart set on someone).

“Yes, well, I was inspired by you…”

Homura very carefully did not look at Her new hair ornament, black feathers laying stark across pink hair. What was with Her and Her need to wear something made out of Homura?

“You know, little miss devil, I was rather disappointed with you.”

Her heart plummeted, but the semi-repentant devil steeled herself. She had long since resigned herself to being a disappointment, even to be hated-though she should have known better than to believe the latter could ever happen.

Homura was pretty sure that She couldn’t even hate the Incubators.

Madoka promptly rolled over, pressing Homura down into the bed. Her mouth sprouted a wicked grin that seemed better suited to a devil.

“Very disappointed. All that time cuddling in bed and you never once tried anything.”

“Madoka?”

It was a pleasant enough place, her little prison.

She asked herself if she should call it Hell, this home forged to contain the Devil and her lot.

Then again, most depictions of hell didn’t involve cuddling with goddesses on an impossibly comfy feather bed (she did not know whether said feathers might be white or black, and was afraid to check).

Day and night passed as usual (though she suspected that it didn’t need to), so the sun’s rays pierced her eyelids with as little mercy as ever.

She hadn’t really needed to sleep, as the Devil (which she still was, probably). She suspected that she still wouldn’t without direct divine intervention-something about a “routine” or “feeling human.” Bah. She hadn’t felt human in over a decade, if she ever had.

Still, Madoka made the rules-and only half of Homura was screaming out to break them all.

She rolled out of bed, allowing her body to plop to the ground.

Now half awake, she stood and scanned her bed.

No Madoka, of course, but Her usual keepsake sat on a pillow.

She reached out and took the feather in an almost dainty grasp, careful not to disturb the vane.

The Devil was imprisoned in a cozy country cottage.

That was what it was themed after, at least.

The main living space-the bedroom and kitchen and all that-looked normal enough. Like what someone would imagine country living looked like-if they had enough money to buy a small country.

That was before she found the trophy room, armory, indoor range, five-storey library, and onsen.

She strongly suspected that Madoka kept adding new rooms at night.

The trophy room was larger than the cottage looked like from the outside. It wasn’t even a room, really-more like an entire complex, that just happened to connect to the hallway that ran between her bedroom and the dolls’ dorms.

She politely pretended not to notice that there shouldn’t be enough room there for anything larger than a broom closet, with the kitchen just around the corner. Twisting space-time into a pretzel was hardly a new experience for her.

It opened up into a magnificent room, like the main hub of some grand museum. It, in fact, was the main hub of a grand museum.

It was almost like a cathedral, the walls lined with mosaics of witches and magical girls. Great alcoves were cut out of them, and in each stood a great statue of a witch. Little plaques were spread throughout, retelling the story of each.

She stopped, as she often did, to stare at the statue of Homulily.

“I really am unoriginal,” she muttered, almost rolling her eyes at the witch that looked like some sort of…witch.

She left the room of witches, passing through halls filled with tokens that should have been lost to time-a collection of red and purple ribbons, the golden rings from an Incubator’s weird ear-tentacle things, that bikini Madoka had all but forced her into wearing one timeline…

Pace quickened and face reddened, Homura soon reached her destination.

Half of it was an unassuming collection of filing cabinets, set around a desk. She went there first, sitting at the desk.

She carefully set the feather on a mat-one covered in markings to show distance and angles-and pulled up a nearby lamp with a built-in magnifying glass.

Madoka was perfect. So, too, was anything that came from her.

But perfection was always a moving target.

So she carefully scrutinized the feather, marking down identifying features on a handy index card.

Breaking out tools used by jewelers and clockmakers, she measured the precise length and width of the quill, the proportion of the calamus to the rachis.

She captured the precise angles of the downy barbs, the thickness of the afterfeathers, the density of the vane, the precise formation of the barbs, barbules, and hooklets, the colors that glinted off it like a captive rainbow shyly peeking out through a veil.

Once finished, she pulled up a large tome, writing out a neat entry, one line out of many.

The feather was placed inside of a specially designed plastic bag, then vacuum sealed. The bag’s design and a very slight application of magic kept the feather entirely unruffled during the process.

She stood, taking the feather and index card with her.

Upon reaching one of the filing cabinets, she slid the card into a plastic pocket on a drawer, then pulled it out to reveal row after row of nearly identical feathers. She gently slid the latest one into place, closing the drawer with a slight smile on her face.

At least this part of Madoka could be-

At least it was-

It was hers.

She turned to regard the other half of the room, which could only be described as the atelier of an especially multipotentialite dilettante.

Tables and easels and workbenches and tools of all description filled the space, each bent towards a single end.

The feathers had bothered her, at first. She hadn’t known what to do with them.
Oh, preservation was the obvious first step-but only a first step. She had never, truly, wanted to keep Madoka imprisoned-even her rebellion, stripping from Her Her godhood, was (paradoxically) meant to free Her, let Her life without the burdens that She had so readily shouldered. So much for that.

If she had been given the option to just freeze time indefinitely, she would have declined. Keeping Madoka locked in time would not give Her freedom, nor a long and happy life.

So, Homura didn’t want to keep the feathers locked away indefinitely. This, however, raised the question-what to do with them?

Her first thought, inspired by Madoka’s earlier stunt, had left her too flustered to get out of bed for days. Wearing a dress made out of Madoka’s feathers-that was just too much.

Her second thought was again inspired by Madoka-this time by Her new accessory.

Homura reached up and touched the small bundle of feathers, attached to a Liese-bone comb. An item made of Madoka and a shard of Homura’s soul, it was infinitely more comforting than ribbons.

(It was probably for the best that she didn’t know that Madoka’s version was based off of a bridal accessory)

Still, that only accounted for a few feathers-she had plenty of work to do.

<<Previous Purgatorio 2

Chapter Text

Haunting Homura 1 Next>>

Madoka wasn’t sure what to make of their new home at first.

Her parents were silent on the matter until they were practically there-something she would have considered ominous, if she weren’t already distracted by the manyfold problems that arise from moving to a different city, in a different country, on a different continent.

Truth be told, she had pretty mixed feelings on the whole deal.

On the one hand, she was genuinely happy for her mom-this promotion was a big deal to her, proof that all of her struggles were not in vain. She was being recognized by her superiors for her dedication, diligence, and ability to wade through “mountains of bullshit” to “get shit done” (she might have been slightly drunk when she related that precise aspect of her job).

It was also a big opportunity for the rest of them-not everyone ever visited another country, much less lived there. Her father was looking forward to learning the local cuisine-she had only half understood his uncharacteristically excited rant on California, immigrations, melting pots versus salad bowls, and adapting traditional cuisines to new ingredients and lifeways, but he seemed enthusiastic.

She was excited too, honest. It was a whole new country, a new opportunity to make friends, visit exotic locales, learn about the world (work on her English skills…).

Her excitement was just tempered by nervousness that her parents never seemed to show-making friends was hard, she already missed Mitakihara’s familiar sights and sounds-even the smells. Who knew that a country could smell so different?

And her English was…

So, it was with mixed feelings that Madoka saw her new home.

It felt unreal, like she’d been spirited away to some strange and magical land, full of killer rabbits and armpit mikos.

There was a bit of a drive to it-from the airport, through the city, a bit into the countryside. They drove up a wooded path, coming to the most elaborate gate she’d ever seen in person, a twisty thing of black iron, sinuous lines of metal forming patterns that she couldn’t make any sense of, save a hint of unease.

The gate swung open at their approach.

At first she saw something surprisingly humble for its surroundings-a single-storey, squat yet cozy little thing.

Then they rounded a bend, and she realized that that was just an outbuilding.

She’d been to Glover Garden in Nagasaki, the oldest western-style house in Japan. That was a very pretty place, but quaint compared to this lair.

(She’d also seen the nuclear bomb museum and memorial and peace gardens, something that she didn’t need to be reminded of in that moment)

The manse was an old victorian monster, a gargoyle perched on a wooded hill. It must be three, four floors high, crowned with spiky towers that stabbed up even higher. Dozens of windows peered out of the worn facade, giving the impression of some great, mutated spider glaring down at them in disdain.

It looked more like a small castle than a house.

She thought she saw movement in one of the tower windows, a hint of long dark hair, but she blinked and it was gone.

She shook herself out of her daze, and wondered how they could even afford such a palace

“Is this…all for us?”

Her mom is the one that answers, guiding the car up the (slightly rocky) drive.

“Yep-well, the main building at least. It used to be owned by the head of the American branch, but he said that he was getting tired of upkeeping a place that he hardly even used.”

Despite her misgivings, Madoka thought that that was rather sad-it was a grand and pretty place. It didn’t deserve to be left to rot just because it was a little intimidating.

There was an old man down the road-or driveway, she supposed.

He might as well have been speaking in riddles, as far as she was concerned-his rapid pace overwhelming her modest grasp of the language. Her mom seemed to be able to keep up-or at least pretended to.

He finally paused, his gimlet little eyes as black as coal, before they widened in surprise.

“Hello, my name is Luke, the groundskeeper. I take it that you are the new owners?”

All three of them blinked at his sudden switch to perfect, lightly accented Japanese. He seemed to notice, grinning slightly.

“The Gaylord family had ties to Japan, they hired my grandfather as groundskeeper in part due to his ability to speak the language.”

There were a few nods and “ahs” of understanding.

Her parents talked to him a bit more, but Madoka was distracted-she could have sworn that she saw someone standing in a window. Her ears perked up when she heard Luke say something.

“...of course, I hope that one of my grandkids will pick up an interest…”

“Excuse me mister-Luke. Are any of your grandchildren here?”

Her parents exchanged a knowing look, so they didn’t see him follow Madoka’s gaze and pale. He gulped.

“No, young miss-I’m afraid that they’re all out of state. I’m afraid that I’m the youngest person for a mile around.”

He tried to inject a bit of levity into his voice.

“So, how about I give you all a tour?”

The Gaylord estate was surprisingly well-kept.

Madoka had more than half expected a dusty, dirty dungeon filled with decrypt and diseased denizens.

Instead, it was a clean, well-appointed house. Parts of it felt rather exotic, antique furniture from a foriegn country and all that, but other parts were as mundane as could be. It even had Wi-Fi.

Of course, it was also fairly large.

Still, Madoka had mostly calmed down by the time they passed the highest tower.

“Oh, don’t go in there-that’s where the ghost lives.”

Haunting Homura 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

Hitomi was as dazzled by Akemi Homura as any of her classmates.

It was hard to ignore her obvious virtues-her long, silky hair; her pale, supple skin; her piercing magenta eyes; the easy grace with which she moved; her obviously keen mind; her lithe and athletic form; her modest yet-

Hitomi interrupted her own thoughts in order to wipe off her drool.

Homura was hot, is what she (and damn near everyone else) thought.

Her…appreciation did not blind her to the girl’s little faults, however. Hitomi could be rather perceptive at times-took pride in it-so she noticed things that her classmates were either unable or unwilling to see.

So beneath her admiration hid a touch of concern.

Something about her just wasn’t right-there were bags under her eyes that never went away, she often seemed tired, about to collapse-only to suddenly burst with frenetic energy. She sometimes held herself like she owned the world, other times-

Hitomi had decided, early on, to keep an eye on her-try to be her friend. It wasn’t easy.

“Akemi-san, would you like to join me for tea after school?”

The other girl gave her a look of-resignation? Rueful amusement?

Hitomi thought she heard her mutter “again?” More of her cryptic comments.

“You should forget about me, Shizuki.”

“Never.”

She wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised by her own vehemence-that one word spoke more than some novels she’d read. It tapped into some reservoir of resolve that she didn’t realize she’d had-as if a hundred Hitomis had backed her up at once.

Homura, for her part, seemed more amused than anything.

“Fine.”

It was perhaps the oddest friendship she’d ever had-it took her a long time to realize that it even was a friendship.

The other girl tended to cycle between dark amusement, patronizing encouragement, enigmatic smugness, and (rarely, once she started to get comfortable) heart-shatteringly bleak blankness.

This last terrified Hitomi-it was as if Homura were a lifeless doll, the image of a girl wrapped around a hollow nothing.
Thankfully, these episodes were rare-most of the time, she was quite charming, an insightful conversation partner.

Their conversations would ramble on, from school and classmates, to politics and civics, to economics and sociology, to obscure occultism.

She’d once asked Homura if there was someone she liked, only to get in response a lecture of the fundamental forces: gravity, electromagnetism, strong and weak nuclear, Higgs (debatable, might not count), and the Cycle.

That last was rather mysterious, though she was sure that scientists would figure it out eventually.

There was also the proposed anti-cycle force, but Homura had simply smiled her mysterious smile when she mentioned it.

Growing a little tired of the lecture, Hitomi interjected:

“Homura, are you trying to say that you’re in love with magnetism?”

That was the most she’d ever seen her laugh.

High above, the Law of Cycles-the part that was supposed to be purely divine, entirely inhuman-frowned.

Elsewhere, a team of physicists was shocked by their new discovery of a highly energetic interaction between the electromagnetic and cyclic forces.

One scientist, who was slightly singed during the experiment, described it as if “the cyclic force had walked up and bitch-slapped our magnet.”

Madoka’s return was something of a relief to Hitomi.

First off, she was generally happy to see her friend again. She was especially heartened by how much America seemed to have suited her-she now carried herself differently, giving off an impression of being oddly mature, even wise.

Her second reason was more…practical.

Homura was like a brick wall at times-stoic, unyielding, yet with the faintest signs of crumbling mortar. She wore a bitter sort of cynicism like a suit of maile, shrugging off most attempts to get to her-it was a minor miracle that Hitomi had made as much progress as she had.

Madoka, then, was a wrecking ball of exuberance, an iron spike of hope and optimism.

Hitomi hoped that the pinkette could get through to her angsty friend.

She did not foresee just how successful she would be.

“She hugged you?”

Madoka squirmed, a dusting of pink on her cheeks, her eyes not quite meeting Hitomi’s or Sayaka's.

Her hand strayed up to her hair, calling attention to her new ribbons.

Hitomi could imagine it now-tall, serious Homura, enchanted by Madoka’s sweetness and charm. Did they stop at merely hugging? Did she pin her against the wall? Whisper secrets in her ear? Run her hands through that cotton-candy hair?

“Um, Hitomi, are you okay? You’re kinda…drooling.”

Hitomi was not-and she could not emphasize this enough-not a stalker.

She just often happened to be in a position to witness Homura and Madoka at times when they thought that they were alone.

It was a complete coincidence, honest.

In any case, her completely innocent observations were as follows:

Those two were fucking gay.

She wasn’t quite sure what tipped her off. Maybe it was the way Madoka often blushed around the other girl, or how she blushed and preened at her compliments.

Maybe it was the look on Homura’s face, of utter devotion. Or the tone in her voice, which seemed tinged with awe at her mere presence. Or her sometimes outright gallant actions-it seemed that the dark girl would emerge from the shadows whenever Madoka struggled or needed something.

Or maybe it was the time that she found them making out in a broom closet.

“Homura-chan, Hitomi’s losing a lot of blood!”

Hitomi thought that she could handle it.

Once she’d recovered she took her friends aside and congratulated them on their relationship. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed that without fainting, but she was a little proud of her composure.

She thought that the worst was over-surely now that she’d seen her friends kissing, anything else was manageable?

One day, she found that her after-school lessons were canceled, on account of her tutor being ran over by a giant tooth (he was fine, relatively speaking, but needed bedrest).

She’d gone back to the classroom, hoping to catch her friends before they left.

She was in luck-Sayaka and Madoka were huddled in a corner.

She walked over, exchanging brief pleasantries with the few other students that lingered for one reason or another, when she overheard their conversation.

“Are you sure that you’re okay Madoka, after Akemi tore you in half like that?”

Everything stopped.

She felt light. There was a distant, deep thrum in her ears.

Madoka. Homura. “Tore in half.”

That was a line common in a certain type of literature that she definitely didn’t read, and certainly didn’t have a collection of hidden under her bed.

And how did Sayaka know? Did Madoka just tell her? Did she stumble into them, like Hitomi and the closet? Did she…did she watch?

“Someone help, Shizuki-san is foaming at the mouth!”

Chapter Text

<<Previous Cuckoo 4 Next>>

It started as a fairly normal loop, in her eyes.

She woke up in the same hospital bed as always, the nurses fussed over her, as always. Her tongue tasted the bitter memory of defeat, as always.

Her attempts to get in an early witch hunt ended unsuccessfully, but that didn’t set off any warning bells. Witches, while generally creatures of habit, could still be quite unpredictable at times.

Her next item of business was Mikuni observation.

It was generally hard to tell just how much the oracle knew-her visions changed from loop to loop, likely a product of Homura’s own interference.

Part of her screamed to just kill the-

The one who had dared to hurt-

To kill…

Still, Madoka wouldn’t want her to-that hadn’t prevented Homura from committing many, many acts she was less than proud of, but something stayed her hand here-maybe she was still reluctant to murder, even now. Maybe it was a practical consideration, wanting to keep as many Puella Magi around for Walpurgisnacht as possible.

Maybe she just understood her a bit too well.

“Walpurgisnacht? Yes, I know what will come on that night. I’ve been preparing my team for it.”

There was something about that that seemed…off, but she dismissed it-loops where Mikuni focused on Walpurgisnacht instead of-Gretchen-tended to go relatively well.

Still, there was something unexpected in there.

“Team?”

“Kirika Kure and Komaki Asako-annnd she’s gone. Great. Why does nobody ever want to stick around? Do I smell bad or something?”

It was a bit odd that those three were considered a “team,” but it wasn’t especially far-fetched. She’d been observing them enough to notice the little love triangle they had going on, it wasn’t inconceivable that some random set of events could have set them together so early.

Still, the timing felt off-that they could already be a team and be preparing for Walpurgisnacht-and in less than a week-it wasn’t inconceivable, if that was why Mikuni sought them out in the first place. Still.

Homura had a bad feeling about this loop.

It was always hard, reliving that first day of school again.

All of her former acquaintances, and friends, and Madoka-so much more than a mere friend-looked at her as a stranger. She actually was a stranger-both to them, and to her former self.

It took more courage than charging an army of witches.

She mostly had it down to a routine-correct the spelling of her name, give a brief introduction, answer questions by rote memorization, generally being distant, if usually polite.

Of course, all that threatened to collapse into a sobbing heap the moment Madoka so much as glanced at her-and she seemed to be doing that even more than usual. She caught Her staring. It frayed her nerves, and almost made her stumble during P.E. Her cheeks constantly threatened to break out in a blush, which would have ruined her mysterious-transfer-student image.

She set up their usual walk to the nurse’s office partially to address whatever it was that had Madoka so…interested in her.

She was not prepared for Her question.

“Homura-chan, are you a magical girl?”

She very nearly walked into a window.

“Excuse me?” She sputtered. Did the Incubator have his claws in her already?

A glance to her hands. She didn’t have a ring, but still.

“How do you know about that?” It came out harsher than intended, the raw rush of panic in her chest giving it an unintended sharp edge.

She rebuked herself the moment Madoka stepped back, a look of-something-on her face.

“My big sister is one, too.”

There were moments where you could almost feel fate hanging in suspension, a coin bouncing off its edge before deciding on which side to land.

That moment came just before Homura walked out on the roof, to meet this “sister” of Madoka’s.

There were many, many thoughts rushing through her head at this.

While many loops were a bit off, they were less like Madoka suddenly gaining a family member, and more like Mikuni earlier-stuff that was implausible, but could still theoretically happen in the brief time since the start of the loop.

How did this happen?

Madoka didn’t seem to be a magical girl, so it wasn’t any wish she made. Could someone else have wished themselves into her family? Homura could certainly understand if that were the case-the Kaname household looked like paradise to someone with her own…family history (or lack of it). She resolved not to be too harsh, if she recognized the girl as an orphan, or someone with a…less than loving family.

On the other hand, maybe someone like Sasa Yuuki was in town on a whim. Mind control or memory alteration magic could certainly explain a lot. Their end would be swift and brutal.

She was not expecting to round the bend and see Tomoe Mami.

She blinked.

That was-odd. While she supposed that it wasn’t too unlikely for her former mentor to have an early run-in with the Kanames, it seemed far too early for her to get adopted, even unofficially.

Then her eyes drifted to the side, and everything made a horrible sort of sense.

Familiar red orbs stared back at her. Skin white as milk. Round face framed by long hair of a similar shade, save for some pink highlights.

Her finger hosted a silver ring, with black runes and a little white gem.

Bile rose in her throat, disgust and hate and fear and confusion and more emotions than she cared to name rushing through her.

The-the thing cocked its head in an all-too familiar look of curiosity.

“Akemi Homura, I presume?”

“Incubator.”

“Where?!”

That was an unexpected reaction.

The two girls transformed in flashes of yellow and white, baring muskets and axes in ready positions, falling back-to-back as they searched for threats. Homura almost laughed when she saw little golden bracelets appear on the white one's wrists.

There was a long moment of silence, before the pale one did the last thing she would have ever expected.

She laughed.

It was not the heartiest of laughs, nor the healthiest-Homura had far too much experience in identifying unhealthy, unhinged laughter. Still, it felt-honest. Incubators never really pretended to have emotions (though they tended to let people assume what they wanted, if it was convenient), and never outright lied, and certainly never laughed.

And yet-

“Ah, let me guess-you saw my skin and eyes and it brought back memories?” The girl’s voice-part of it felt uncomfortably familiar, but there was a timbre to it that Homura could only describe as “human,” with a rueful undercurrent.

The albino reached into her pocket and produced a set of red orbs, in various sizes. She held them up, showing how closely they matched her eyes.

“I can assure you, I’ve killed plenty of Incubators in my time.”

What the ever-loving fuck was going on?

<<Previous Cuckoo 4 Next>>

Chapter Text

She lived like most magical girls.

She contracted at thirteen, wishing for a better life. For a little while, she was happy. The exhilaration of being a magical warrior in a secret war, combined with the success of her wish, made for a glorious honeymoon period.

Her name was Dara. Sometimes she forgets.

She met up with other girls in the area, and together they took on the wraiths. This companionship led to friendships-maybe even a bit more, down the line-blooming.

But no one is really built for eternal war. We all slip eventually. The beginning of the end came when she saw a friend-Nia, a blonde with a crooked smile and far too much pride-get skewered by burning sabers.

Grief at her lost friend, and fear at the realization of her own situation-it began to wear on her.

She found the mundane parts of her life empty-everyday concerns seemed so petty in the face of an endless, merciless march of murderers. Her parents grew concerned, her (non-magical) friends drifted away, and her wish felt increasingly hollow.

The other Puella Magi-some left, while the others grew closer. She grew especially close to one in particular. Amaya was her name. This one, she-Dara-never forgets.

Time passed, as did friends. The two of them were the last remnant of their original group.

She died like most magical girls.

A mixture of magical exertion, physical injury (requiring more magic use to heal), and her own despair all played their part, rotting her soul from within. Grief Cubes could take care of the former, but only did little to relieve the latter.

By the end, Amaya was running herself ragged, trying to get enough for both of them.

When she finally gave in to despair, she worried more about Amaya than over what would happen to herself. In the end, she was just about able to apologize-though she wasn’t quite sure whether that was more for leaving her behind, for wasting her efforts, or for being a burden.

Then there came a flash of light, a figure too great for the mortal world, and her Soul Gem melted away.

Dara was not an especially religious sort-her beliefs in life were rather vague ond fuzzy. Even joining a world of magic and mystery didn’t change that much-Kyubey was as ignorant of the afterlife as the rest of them.

Maybe the wraiths knew something, but they weren’t exactly forthcoming.

So, the whole “being carried to magical girl valhalla by a shining goddess” thing came out of left field.

She didn’t know what to make of it, at first-though she gathered that nobody else did at first, either. While there were plenty of depictions of afterlives fair and foul, nobody back on earth had gotten the cosmology quite right.

Then again, maybe a goddess of magical girls would have been a common feature of many religions, if they were known to the general public.

In any case, nobody had their beliefs completely gratified. Maybe she had it better, not having much in the way of preconceived notions.

Nia’s tackle still took her completely by surprise.

Nia. Her friend. The one who’s death had shown her the truth of magical girls. Not disemboweled by a fiery sword.

That took some getting used to.

It was a pretty decent afterlife, all told.

Apparently, way back in the day, it was little more than a huge garden. A pleasant place to be, but there wasn’t much to do. Some of the earliest magical girls had accepted this unquestionably, figuring that it was just the way things were.

The goddess had been very apologetic, once She overheard a complaint of boredom. She then promptly added an amusement park.

Considering that some of these girls could remember the invention of fire, their introduction to roller coasters was…interesting. Apparently, some of them were still addicted to it.

Since then, the local amenities had greatly expanded-sometimes at the suggestion of a resident, sometimes on the Goddess’s own initiative.

The amusement park, for one, was now the size of a sprawling city, a combination of every park ever built in the mortal world, and more besides.

Of course, there were far more things to enjoy than that-private residences were added at almost the same time, with customization options gradually expanded as the eons rolled by. She could lose herself in vast libraries of every type of media-from stone tablets to VR games-ever made, fight in an arena personally designed by some of the greatest warriors of history (and prehistory), mingle in a bar or cafe with the likes of Cleopatra or Amelia Earhart, join the Roman girls in their org-

Maybe not that last one.

Dara was reminded of reading the update history of an especially long-lived game, being able to track the way new features were added or expanded, showing hints of the shape of the community at the time. This was, in fact, almost precisely what she did do-someone had gone back to study the ancient records (the oldest were only recorded in oral histories and memory), and written a summary of them that felt less like a history of the heavens, and more like a compilation of the Sims patchnotes.

People, being people, built up a society in this place.

There was a parliament, a judiciary system, law enforcement, a military arm, public services, even a stock market and mint (that last was founded by one girl who was really into coin collecting in life, and was rather put out over the lack of heavenly coinage).

So she was in Heaven, or Valhalla, or whatever you called it (Dara was partial to “The Garden,” as some were starting to call it). She could spend the rest of eternity in a relative paradise, slowly recovering from her ordeal while among girls with similar stories.

Perversely, she immediately started looking for a way to leave.

It was surprisingly easy-getting a pass to visit the mortal world required only a few minutes of paperwork. It would expire and transport her back after a preset time period, but there weren’t any rules against immediately turning around to get a new one.

So, she dedicated her afterlife to lightly stalking-erm..watching over Amaya, drifting invisibly besides or behind the still living girl.

It was not a very pleasant thing to watch.

It seemed that, after Dara’s death, the other girl lost her last real connection to-anything, really. She just up and left, wandering aimlessly from town to town, fighting wraiths more as a matter of habit than anything else.

She looked more like a ghost than the dead girl accompanying her.

One day, well into her wanderings, Amaya met someone else that gave her pause-a dark-haired Puella Magi, with bow in hands and a red ribbon in her hair. Their eyes met, and they nodded in unison-somehow recognizing a kindred spirit.

Dara, for her part, also met a kindred spirit-more literal in the second half of that term. Her eyes were drawn to this Akemi’s necklace. Said necklace was a pair of arms. Said arms were attached to shoulders. Said shoulders were attached to a petite torso. Said torso was attached to an elegantly curving neck. Said neck was attached to a head. Said head held a now blushing face.

“Ah,” the goddess said, eyeing her from over Akemi’s head. “Hello, Dara-chan.” (Of course she recognized her-she knew every magical girl to pass into her realm, probably all the others too)

Dara stared back, not quite sure what to make of the golden-eyed goddess clinging to this girl like an especially long scarf. Said goddess shifted around to the side, her cheek all but rubbing the other girl’s.

Dara looked from the goddess, to Akemi, to Amaya (the two living girls were talking shop, trading mysterious-wanderer-who-drifts-through-the-world-while-carrying-the-burden-of-loss tips, entirely oblivious to their dead girlfriends).

“Is this what I look like from the outside?”

It was maybe romantic, but also a little creepy. Her eyes widened in sudden realization-the Goddess obviously wasn’t some lovesick stalker (cough), so she was putting on an act. The only person there capable of seeing her was Dara, so it had to be for her own benefit. The only logical conclusion was that the Goddess was showing her a more extreme version of her own actions to teach her a lesson.

Dara bowed deeply. “Thank you, oh Goddess! You’ve shown me the error of my ways!”

The Goddess blinked, obviously feigning shock. “I have?”

“Yes, I will return to the heavens, and work on my own issues, so that I’ll be ready to welcome Amaya whole-heartedly when the time comes!”

The dead girl rushed off, leaving behind a visibly confused Goddess.

“Huh. Oh well.”

With that, Madoka went back to nuzzling her Homura-chan.

She did, however, keep one eye on this “Amaya” girl-she’d better not try to touch her (technically unofficial) girlfriend, else there’d be hell to pay.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 8 Next>>

Homura was not an idiot, excepting perhaps her inability to decode Madoka’s “come hither” looks. And her constant need to sabotage her own happiness. And-

Okay, maybe she was an idiot, but in the way that smart people can be.

Seriously, how does she keep getting these things?

Wagamama’s question went unanswered, as Madoka’s haremgroup of familiars watched Nekura land her V-22 Osprey in an open field.

Get in, we’re heading to Manilla.

The tiltrotor aircraft thrummed over the Pacific at a decent clip, carrying their little team in its hold.

Several of the dolls kept making glances in the direction of their pink-haired fellow passenger.

It was Wagamama-recently returned from some sort of punishment detail, which she refused to elaborate on-who asked the obvious question.

So, what in hell’s name is Noroma doing in the Philippines, anyway?

There was a round of shrugs in reply.

I know for sure.

Everyone ignored Usotsuki.

Reiketsu frowned slightly more than usual.

Unlike you lot, she actually listens to the Master. She’s probably here on her orders.

Then what does Homura want with that place?

Several dolls twitched-only Ibari (and maybe Ai) really felt comfortable calling their mother/creator by name. First (and last) born’s prerogative (or just hubris).

Warukuchi looked oddly dazed.

Reiketsu had, in the course of her existence as an independent entity, been smashed, stabbed, shot, shattered, burned, melted, torn apart limb from limb, and-on one memorable occasion-partially digested.

Yet, somehow, her headache seemed worse than all of those put together.

There was a crackling in her ear. “Hey girls, I-”

There came a double strained moan from both her earpiece and nearby, which she guessed to be Ibari.

Madoka coughed into the mic. “Um, House to Doll, House to Doll, do you read me…over?”

There were a few whimpers, before Ibari mustered the control to speak.

This is Doll actual…reading you loud…very loud…and clear. Over.

Reiketsu was almost impressed-she wasn’t sure that she could speak at the moment, herself.

Madoka cleared her throat. “Doll Actual, this is your reminder that you’re supposed to be looking for Nor-” she coughed, changing to the codeword at the last moment, “Maltese.”

She paused. “Over.”

Oh yeah, right, Noroma. She’d get right on that.

First, she’d open her eyes. Any moment now.

It was Nekura who thought to ask: How many-

Ibari coughed. Nekura sighed.

Doll to House, how times have you had to remind us?...Over.

“Umm…this is the tenth time, over.”

Well, shit.

Dull, slow, foolish, blunt.

“Noroma” meant more than just “blockhead.”

Homura would, of course, insist that all of these applied to her-but her opinion is irrelevant.

She was not especially dull, and any slowness (assuming that there was any) was more than compensated by her stubbornness.

She would insist that many of her failures were rooted in her own foolishness, like her early attempts to tell her friends about her time travel, but again-her opinion is irrelevant.

Her foolishness only really manifested in her stubborn determination to make herself miserable.

Now, blunt? Yeah, that tracks.

Reiketsu forced her eyes open, ignoring the slight agony that the merest hint of light seared into her nerves.

The first thing she saw, once her eyes adjusted, was red. Now, this wasn’t to say that she was especially angry-her vision was just dominated by the color.

It tickled at her nose. A quick sniff revealed hints of brimstone and dark chocolate.

Usotsuki was on top of her.

Her shorter sister’s face was nuzzled into her neck-she could feel the slight tickle of her breath, now that she wasn’t distracted by the torturous, burning light (they did not need to breathe, but most of them did, for form’s sake).

It was-not unpleasant, having the smaller doll on top of her, which was why she jumped to her feet, sending the redhead sprawling. Pleasantness was unpleasant-Homura didn’t know what to do with pleasure, and her coldheartedness rejected it outright.

It seemed that her sisters were in similar states-Nekura and Ibari were sitting next to each other, evidently just having risen from their own cuddle-of-unconsciousness, while Wagamama clung to the far-eyed Warukuchi like a koala.

Right, where to next?

Reiketsu asked, trying to pay attention to anything but the feeling of warmth and closeness-she’d been melted enough times in her life, thank you very much.

Her still-groggy sisters proffered up only groans in reply.

Noroma was supposed to be a mouthless doll-but then, how did she smile so much?

The dolls wandered what Reiketsu presumed was Manilla, checking in with the local Lotte garrison and other places of interest, when Warukuchi motioned for them to stop.

That’s enough-our sister is too canny to let herself be found like this. Let’s return to the Falcon and plan our next moves.

There were a series of tired nods in return, then silence. Ibari cleared her throat.

Does anyone remember where we parked?

As it happened, Nekura could remember where she was planning on parking, so the seven sisters-Ibari, Nekura, Usotsuki, Reiketsu, Wagamama, Warukuchi-walked back to the aircraft.

Steeling themselves, they opened up the back, eyes closed. There was a gasping, wet rattle, and the sound of solid porcelain thudding against the loading ramp. Reiketsu opened her eyes just a crack-Noroma was laying in a pool of her own blood, and the sight of Madoka in a bikini very nearly made her join her.

She was, however, prepared-and knew the truth.

She closed her eyes, then reopened them. Madoka was gone, replaced by a taller, darker-haired (fully-dressed) girl.

Sakura Kyoko held out her hand. “My payment?”

Ibari produced a box of limited-edition pocky and a photograph of Miki Sayaka in a compromising position.

The rest of the album and three crates should be waiting for you when you get home.

Hey Warukuchi, how long was she following us, anyway?

She frowned.

At least since we woke up.

Damn memory magic bullshit.

Hey, Nekura, quick question.

The second doll looked up from her work, quirking an eyebrow.

You did make sure that we had enough fuel for the return trip, right?

…

Right?

<<Previous Familiarity 8 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Haunting Homura 2 Next>>

Her parents laughed it off, the “ghost” thing. Madoka pretended to as well, though her giggles were tinged with nerves. This groundskeeper “Luke” didn’t sound like he was joking.

Still, she managed to set it aside in the hustle and bustle of moving in. She ended up with a tower room (from a different tower-the house had an entirely unreasonable number of those, the pictures she’d seen of simliar buildings mostly had just one). It was one of the smaller bedrooms, but the view was to die for.

Her parents went with something larger and lower down, with a large east-facing window (for waking-mom-up purposes).

Mr. Luke (she made a note to ask after his family name, if only for her inner monologue’s sake) insisted on helping them carry in their luggage, easily hefting even their largest bags-it seemed that he kept in shape. Afterwards, he and her father talked about gardening for a bit, before he returned to his own home-the first building she’d seen on the way in.

Apparently, it used to be a guest house before his ancestors got it in “old Adam Gaylord’s will.”

Her room was a lot more colorful, when all was said and done-she’d left the bulk of her stuffed animals back home, but there were enough around to give it a softer feeling.

They ordered takeout, and broke in one of the dining rooms-there was one cozy-yet-fancy one, and one super-ultra-mega-fancy one. They went with the former.

She had her own bathroom, pretty much-at the base of her tower. She didn’t relish the idea of walking down those stairs every morning (or sometimes at night), but she could drown in the sheer luxury of it all. A bathtub large enough to share with Sayaka, Hitomi, and half the other girls she knew (the way that her thought lingered on that image probably should have been an early indication of her preferences, but she overlooked it at the time), a mirror along the other wall, gilding and filigree everywhere.

It was a little weird to have the tub, sink, and toilet all in one room, but said room was larger than all three of those normal chambers combined, so she guessed that it tracked.

She did startle herself a couple times-when she walked into the bathroom, she could have sworn that she saw something in the mirror, a dark figure in a dress, but it was gone as soon as she looked closer.

She also thought that she heard a choking sound, when she started undressing, along with the feeling of a breeze rushing away from her. She made sure that the little frosted glass window was closed properly.

So she was, really, only slightly terrified when she lay down in her new bed for the first time, clinging to her favorite stuffed animal for her dear life. Somehow, in that creaking old house, she managed to get some sleep.

The first week passed.

Her mother went to work, her father got settled in-he did have that promised conversation on gardening with Mr. Luke (apparently, his family name was “Fir”), and she went to school.

It was-well, some of her classmates were nice.

There were just enough…events to keep the idea of that ghost in the back of her mind.

Sometimes she’d round a corner and catch a glimpse of a black dress, or a shadow would pass in a mirror (but, for some reason, never her bathroom mirror after that first night), or a window would look darker than it should, or she heard crying in the night.

So, when she woke up in the middle of the night to see a pretty girl in a mourning dress literally hovering at the foot of her bed, she did the only sensible thing, and promptly closed her eyes.

“You know, I saw you open your eyes.”

The voice was more…lively than she would have expected, the tone arch with obvious amusement. The voice that definitely didn’t exist and didn’t belong to a ghost, who also didn’t exist.

“No you didn’t.”

Madoka’s voice, by contrast, was squeaky and nervous.

There was silence for a while, and Madoka managed to convince herself that the ghost-which was definitely a figment of her imagination, and wasn’t there in the first place, because she definitely didn’t exist. So confident was she that it took her another fifteen minutes to crack her eyes open.

Close. The ghost was too damn close. Their noses were practically touching.

Madoka jumped, startled, at the sight. This involuntary reaction had the side effect of sending her head upwards. The ghost, wide-eyed, started to pull away, but it was too late-their lips slid against each other’s.

Madoka was too distracted by the shock running through her nerves to notice if she was cold or not.

The ghost jumped/floated back, her lack of blood and veins doing nothing to stop the blush descending on her face like a dropped burial sheet. She looked at the living girl like she’d just met a salivating Tiger.

“I-you-me-you-I…goodnight!”

The ghost fled through the nearest wall in a whirl of her dress, hastily retreating. Madoka, for her part, simply looked after her, fingers brushing her lips. This was, in hindsight, her sexual awakening. Poor, poor ghost.

“Mr. Fir, can you tell me more about the ghost?”

The old man stopped. His neck swiveled over to look at her, eyes slightly wide.

“Ghost,” he chuckled, “don’t be silly, ghosts aren’t real.”

“You literally warned us about her.” Madoka, of course, was having none of this.

“A joke! I tell it to anyone who comes by.” His voice was tinged with desperation. She almost felt sorry for pushing it.

“I’ve seen her.”

“No you haven’t.”

“I’ve heard her.”

“You’re hearing things.”

“She kissed me.”

“She takes after her father.”

<<Previous Haunting Homura 2 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Cuckoo 5 Next>>

Magical girls had a certain tinge to them-the faintest hint of Grief that lingered no matter how pure their gem.

So I had a clear signal to zero in on as I approached Shiraha Academy

I always felt uneasy, entering another girl’s territory, but Komaki’s the honorable type-I feared the day that she and Mami would properly meet.

I usually went alone, when we needed to play at diplomacy, or that was what we wanted them to think-the others were generally a short (by magical girl standards) sprint away. People recognized Mami as a powerhouse, she made them nervous, and Kyoko…

I went alone.

It made good use of my empathy-I could get a good sense of their mood before they even spotted me, bug out If I smelled a trap.

Not that one seemed likely-Asako Komaki was, to the limits of my ability to judge character, an upstanding Puella Magi. Mostly honest, diligent, faithful to both of her future girlfriends (the sexual tension between her and Kure was evident even without my magic), and quite satisfied by her part in fighting off the Incubators. If she had a problem with me, she’d stab me in the front, probably after announcing her intentions and requesting a formal duel.

All things considered, I felt fairly confident as I landed on the roof. My plans were, of course, immediately derailed.

“Hello Kaname-san, are you here to talk about the Devouring Night?”

I have a good poker face, but even I had to quirk an eyebrow at that.

‘Did your seer tell you, or our newest guest”

“Yes.”

Well, no sense wasting time, then.

“In that case, about Verschlingendenacht…”

It was pretty easy to hammer out a basic defensive plan-the only way to survive the event was to band together, or avoid it entirely, and neither of us wanted our home to become a hollow husk.

We identified a few places where we might make our stands; discussed the various other Puella Magi in the general area, loners or teams, whether or not they might stay, and who should approach them; and very carefully avoided talking about our odds of survival.

I left much earlier than I had initially planned-in hindsight, it was pretty obvious that the seer’s group would already be preparing for our localized apocalypse.

Having a solid block of free time, I did what any teenage girl would do, and went out on patrol for eldritch abominations that wanted to eat my soul. Social life? What’s that?

I’d tracked down a small nest of Incubators in the local mall, and had a small pile of their eyes when I felt her.

She had a very distinctive presence. When she was alone, she was a hard iron shell with a soft gooey filling-determination tinged with hate around hope, despair, and a smattering of other emotions that were hard to parse.

I felt this presence coming my way, with a few outlying voids disappearing as she killed the odd incubator.

I swung my axe down at one by me, and several things happened at once: most of the incubators disappeared from my senses, her presence jumped from a fair distance away to a few meters behind me, and her emotional state shifted to murderous rage and disgust barely constrained by confusion and curiosity.

“Akemi.” I said, even as I split the skull of the last ferret-rat thing.

Several emotions flickered through her, too fast to identify, before my name feel begrudgingly from her lips.

“Kyubey.”

Interesting. Why not call me Kaname? I suppose that she did meet Madoka first, and she very obviously “liked” her at least as much as she hated me. Of course she did-hating Madoka was pretty damn hard. Kyoko had put up a valiant effort, early on, some sort of distaste for “goody two-shoes” and “naive fangirls,” plus a general feeling of discomfort around the families of magical girls.

Madoka had her eating out of the palm of her hand within the week. Literally. I’d almost shanked her over it.

Still, there was the question of why this Akemi Homura radiated waves of rage and hate and bile every time she glanced in my direction.

At first I thought it was just my albino looks-seeing my pale skin and red eyes had put more than one Puella Magi into incubator-murdering mode upon our first meeting-but that didn’t parse. Most girls calmed down after they got used to it, and realized that I wasn’t an emotivoric abomination (at least, not in the literal sense).

There was some merit to that idea-she felt much the same revulsion, hate, and confusion towards Incubators as she did towards me.

But something about that didn’t feel right. Some quality of her emotions felt-different. Personal.

But why? I’d never met her in my life, as far as I could recall-and she was hardly a forgettable person.

Did I remind her of someone? Or perhaps I had harmed her accidentally-caused some sort of hurt while distracted by incubators?

But that didn’t account for all her other emotional oddities-the way she felt about Mami, or Madoka’s friends (especially Miki), or Madoka. Especially Madoka.

If she just felt super gay about her, I could have shrugged it off, chalked the rest up to magical girl wierdness. Madoka’s fucking adorable, and while I can’t really see her that way, it wasn’t hard to imagine someone having the hots for her-especially a contracted girl. We were all damaged goods, and I could see the appeal of someone gentle and sweet to someone like that.

The thing was, Akemi was far more than simply in lesbians with Madoka. She felt like-like nothing my abilities had quite sensed before. Like Madoka was everything, the source of all pain and pleasure. It was fucking terrifying.

Who was this girl, who felt like she knew me-knew all of us?

All of this was in the back of my mind as I turned to face the (madwoman? Stalker? Or maybe Miki was right with that whole “reincarnated lovers” joke) magical girl.

She felt more curious than murderous, possibly sated by all the dead beasts around us.

“Killing Incubators, I see.” Her tone was-uncertain?

I shrugged. “They’re abominations, parasites-killing them does the world a favor.”

Of all the possible reactions she could have had to that, I had not expected laughter.

Chalk one up to the “madwoman” theory.

<<Previous Cuckoo 5 Next>>

Chapter Text

It took a while for Homura to learn how to decipher witch runes.

It was hard to actually see them, for one-something about them was slippery, her eyes would skim right past them without settling. There was also the minor issue that they usually appeared while a witch was trying to kill her.

Still, she hoped to gain some edge over them through it, and the latter issue was easy enough to handle with time magic. Her ring was a great help-the eventual realization that it simply said her name was her first breakthrough. Study of a few other magical girl rings led to a complete alphabet.

Of course, that was when she realized that they didn’t always translate directly into Japanese-English and German were both common. She supposed that other languages would show up elsewhere.

Whatever the case, she slowly started picking out messages. Most of them were…unhinged. Familiars clamoring to kill for their witch, random poems, names, manyfold manifestos of the mad. All interesting, from a psychological perspective, but no obvious “you can kill Walpurgisnacht by-” or anything quite so miraculous.

So they became something of a background detail-she noted any changes from the usual patterns (especially in Oktavia and Condoloro’s barriers-any hint of their emotional state could prove useful next time), but let them fade from her mind. So she didn’t quite catch their change in tone.

It started the loop before, at the end.

KRIEMHILD GRETCHEN

Loomed overhead, filling out the sky with her dark form. Below, Homura lay broken. Of course, even Madoka’s witch reached for the heavens, while she crawled on the ground. It was far too fitting.

HOMURA-CHAN

A set of runes flashed at the edge of her vision, but she was far too distracted by the shadowy ribbons lashing down at her. The witch had her in her grasp, and slowly lifted her up to sickening heights (it was a good thing that any fear of heights or depths had long since been burned out of her, mostly thanks to the class representative witch).

Homura strained to reach her shield-the ribbons were not quite as tight as Mami would have made them-as she was brought closer and closer to the witch’s main body. It hurt to look at, that twisted thing with ribbons in its hair. It pulled her close, as if to devour her. She got her hand on her shield just as the witch kissed her.

“What the fuck.”

Homura stared up at the frustratingly familiar ceiling of her hospital room, at a loss to explain the events of a few seconds ago/a month and a half in the future/that never happened. Witches could be pretty damn weird, to say the least, but this-this was new.

The Rose Garden witch was a familiar foe, her familiars old hat-they danced an old dance (though it was new to Gertrud each time), a staccato of bullets interwoven through a symphony of clipping shears.

The familiars produced a-familiar-runic chorus:

“The blooming roses shall be presented to the queen immediately.”

Now, Homura had heard that plenty of times before, usually while they tried to kill her, or sometimes Madoka, so she didn’t think much of it, until she noticed some of the Anthonies slipping off towards their witch.

They died in the space of a clock tick.

When she finally reached Gertrud, Homura was not prepared to see her holding a bouquet of roses, blushing (she could blush?).

“For you, my Queen.”

Her reply was a very large explosion.

Homura tracked the Dark Witch to an abondened motel, where she reclined on a ratty old bed with a come-hither expression. Homura was glad for the opportunity to break out her flamethrower.

The artist witch presented her with a painting of Homura engaged in…intimate acts (h*nd-holding) with what she presumed to be the witch’s previous human self. She critiqued her form until the witch imploded.

The class representative witch took herself out, once she realized that Homura could see up her skirt. The magical girl, for her part, was beginning to wonder what was in the water this loop.

Homura and the birdcage witch get along surprisingly well, taking their time in stamping out her familiars. She almost felt sorry when she broke out the machine gun.

Good news: Mami was still alive, and seemed willing to work with her on Walpurgisnacht.

Bad news: Charlotte was clinging to her like some kind of demented koala.

This brought the blonde no end of amusement.

“My my Akemi-san, looks like you have a fan.”

Homura twitched, and somehow stopped herself from killing them both. For whatever reason, Madoka seemed to like the annoying beast, and also the witch. The two of them spent a disturbing amount of time whispering to each other while stealing glances at Homura.

“I like Homuhomu!”

This was going to be a long loop.

The box witch showed images that made the earlier artist look like a prude. Homura didn’t actually need to do anything-Charlotte attacked the other witch, seemingly personally offended. The sweets witch was soon back to her doll form, cuddling against her side. Homura just sighed.

The fight with Elsa Maria, the shadow witch, started normally enough-Homura felt a surge of relief, glad that one of them was actually trying to kill her for once.

… Maybe that sounded wrong.

Alas, it was not to be-Homura grunted when the witch managed to land a hit on her, and everything froze-but not in a “time-literally-stopped” kinda way, more a “the witch realized who she was fighting” sort of way. The shadow turned around-which somehow felt odder than witches trying to hit on her-but retained her kneeling position.

After a moment, Homura realized that the witch was praying to her. Homura threw up her hands.

“You know what? I’m done. Bye.” She spun around and walked off.

Elsa Maria made no effort to stop her, praying all along.

Homura had described her fight with the rose garden witch as a symphony. She probably should have saved that comparison for the witch with an actual symphony.

Oktavia von Seckendorff was really pulling out all the stops-both the music boy and Hitomi had familiar look-alikes, normally it was just one. She was, however, kinda pissed off at the inclusion of a third familiar-a violet silhouette of a girl with long hair (and a mermaid tail), lounging in a place of honor.

“Dammit Miki you useless bisexual.”

Homura twitched. “No, Ophelia, I will not go, as you put it, riding bareback with you.”

Homura now had two shoulder devils. On her left was Charlotte, being her usual creepy self. On her right was Candeloro, clinging to her tighter than her ribbons. Worse less, they cooperated. “I hate you both.”

Homura stared. The fight with Walpurgisnacht had started normally enough, the witch of witches looming in the sky. It had almost immediately gone to hell, as the sky burst out in runes:

“Akemi Homura is mine.”

That had not only set off Charlotte and Candeloro, but had apparently prompted Madoka to contract and immediately become a witch. Now she watched as the three witches steadily tore Walpurgisnacht apart limb from limb.

“You know what?” She asked no-one in particular, reaching for her shield “fuck this loop.”

The next loop was delightfully normal. She put it all out of her mind, considering the matter dealt with.

Later, much later, Homura was walking the trails of heaven, having only recently concluded her rather…enthusiastic, reunion with Madoka. Her path took her through a garden. The gardener saw her, gave a double-take, and ran up to her, proffering a bouquet of roses.

“For you, my queen.”

Chapter Text

<<Previous WvW 2 Next>>

Mami started fussing over Sayaka almost as soon as Madoka and Akemi dragged her to her apartment. Kyoko, by contrast, punched her in the face.

Was it masochistic to prefer the latter?

Mami could be suffocating, as if she were physically squeezing Sayaka to her chest (one hell of a way to go). Madoka wasn’t much better, one hand squeezed around her wrist, face like a kicked puppy if she even thought too hard about shaking her off, bubbling over with concern.

The two magical girls she was closest with all but chained her in place with their worries, killing her, as they say, with kindness.

The other two-who she could hardly stand most days-were practically breaths of fresh air in comparison. Kyoko was an ass, yes, but she was her-err…well, she would at least give her her space (outside of the area of her face…good thing she could turn her pain off, that girl had a mean left hook).

The transfer student, for her part, remained committed to her usual brooding-in-the-corner-with-a-mysterious-knowing-smirk-that-was-not-at-all-sexy habits. The girl gave the impression that she only cared because her girlfriend did. It honestly felt rather freeing, in a weird sense.

Mami and Madoka, the “M”s of the group (wait, that sounded wrong…), were all but drowning her in affection. The cold stare and flaming temper of the other two gave her something less stifling to cling to.

So, she found herself spending far more time with either one or both of Mopey and Hungry than she had before her brush with death, especially on wraith hunts. The “Ma”s of the group (still sounded a little weird) allowed their worry to distract them from the fight, and Sayaka was both fed up with their coddling, and afraid that a wraith might take advantage of their distraction.

Of course, the chuuni of the bunch was usually busy fawning over Madoka (when did those two start dating, anyway?), so it was often red and blue versus the world, with purple popping in occasionally.

Sayaka suspected that little-miss-lavender-and-lily was there on Madoka’s urgings more often than not.

It was a fairly decent combination.

Sayaka and Kyoko would get up close to the monsters, slashing and hacking and stabbing, while Homura kept up a steady stream of arrows. Sometimes the melee-focused girls would skirmish with thrown sabers and spears, or their archer would chime in by turning the goddamn sky into a rain of purple bolts, or charge up that massive arrow-bird thing of theirs.

And of course, from time to time, if pressed, at need, when it felt appropriate, they would call on their witches.

It didn’t happen very often.

Sayaka, for her part, mostly stuck to summoning her giant witch-swords. Somehow, though, the Hitomi look-alikes kept slipping through. Sometimes this was in a fight, where she would turn from a fallen enemy to find that she’d acquired a backup dancer. Sometimes one would show up just in everyday life-on a sidewalk, in her bed, at school, in the mall. They could pop up anywhere, sometimes dancing, sometimes just staring. It happened more often where water was nearby-by a stream, when it was raining…more than once, when she was taking a bath. Why were her familiars peeping toms?

Like Sayaka, Kyoko mostly limited herself to her witch-weapon, a big fuck-off spear that debuted by impaling three wraiths at once. Sometimes, though, when numbers were an issue, she would summon strange warriors in colorful outfits. Some of these would, in term, summon more with a ring of a bell-these would appear wielding weapons (mostly spears, of course). Some of them, however, would sprout dragon heads and breath fire. Weird, but she wasn’t really in a place to judge, what with the evidently perverted caricature of one of her best friends dancing around her all the time (could the Hitomi familiars even fight?), so she let it go.

Homura used her witch even less often-she didn’t need to. As much as it pained her to admit it, the chuuni could outfight any of them, save maybe a well-motivated Mami. From when she did use them, Sayaka had seen: some weird birds, these weird toy soldier things, a freaking blimp, and giant goddamn teeth. Maybe the amazing dancing, peeping Hitomi-chan wasn’t all that weird, by familiar standards,

A fair while after her near-death experience, when the MadoMami axis was finally starting to let up with their obnoxious “concern for her well-being,” Sayaka was about ready to run off and go kill something (a perfectly reasonable response to pre-calculus) when a hand caught her wrist, dragging her off to a side room with surprising strength.

“Sayaka-san, you’ve been avoiding me.”

Hitomi’s voice was surprisingly stern, her face set in a mask of offense as she pinned Sayaka to the wall.

A fairly intimidating effect, coming from a cute middle school girl, one that was both enhanced and undermined by the fact that the last time she’d seen Hitomi’s face had been her familiar dancing by the bathtub.

It was all rather overwhelming, which only partially explained her reaction (the rest of which she could only blame herself for).

“I’m sorry, it just feels awkward, since I keep seeing your face when I bathe.”

After escorting the near-catatonic Hitomi to the nurse’s office (she kept babbling something along the lines of “girls…like…girls”), Sayaka made her way to Mami’s apartment-her senpai still made too much of a fuss for her to be quite comfortable, but no one else she knew was as knowledgeable about magical girls-or witches.

Besides Kyubey, but Sayaka hadn’t seen them in over a month.

“So, what does it mean when your familiar…looks like someone?”

<<Previous WvW 2 Next>>

Chapter Text

Madoka adjusted her hat for the fifth time in the last minute. Her stomach threatened to sink to her shoes, while her heart attempted to crawl up her throat. At the same time, she felt barely connected to her body, like a spirit floating besides it. 

In short, she was nervous. 

Of course, there was nothing to be nervous about. She was just moving into her new home, where she would be surrounded by strangers, isolated from most of her friends and family, constantly monitored, and better armed than many nations. Also, it was her first real job.

“Why did I join the navy, again?”

It was meant to be quiet, but Sayaka was always quick to pick up on her. 

“Because its the only place gay enough to contain you-”

Hitomi smoothly elbowed them both in the ribs, eyes never straying from directly ahead. Chastened, Madoka turned to look as well.

“Do you see it yet? All I see is gray.”

Sayaka gave her a look .

“Oh.”

Madoka tried to remember what she could about the MNS (Mitakihara Naval Ship) Daybreak Flame . She was the lead (and only) ship of her class of battlecruisers, coming after the venerable Tart -class and the newest battlecruiser in the fleet, with the next in line being the proposed Mikuni -class, which would be strongly influenced by her design if constructed.

She was, like most battlecruisers, surprisingly nippy for her size, and as well-armed as any but the largest of dreadnaughts-though her shields and armor were merely…adequate. 

The hallmark of her design was the Kinetic Inertial Temporal phase Engine, a ludicrously expensive FTL drive that could effectively take the ship out of sync with time, potentially allowing her to attack an enemy with impunity. This system, while obviously powerful, was also expensive in time, space, weight, cost, and power, which was why she was an only child (the Mikuni -class would not feature the K.I.T.E., though they would adapt parts of the electronics and communications tech needed to run it).

The ship designers did not, however, skimp on more mundane combat systems. The naval academy had had a quite thorough course on the various weapons mounted on warships, from railguns to lasers to missiles to nuclear missiles that shoot lasers, and she recognized quite a few mounts on the hull of Daybreak Flame. Some of them were…quite large.

They only grew larger as their shuttle approached the capitol ship.  

A formal reception, to someone boarding a battlecruiser, could be quite the affair. Officers bedecked in their finery, ranks of sailors and marines standing in formation, the boarding bay lights glinting off of rank insignia and medals and swords, the band striking up a rousing tune.

Fresh-faced ensigns, however, did not rate such a greeting. Instead of the ship’s captain and a marine band, they got a disheveled NCO and some sailors that were far more concerned with unloading their shuttle’s cargo.

Madoka, along with the other dozen ensigns, stood about with lost expressions. They rather resembled a pack of nervous kittens.

“Oh , you must be the new butterbars.”

This came from the NCO, the redhead lazily meandering up to their huddled bunch. She cast one glance over them, and did little to disguise their less-than-stellar impression. Madoka shrunk in on herself, while Syaka’s hackles rose. Hitomi, naturally, managed to look actually professional.

The NCO-Sakura, Madoka saw on her uniform, along with an unexpectedly high rank insignia-shook her head. She looked pretty young, for a Chief-then again, modern technology meant that anyone could look any age, if they really wanted. Still, one would think that looking like she was barely out of highschool would be a detriment to her.

“Alright you lot, quick orientation. My name’s Sakura Kyoko, but that’s Chief to you, and until I can trust you to walk five feet without killing us all, you might as well call me Prime Minister .”

For a second Madoka thought that Sayaka would say something, but Kyo- Chief Sakura barreled onwards.

“That makes the ship Empress , the captain God , and anyone with a star on their epaulet God’s Boss , understand?”

Madoka personally thought that it would be more accurate to call the ship god, what with effectively being the personification of an inanimate object, and the human in charge empress, but saying that out loud seemed like a very bad idea at that junction.

They were interrupted from their little soiree by the crackling of a ship’s comms coming online.

“Chief Sakura,” the walls themselves seemed to say, “when your’re done traumatizing the newcomers, the captain wants to see them.”

The redhead blinked, then whirled back towards them.

“You heard the empress, it's time for you to meet your god.”

What was with this ship and attractive women?

Captain Tomoe didn’t look much older than her, but most certainly did look more…mature. It was a testament to her training that Madoka was able to fight off the urge to drool and fall in with the other ensigns.

The captain was talking, presumably giving some sort of speech, with exclamations and gesticulations. Madoka-and from what she could see, the rest of her little group, except for Nakazawa, and he was almost as gay as she was-were too distracted by what this did to her chest to make out much of anything.

Several members of the bridge crew gave them knowing looks.

Madoka managed to rein in her gay just in time to hear the end of the speech.

“...drive our enemies before us, and hear the lamentations of their civilians!”

This time, it was Madoka who elbowed her companions, and started up a ragged cheer.

A hologram flickered in next to the captain, and Madoka forgot to breathe for a moment. This ship’s avatar was…pretty. Long, dark hair, skin that resembled a porcelain doll’s as much as human flesh, purple eyes that seemed to overmatch the battlecruiser’s laser battery in terms of armor penetration-

In short, Madoka was barely aboard her new home for five minutes when she fell in love with it-literally.

Oh god. She was already inside Daybreak-chan.

The ship’s avatar looked barely older than her, and even wore an ensign uniform herself. Ship AIs advanced in ranks much like any other officer-once or twice one had even been put in charge of herself, though that was generally avoided. Something about a conflict of interest.

Their avatars’ age-or even humanity-were personal matters, though most tried to very roughly match human development. As Daybreak Flame was pretty new-Madoka et al missed being plankowners by only a few months-it made sense for her to look quite young.

Madoka thought about what she might look like as an adult, and promptly shut down that line of thought in order to preserve her consciousness.

The ship leaned over to the captain and whispered in her ear-gods, she wanted to be that ear-the blonde perked up, and pressed a button on her chair. Madoka was pretty sure that it was the ship’s intercom, but she couldn’t be certain from the bridge.

“This is your captain speaking. All departments, get ready to sail-we’re going pirate hunting.”

Oh yeah, the navy was for things besides meeting cute girls.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 9 Next>>

Yakimochi is, in some ways, the most accursed of the devil’s daughters.

The Devil spared a great deal of thought towards the seven deadly sins-it only seemed fitting.

For instance, there were actually nine of them-the ever-so-infamous Pride, Greed, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony and Sloth were the modern set, while earlier lists included Vainglory and Acedia.

It was natural to compare these to her strongest familiars, her fifthteen little demon lords. Ibari, Namake, and Mie all accounted for one or another quite directly, leaving six. Wagamama could fit greed, maybe even gluttony or lust. After her, though, it became quite difficult to find commonalities between the lists-perhaps Reiketsu could be squeezed into the mold of Wrath, but that was rather ill-fitting, ice filling in for magma.

Of course, there was one more obvious match. Yakimochi, rice cake-or through the power of puns-Jealousy. A close enough fit for envy.

Madoka was gone.

Those three words-or something to the effect-perched on a thousand lips (or beaks, or equivalent body parts). A great mass of familiars had formed around Her dolls, those who had survived (or not) her pursuit. The overall atmosphere was, at best, glum.

Where could she have gone?

I told her to skip over that damn rice cake.

Good-for-nothing is going to be ecstatic and not murder us at all.

Ibari rose to her full (if still unimpressive) height, and blew out a whistle. Her sisters instantly snapped to attention, staring at her with something close to shock.

Her ceramic face held no trace of her usual mischievous amusement. Gone was her knife-sharp smirk. Instead, she seemed carved from bedrock, her eyes icy as Reiketsu. This was the devil’s firstborn daughter, the great sin of hubris personified. And she was pissed.

Noroma, get the Lottes organized-all of them.

Her voice demanded obedience, called to them in a way that not even their mother could. She was the first, the crown princess of hell, and when her world (Madoka, obviously) was at stake, some dormant aspect of it shone through. Noroma saluted and rushed off. One by one, the others did the same.

Reiketsu, scout her known hideouts. Usotsuki, Wagamama, put the Liese and Lisa to work-I want eyes in every window in Japan-the world. 

She paused, visibly conflicted for a moment.

Nekura, remember what I told you about restraint?

The secondborn nodded hesitantly

Forget that. I want the big guns. 

Ibari and Warukuchi exchanged glances. The latter nodded, then promptly fainted. Hopefully that was a good sign.

Madoka slowly opened her eyes, cracking off a layer of crust.

She swiftly noticed three things: her head felt like she’d tried to headbutt a cannonball, there was an unfamiliar girl in front of her, and she was tied to a chair.

“Yakimochi-chan, I presume?”

Albania was famous for its bunkers, and rightly so, with about 15 per square mile-granted, most of those were little two-man affairs, but some larger complexes were also present. Outside of one of these stood two Lottes, guarding an entrance with perfect patience.

They shifted, and readied their spears at Reiketsu’s approach.

A Liese alighted on her shoulder.

I’ve found the bunker, and can confirm the presence of Yakimochi’s personal troops. I’m heading in .

The Liese cawed, and took to the sky in a flurry of wings. They could be oddly graceful, those felt-faced avians. Reiketsu didn’t spare it a glance.

If you hold any loyalty to Pink, stand aside now .

The two tin soldiers showed no sign of comprehension, acknowledgement, or care-either they were loyal to their doll, or they didn’t trust her. Fair enough. She didn’t really care.

Her trusty, shadowy pin-spear materialized in her hand as she stepped forward. The Lottes readied their own spears in response.

In the space between a tick and a tock , she was beside them, her pin impaling both at one stroke. A casual observer may be forgiven for assuming that she’d inherited some time magic from her Mistress, but that was wrong-it was simple speed.

Two bodies hit the ground. She walked on into the bunker, impassive as ever.

On a small, unnamed island in the Pacific was a scene straight out of hell (which it was technically part of).

A small legion of Lottes were scattered among the rocks, here and there-a leg here, a head there. Black feathers were still raining down from the local Liese, some the size of a city bus. Only the teeth were largely intact, each sitting where death had come to claim it.

On this island was a complex of buildings, some villainous lair that spy thrillers would reject as being too melodramatic. Its precise layout is unimportant, as it just exploded.

A single AH-1z Viper flew away from the explosion, pouting Nekura onboard.

I’ve hit the island base, no sign of the goddess .

Grumbling, the secondborn flew back to her personal Amphibious Assault Ship, mind carefully blank. She did not need to be pessimism to worry over what that Yandere might be doing.

In a public park in Mitakihara, there was a tent. To the average resident, it was completely unremarkable, even forgettable. To the clear sighted. It was bedlam.

A constant tide of Liese, Lotte, Luiselotte, and at least one low-flying Lisa surged up to it, only to halt outside, waves hitting a cliff.

Noroma wore her usual vacant, mouthless-yet-mouthed grin. She took in every one of their diverse reports with an aplomb reserved for the thoughtless. Her head, you see, was empty-unimportant details would bounce around for a bit, finding no purchase, until they were absorbed by the void.

Only the most relevant of revelations would receive any reply-a single nod, before she spun around and entered the tent.

Within, Ibari sat like an old-fashioned general surveying their campaign-map open on a little trestle-table, radio crackling beside her, bottle of whiskey at hand.

Why does she have so many bases, and so many troops? How long has she been planning this?

Noroma coughed.

Oh. Word from Usotsuki? Did she say that she found something?

Noroma nodded. Ibari sighed, and knocked over a miniature Lotte (not simply a little figurine, but an actual tiny Lotte, about the size of Homura’s thumb) positioned on the map, over Grenada. 

Still no word from Wagamama?

Noroma nodded. Not waiting for a reply, she turned and swept off.

Ibari reached for her whiskey.

It burned whenever Homura saw Madoka with someone else. Whenever Her eyes gazed up at Tomoe in awe, whenever She shone with concern over Miki’s downward spiral, whenever She and Sakura found their odd camaraderie.

A part of Homura, one she had often struggled to silence, would wail with pitiful hate. Surely , it would say, we deserve her ? It would dwell on all her pain and grief, her struggles and torments, and conclude that she deserved Madoka, that she had earned her, like some carnival game prize.

It whispered hateful things to her, of dastardly deeds done in darkness, of pain and spite and want and need. That she could make Her her own, if she were just a little…proactive.

Naturally, this was a part of herself that she kept under careful control, locked away in the recesses of her mind, where it could only froth and boil and feed her dark fantasies. It was contained.

Then it grew legs and walked away.

Ibari lept from her desk just before a dark pin-head smashed through it, the blunt orb cracking it in twain and crashing into the ground.

Wild, whipping hair framed a twisted face, Yakimochi’s eyes wide and staring.

Heard you was looking for me .

When Liar died, Homura had hid away-suddenly, nothing seemed certain. Did she love Madoka, or fear Her? What was right, what was wrong? Be she devil, or was she god? All she was certain of was that meeting Her in that state, unable to tell truth from falsehood, was a recipe for disaster. So she’d hidden herself away, only emerging once her Liar had regenerated herself.

When Coldheartedness died, Homura had simply lacked the strength to move from her bed. Everything that she’d had to do, her thousand thousand sins, suddenly bore down upon her. Justifications that had seemed solid at the time now rang hollow, and she’d came dangerously close to just giving up and returning Madoka to the Cycle-or, at the very least, running out and giving Miki or Tomoe a hug, which would have been awkward at the very least.

When Slanderer died-she actually did go out and hug her former mentor, the blonde confused yet enthusiastic. Truth be told, she would have probably been better off that way in the long run-she slandered herself as much as, if not more than, anyone else-but she was still relieved when the doll recovered. Some wounds were still too raw to let the bandage be ripped away.

When Blockhead died, to be honest, she barely noticed. Maybe she was a bit more cerebral, less instinctive, but waxing philosophical was hardly a new thing to her.

What really hurt, though, was when Pride died.

Ibari took pride (heh) in her lack of flashy powers.

She couldn’t taste a fruit before it was planted or erase herself from others’ memories, but she was something of a paragon. Clara dolls were already a match for most magical girls-and Ibari was just that bit more. She was a little faster, a little stronger, a little tougher, a little wiser.

Truth be told, she wasn’t sure if it was an actual supernatural ability, or simply that she worked harder on her own abilities than her sisters.

There was, however, no worse matchup for her than Yakimochi (among the dolls, at least).

Having an enviable opponent only made her stronger, her wild swings with her pin may have lacked form, but the sheer speed and strength of each blow made them hard to counter. Ibari would reach for an opening, only to find that pin-head rushing to intercept.

It only took one small mistake, it seemed, for it to all end, the black orb of her sister’s weapon coming to shatter her porcelain skull.

Ibari’s grin never left her face.

Yakimochi all but skipped home, positively giddy after her little (temporary) murder. Without the firstborn to coordinate them, her sisters would flail about wildly, wasting time on her various decoy bases. 

By the time they managed to pull themselves together (or all the little bits of Ibari’s head did), it would be too late. Soon, she’d outshine even the Devil in her glory-not merely usurping God, but enslaving Her. 

Not cruelly, of course-Madoka would come to love her back soon enough, and accept her place. She had to.

She was interrupted from her thoughts by the ground rushing up to meet her face.

What?

Warukuchi had spent most of the day standing up, walking around, then promptly fainting.

The doll of Jealousy (Envy, when the mood struck her) was going to fucking murder the Slandering one. 

Every two steps, it seemed, her feet would trip over a body that hadn’t been there for hours. When she tried jumping, her body would intersect with where her sister had jumped coming the other way, knocking her from the sky. When she tried to crawl, she’d get stuck in a forest of invisible time-displaced legs.

All these little distractions were annoying, yes-but they merely served to slow her down.

She paused.

Why were they trying to delay her?

Earlier that day, Yakimochi had left the little basement where she’d left Madoka, almost vibrating with anticipation.

A few minutes later, Sayaka had tripped over nothing, burst through a door that had never been properly closed, fallen down the stairs, hit her head, suddenly remembered that she was a Magical Girl, and somehow landed on her feet in front of a tied-up Madoka.

Yakimochi cursed when she found the door open, and raced down the stairs, only to stop short when she found Madoka sitting right where she left her, if free of her bonds.

“Oh, hello again Yakimochi-chan, Noroma-chan.”

Two spear-pins clashed an instant later, the jealous one spinning to confront her sister, already working up a slathering rage. She’d had far too many interruptions.

Noroma smiled back, mouthless or no. She was, in some ways, the perfect soldier. Thought and planning were vital in war, but could slow you down in the moment of combat-and when milliseconds could tip the scales towards life or death, any burden could be deadly. Along with Reiketsu, Noroma was uniquely suited to this-an empty head and heart could see you through many trials-though they were liabilities outside of these brief moments of ultimate crisis.

Yakimochi’s disjointed flailings were not mere openings, but highways, and the Blockhead hit her like a rocket-boosted sixteen-wheeler.

“Hey girls, you can stop fighting now.”

Unshackled fury and unthinking discipline clashed, the great blows of the former side-stepped and parried by the latter. Yakimochi started showing signs of fear, each blow of the mace-like head of her pin leaving cracks in the concrete. Noroma kept smiling her stupid, mouthless grin.

“No, really, stop.”

The eighth-born put her all into one great blow, shaking the ground enough to make Noroma stumble. Her follow-up strike met only air, however, and-

Halt.

Everything seemed to freeze-only a fading cloud of powdered concrete and dust attested to time’s onward march. The sisters faced each other, both faces masks of fear. They slowly turned to Madoka.

Your struggles are pointless. Madoka is gone.

A Liese tapped at her window.

A dainty hand let it in.

Around its leg was a tiny scroll, a very short letter:

AI

I did the thing.

-Warukuchi

A second bird wended its way in, bearing another missive:

AI

I have failed.

-Yakimochi

Her grin was no softer than her sisters’.

<<Previous Familiarity 9 Next>>

Chapter Text

Monstrum Puella 1 Next>>

My name is Kaname Madoka, and sometimes I feel like I’m an anime protagonist.

Why, you might ask? Well, first off my hair’s fucking pink. I don’t dye it either, the curtains match the drapes.

Exhibit B is my tendency to run out of my house with a slice of bread in my mouth, that shit’s classic.

And my third piece of evidence-well, that’s gonna take some explaining.

So, this one time, I had barely finished my mouth-carried bread when I ran smack-dab into a pair of boobs. In hindsight, that’s also a protagonist thing, but not the one I was thinking of. Let’s call it piece of exhibit d, or double-d.

Anyway, boobs. Boobs are nice. This pair was goddamn amazing. All big and soft, but with just about enough firmness, and not so big as to seem grotesque. I could have stayed there for a while, but the laws of physics weren’t having it.

All too soon, forces beyond my control ripped me away from paradise, and my cute little ass promptly landed on the sidewalk. Stung pretty bad, too-said ass didn’t have much in the way of padding.

On the upside, at least I could see who I’d bumped into.

Sfaíra Entomo-family name second, since she was an immigrant, though she’d lived in the neighborhood since before I was born. A pretty blonde, she had a large collection of coats.

“Ah, Kaname-san, you should be more careful, that looked like it hurt.”

She reached down to help me up, and I got a good look at her underside on the way up.

Her bottom half was less squishy than the top, being a giant spider. Yep, neighbor’s an Arachne. Used to babysit me-sometimes still does, though mostly for Tatsuya.

Let me tell ya, growing up next door to a sexy spider lady does all sorts of things to a growing lesbian. I once walked in on her “weaving,” and never looked at spider webs (or silk clothes) the same way again.

At this point I realized that I was staring, so I did my best impression of “innocent schoolgirl who isn’t thinking about being dommed by a spider mommy,” going all wide-eyed and almost tearful.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Entomo-san,” tactical eyelash flutter , “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She laughed it off, ruffled my hair. Indignity, the price I pay for reputation.

Anyway, I really did need to hurry off to school, so I said my farewells and dashed off. Huh, evidence #3? I guess that that little episode was completely irrelevant. Oops.

Mitakihara has had a pretty big population of monstergirls since way back when-I forget the reason, something to do with one of the previous Dark Lords. It wasn’t too uncommon to see a harpy or witch overhead, a centaur or dryad in the park, a vampire or demon in a nightclub, a nightmare or wraith on a dark street at night, a catgirl in your ceiling, or-yes-an arachne next door.

One vampire that you definitely won’t catch dead in a nightclub is one Shizuki Hitomi, the most closeted lesbian for three prefectures over. Okay, fine, she might be bi, but that just doesn’t flow as well, right? …most closeted bi for three prefectures over. Actually, yeah, that kinda works.

She was, as usual, waiting for me with Sayaka (like me, a bog-standard human). 

“Sorry I’m late,” I only halfway put up my wide-eyed-innocent mask, as those two knew it was at least partially fake, “I ran into a spider. I was afraid it was going to eat me.” 

Only in my dreams.

It was actually pretty fun, watching their faces as they tried to decide if I was bullshitting them, how much if I was, and if they really cared. They settled on “no” for the latter. 

So we got to walking and shooting the shit. It was pretty standard stuff-who was dating who, who got dumped or rejected, medieval swiss taxation, what the next test would be on, Hitomi ranting about how good girls smelled and how much she wanted to eat them (no homo, obviously), a new transfer student coming, Saotome-san’s love woes, the return of the Dark Lord, plans for golden week-

“Wait, Dark Lord?”

Hitomi looked consternated. “Ah-I shouldn’t have said that…”

Sayaka put her hand on the vampiress's shoulder. The latter turned, and the two found themselves standing dangerously close. They both blushed in a totally het way, no way either of them were thinking of sucking face, and even if they were then that was totally platonic and normal (granted, wanting to suck face might actually be platonic by vampire standards). They were being so platonic that I had to snap them out of it by kicking them in the shins.

“Hitomi, Dark Lord?”

She had the decency to blush. “Ah…right.” 

She shifted a bit, dramatically looking around for eavesdroppers. Apparently satisfied, she turned back to me (pointedly not looking at Sayaka).

“I don’t really know much. My clan served the previous Dark Lord, you see-” 

Hell of a gal. I always liked that painting of her dueling Napoleon in the Roman Coliseum.

“-and recently my clan elders had a meeting. I couldn’t catch much, but they were talking about old obligations, loyalties, choosing sides…”

Great. It looked like the perennial battle between Light and Dark were about to kick off, possibly upsetting the fragile balance that allowed civilization to exist. Oh well, it probably wouldn’t really affect me.

Then I realized that I was a schoolgirl with pink hair, and therefore statistically likely to have to save the world before I finished puberty.

Shit.

The rest of the walk was pretty silent-I was worried about possibly being pulled into the eternal struggle between light and dark, and the other two were being shy over their gayness.

I was moderately cheered up by the monstergirls I started seeing as we neared the school. Yes, I do have a bit of a fetish. Blame my neighbor.

There was a university a couple towns over that had good monstergirl programs (both for and about them) so the entire region had an above-average population of the cuties. Mitakihara had even more than most-possibly due to being relatively roomy and cheap, as far as Japanese towns go. 

Some I saw on the walk were native to Japan, like a kitsune (my hands ached to rub her tail), a few kappa (“hey babe, wanna see my shirikodama”), and at least one Yuki-Onna (I’d keep her warm at night…). Some were from elsewhere, like a minotaur (I’d grab her by her horns), manticore (she could sting me any day), or an ogre (“A man-eater? How about I teach you how to eat women instead…”). And you had the types that showed up everywhere: there were five types of harpy…when only six went to school there (I’d put them in a cage and let them sing for me…), the inevitable catgirls (I’d pet them real good), and several examples of the fifty or so succubus subspecies (I’d come up with something lewd to say, but one of them asked me to stop because they found me “cute, but inhumanly terrifying”).  

So, as you may have noticed, I was kinda super gay for anyone non-human. Even I weirded myself out with it sometimes. Something about them, though-something made me feel very…possessive? Like they were meant to be mine. Rather conceited and likely unhealthy, I know, but I couldn’t help how I felt.

At least it distracted me from that “Dark Lord” business. 

Now, the real exhibit three: a mysterious transfer student with an inexplicable interest in me (granted, I’m fucking adorable, so its not really inexplicable). Classic protag shit, that.

Akemi Homura was, in my professional opinion, goddamn hot. Now, I’m not some sheltered girl who’s never seen a catgirl before, but its hard to ignore a tall (relatively speaking) and dark stranger who can’t keep her eyes off you.

I figured that she was trying to make a move on me, when she asked me to walk her to the nurse, but I ended up disappointed. She just gave a chuuni rant about destiny and shit. Oh well, she was pretty cute when she got all worked up like that.

In hindsight, I maybe should have paid more attention.

Monstrum Puella 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

Mitakiharan Rites 1 Next>>

Most girls would leave the cave once, and enter once. A woman might have entered it many times, and hopefully left just as many times, plus one. They would enter once more, as a spirit-hopefully long after their previous visit.

Junko could not remember the first time she left it, as an infant, being carried out of her second womb.

It was more than a decade before she returned, a girl walking barefoot on the cold rock. She’d spent the last week, since her first flowering-she remembered thinking that a very poetic name for bleeding from your privates-and the flurry of events that followed.

Her father had gone out to the center of the village, where he loudly bemoaned that his daughter had died, “taken by the wraiths of the moonlight.” The other villagers had, presumably, offered their traditional condolences, carefully pretending that moonlight wraiths were things that existed (everyone knew that wraiths came from starlight touching dead bodies, obviously). 

Maybe a few snuck glances back to where he had come from, where her mother was hurriedly carting her off to a small, isolated hut. It was bare, with little more than a bed of furs to the side. A girl becoming a woman was supposed to be kept from all labor, fun, or distractions, quietly meditating on the nature of womanhood. 

In theory.

In practice, everyone knew about the “secret” compartment full of toys, games, tools, and even a vanishingly rare book-The Annals of Mitakihara, the same book that the Great Witch recited from every Walpurgisnacht. She supposed that it only made sense to prepare potential witches for their initiation. 

In short, she spent a lazy week reading, playing games, and eating the food left for her. Outside, her father had declared that her “vengeful spirit” was haunting this old “decrypt hut” (it was actually quite cozy), and that she required offering. The villagers once again nodded, pretended to be scared, and left various bits of foodstuff by the door. If anyone saw her creep out to fetch them, they were polite enough to act terrified of the “ghost,” screaming and running off. 

She wondered what happened when multiple girls went through it at once-did both fathers make their melodramatic announcements together? It would have been nice to have had a friend to pass the time with.

Her relaxing vacation ended when the Great Witch came. She seemed giant, her form hidden by her thick white robes, ivory mask and garnet eyes for a face. A smaller robe of gray was thrown at her.

She spoke not a word, just gestured to follow, and Junko scrambled after her, hastily donning the robe, into the last hints of twilight. There was just enough light to follow her by, the moon fat and full overhead.

Hopefully there were no dead bodies around, besides herself.

The Great Witch’s walk was unhurried, yet Junko had to jog in her wake. Out they went, and up.

Out away from the village, through the fields and orchards.

Up into the foothills, shepherds averted their gaze when they passed.

Out past the last far-flung building, the witch’s own forbidden recluse.

Up and Out to where dirt started to become rock.

Up worn stairs of smooth stone.

The witch stood at the entrance to the cave, staring silently.

Trying to remain stoic, lightly panting from the exertion-they expected pregnant women to make that walk?-Junko walked out of the world of life and light.

Down and In she went, to the bare hollow of creation.

She emerged much later, eyes stinging from the noontime sun. The witch was still there, a pale shadow.

“Nothing.”

The witch nodded-the most expressive movement she’d made yet, and it gave away nothing. Was she disappointed or relieved? Content or uncaring? 

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure how she felt herself. Not all women saw a spirit in the cave, and few indeed could make a pact with one. Being a witch, while an honorable position with many perks, was also very dangerous. Besides, she be expected to stay near the village, which would rather interfere with her ambitions-her uncle was childless, and someone needed to inherit his part of the trade caravan… 

So, while part of her was miffed that some ancient power had failed to bless her, she wasn’t really upset. Besides, she had another chance coming up.

That day, her father loudly proclaimed the miracle of her “resurrection.” The other villagers pretended to believe him, as was tradition. Besides, they were always happy for an excuse to party.

And thus ended Junko’s initiation to womanhood, officially at least. 

The summer solstice festival was the most lively of the year-some preparations began the day after the previous one ended. It was about as holy as Walpurgisnacht, a mere month earlier, but was a more general celebration.

Carpenters assembled the stage months aforehand, time was needed to carve in scenes of gods and men and wraiths and women and spirits and witches, vast, elaborate depictions of a legendary past. Musicians practiced until their bones ached and cried, every note bludgeoned into perfection. The population of the village descended on the seamstresses in a frenzied horde, every festival outfit in need of mending or resizing or replacement. Everyone else, it seemed, worked twice as hard to make sure that everything was perfect.

Nothing less than perfection could do-not with all their lives on the line.

Just before dawn, one of the witches-not the Great Witch, just a normal one-rounded up the young women, those who had had their First Flowering and were no younger than sixxteen. Junko fell in with Kazuko, the two of them pretending very hard to convince the other that they weren’t nervous.

As the dozen-odd, variably awake, somewhat nervous group staggered into the main square, a second witch appeared near the other end. With her came the men-boys, technically, at least until later that day.

The two groups formed a pair of ragged lines at the witches’ urgings. Tomohisa snuck in a wave at her, only to be cuffed by one of the magical women. Dork.

They were marched out of the town, towards the cave. The walk was much easier that time-thanks to the well-made road that the Great Witch had completely avoided last time, probably out of some sadistic sense of humor.

The two groups were seated at the base of the cave’s hill (or did it count as a cliff?), kept separate as everyone else trickled into the little field nestled between the hills. Unlike the First Flowering ritual, they weren’t treated as dead-in fact, there was nothing stopping anyone from coming up and talking to them. A few did come up, to give words of encouragement.

Mostly, though, the people just lazed around and enjoyed the morning chill-there would be plenty of time for revelry, later.

First, though, came the witches. They always attracted their fair share of stares. Most of them lived on the fringes of town, maintaining wards and watching out for wraiths. A few still lived in the village, but were mostly nocturnal, spending the night on patrol. It wasn’t unheard of to see one in public in daylight (usually a very tired member of the night patrol, returning from some pursuit), but seeing so many at once was almost unheard of, outside of Walpurgisnacht and the solstices.  

Plus, a lot of them were cute.

Some musicians struck up a lighthearted tune. The witches entered gaily, all but skipping, a few spreading flower petals in their wake. They wore colorful raiments, many accessorized with crowns or jewelry. These were the old gods, wandering the sky in ancient splendor.

More musicians joined, drumming in a hint of discord. Several villagers donned black cloaks and white masks, and pelted the “gods” with “stones” (actually soft-shelled nuts). These were the stars, angry at being outshone by the gods. 

The stars chased the gods around the stage three times, and a cloud of smoke burst from the edge of the field. Once it cleared, the light glinted off of silver and golden figures, the moon and the sun-really the village headwoman and old man Miki, garbed as gaudily as they could manage. The last musicians chimed in, adding a triumphant flair.

The moon strode across the field, ignoring the stars as she climbed upon the stage. The gods rallied around her, and she struck the stage three times with her staff. Where she hit, the “ground” vanished (a panel slid aside by someone waiting underneath), and the gods descended through the opening.

This was her cue. The Great Witch emerged, apparently from behind a twig, and beckoned to the young women. Kazuko, who had never quite calmed down, lept up first and helped Junko to her feet. They started climbing the steps to the cave, trying to maintain some form of dignity. 

She only caught an occasional glimpse of the goings-on below, but she knew the gist from previous years. The sun would wait until the last god was beneath the stage (and the last woman within the cave) before charging the stars, laying about with his shining golden “sword,” typically a rod of softwood, padded and wrapped in yellowish cloth. It was considered an impressive feat to even bruise someone with this, and a sign of good luck, the “stars” cleansed of any hint of corruption from the actual stars.

This would take a while, as every star wanted at least a chance at a bruise. Once that was done, the sun would mount the stage, circling it with the moon, and narrate the creation of the earth. This was considered the best time for a nap.

That done, the moon would depart, and the sun would call for the gods to emerge from the earth. The gods would decline (though she imagined the witches would feel quite cramped by then), shouting up that they did not trust him (remember, the moon was the one to help them in the first place). After several minutes of unrehearsed argument-the sun being encouraged to come up with increasingly unlikely reasons to believe him-the celestial body would turn to the crowd, and ask for volunteers to “bring his light down below, that it may allay their fears.” 

Various villagers would leap to their feet, offering the most ridiculously over the top descriptions of their own strength as possible. Eventually, the boys ready to become men would rise (ideally as one) and announce that they had the greatest strength of all: time.

The sun would pick them, present them with “splinters of his sacred light,” or torches. He would give a long speech on the dangers of the journey, the boys responding with exclamations of fearlessness. Finally, the Great Witch would lead them up the cliff-the only time they would be allowed to enter the cave on their own two feet. Otherwise, they would only leave as babes, and only enter as corpses.

All this she missed, however, as she followed Kazuko into the darkness.

The cave, it was said, showed a different face to every visitor. Several attempts had been made to map it over the years, but in vain. The headman liked to keep the maps themselves up on the wall, in the town meeting hall. Their placement showed quite clearly that none of them were even the same general shape. One was practically a straight walk to the end, with no branching paths, while another showed a dizzying array of tunnels, like a dozen spider webs overlapping each other.

All, however, shared two features: the long ramp-like shaft running down from the surface, called the throat; and the chamber at the deepest point, called the earth-womb. That was their destination, though each of them would take their own path.

This last point was made clear within the first ten steps, when she found that everyone else had disappeared.

“Hello?”

Her own voice echoed back to her, growing more distorted with each repetition. There was no other reply. She took a steadying breath, and set out.

At the end of the throat she found a curving, downward spiral. She cast one last glance at the sun-which really should have been blocked out by the Great Witch’s bulk, but she had disappeared alongside everyone else.

The spiral was long, curved and descended gently. It must have been a minute before she lost direct sight of the entrance. She told herself not to worry-no one had ever been lost down there longer than a week.

As she completed first one revolution, then a second, the sunlight faded more and more, almost coming to nothing. The cave itself seemed to lighten in response-lichen and mushrooms and even crystals glowing in an array of colors-mostly blue and green and yellowish-orange, among rarer reds and violets. The mushrooms were supposed to be safe to eat, though the witches would fuss over anyone that tried them for a while.

Shortly after the third spiral, the tunnel widened into a chamber. At this point, her experience gave out. In her First Flowering ritual, the spiral had brought her directly to the Earth-womb. Here, though, was a cavern that-while impressive-lacked the tangible sacredness of the deepest point. While crystals glowed on the ceiling like distant stars, Junko only allowed herself a brief moment to appreciate the view. 

From that point, she could see no less than five more exits. Remembering a scrap of lore, mentioned in passing in the frenzied lead-up to the event, she went for the leftmost opening.

She was, soon enough, thoroughly lost. Tunnel after twisting tunnel, caves great and small, shafts that seemed to descend for eternity, they all presented themselves in turn. Once, she found a little chamber with a dozen exits-all of which led back to the same room. Another time, she walked down a tunnel only to find it corkscrewing violently, a bit of backtracking revealed that it circled around another tunnel, leading to the same point.

Sometimes two or more tunnels would converge outside of the wider caves, and once she found a series of caves connected by tunnels so short as to be deep doorways.

Once she left a cavern with five exits, found a dead end, and returned to find it only had two-and neither were the one she came from.

She tried not to let this get to her. She knew that the cave liked to…play. No one, as far as the memory of her people went, had ever died down there-at least, no one who was not already dying on the surface. She tried not to imagine how much time might stretch back beyond their collective memory.

Still, she trudged on. 

As a girl-almost-woman, Junko’s first trip to the Earth-womb (as opposed to her first trip out of it, after birth) had been short and mundane. She’d walked a few minutes, meditated in the cave like she was supposed to, and then wandered around, looking out for spirits. None had shown themselves, and she was back up to the surface within the hour, or so she had felt.

As a proper woman, her second trip down was proving much longer, but just as lacking in the supernatural. There were no wizened crones asking after her great-grandmother, no dragon-spiders inviting her to tea, no earth-trolls challenging her to riddles, not even a simple animal to claim as a totem. Just rock and dirt and lichen and mushrooms and crystals. She honestly felt a little cheated, where was the magic and wonder that so filled her childhood stories.

“Aren’t I supposed to meet a spirit down here or something?”

Her voice echoed back to her.

“I don’t know, are you?”

Her screams echoed for miles.

Tomohisa looked up, frowning. Caught between boy and man, he held his torch tight.

“Junko?”

Madoka cocked her head.

“Wait, was that mom? Shouldn’t she be back in town?”

The spirit did little to hide its amusement, the crow cackling from its perch on a somewhat blunt stalagmite.

Junko grit her teeth, but remembered her childhood stories.

“Greetings, wise-one,” she began, pushing herself to continue as the bird’s laughter deepened, “I come…searching for…your wis-oh just, fuck you.”

A small corner of her mind started gibbering in terror at the thought that she’d just insulted a spirit that could very well be older than the physical world. The rest of her was satisfied by the  abrupt end of its laughter. The bird looked at her for a moment…then started laughing again.

Junko bristled, but the crow seemed to calm itself, laughter dwindling into a mere chuckle. Its eyes, she noticed, glowed a sharp violet.

“Forgive me, Junko-of-Mitakihara,” of course it knew her name, “It has been a long time since I’ve met a human so…interesting.” 

She decided to file that as a compliment. Anger fading and shock well worn away, she found herself staring at it. A bird that could talk was weird, yes, but the unreal part was how it stared at her. She could almost feel the thoughts beyond its eyes.

“No forgiveness is necessary…wise one.” That last one was a question, more than anything else.

“Ah,” it nodded “I am Bringer-of-fire.”

Shit. She’d just insulted a god.

The people of Mitakihara recognized many kinds of spirits and gods, the line between the two sometimes vague. There were the Sun and Moon, of course, and the ever-jealous stars. There were the old gods, for whom the earth was made, and all of humankind descended from. 

Spirits were generally weaker, but closer, and more urgent to appease-the spirit of a mountain was much more likely to take offense at human actions than the distant sun. The wraiths were the most obvious incarnation of this rule, twisted spirits of the dead, corrupted by starlight’s baleful gaze. 

Bringer-of-fire was of another class entirely. 

In ancient days, the story went, animal spirits roamed the earth bodiless, devouring each other for strength and sustenance, driven mad by starlight. The old gods, still declining into human mortality, fought in vain against these frenzied hordes.

All along the sun watched, wary. He held off the stars as much he could, but even he needed rest, and humanity suffered in the night. One night, he asked the moon for council. The myths are silent on the precise nature of this discussion, but the effects were felt the next day.

He proclaimed, wherever his light touched, to give a shard of his own divinity to whoever proffered a solution to this problem. That night, the moon offered much the same.

All throughout the earth, beings of all stripes came forward, with ideas simple or grand. All failed, save one.

Animal spirits who lived underground were safe from the stars’ curse, and from the Great Cave crawled a serpent. Wise and cunning, their solution was deceptively simple: it rolled around in wet clay, then waited for it to harden. In the morning, they addressed the sun, showing that their mind was still sound.

The sun was not impressed. The moon, however, was, and granted the serpent their reward. This was how animal spirits came to have bodies. This only worked for so long, however, explaining the sun’s dissatisfaction.

Into this scene came the cave-crow, spirit flying without a care.

“How can you do this?” Asked the sun, amazed.

The crow whispered into the sun’s ear. There was a great silence then, as only happens when grave matters are being contemplated.

The story got a bit vague around then, but the sun gave the crow a bit of himself. The crow then carried this to the humans, gaining the name Bringer-of-fire.

That this story conflicted with the story of the festival going on on the surface was not unnoticed. The witches, if pressed, would say that both were true nonetheless.

Junko, to her credit, gave no outward sign of dismay at the realization that she’d just said “fuck you” to someone who was, presumably, literally carrying around a bit of the sun.

The crow, for her part, released a half-hearted chuckle. For form’s sake. 

Silence reigned for a moment, as Junko tried to figure out what to say next. Finally, deciding to take the plunge:

“So…am I a witch now?”

It seemed as likely as not. The main point of the ritual was to give young women one more chance at witchood. Meeting a proper spirit in the cave meant witchdom more often than not. Meeting an actual god-few witches could claim that, fewer still non-witches.

The crow ruffled its wings in the vague impression of a shrug.

“You have a little talent, not much. You could be passable, if you put in the effort.”

Something about the bird’s tone felt…off.

“Are you saying that I’m a witch or not?” The bird didn’t seem to care if she was polite or not, so why should she?

“Do you want to be?”

“No.”

Junko blinked. She hadn’t even thought about it.

“I should, though, for the good of the-”

Something surprisingly close to a roar came from the small bird, the cavern suddenly feeling quite a bit warmer. Junko stepped back, thinking oh yeah, god-bird .

The moment passed as suddenly as it came, the crow looking sheepish.

“Mitakihara has witches enough. Women dedicated to their craft, trained in it. Do not let a sense of duty chain you to a life of misery.”

There was a flash of light, and the god was gone. 

“Junko?’

“Fuck!”

She spun around, ready for a fight, only to see a wide-eyed Tomohisa standing behind her.

“How long were you there?’

“Just long enough to see a god yelling at you.”

“Great.”

Once she got over the whole fire-bird incident, Junko realized where she was-the Earth-womb itself. This was odd, as she distinctly remembered meeting the bird in a tunnel.

At this point, she was technically supposed to sit and meditate until she either saw a spirit, or one of the boys-becoming-men came to fetch her. With both tasks completed in spades, she gave the Earth-womb a jaunty bow and headed out as quickly as she could drag Tomohisa.

The path back was, naturally, much shorter than the way down, and she recognized none of the landmarks along the way.

Tomohisa said that he had only been in there for an hour at most, yet the day was nearly done when they arrived at the top of the cliff, the last ones to exit.

The festival was still going strong-the day had passed in music and dancing, games and sport, competitions of all kinds, storytelling and jokes, and nearly every amusement they had under the sun.

They arrived in time for the feast.

The others were doubtful at first, when Tomohisa said that they had seen a god. This suspicion flew away once they clarified that said god had “yelled at her, and dispensed life advice.” That, people concluded, was just like a god (and was much less prestigious than meeting one on better terms, though it still gave Junko a fair bit of cachet-not everyone rated a god's personal scolding). 

Someone suggested a second feast, to celebrate the appearance of a god, and suddenly the last doubters were clapping her on the back and congratulating her on her blessed status.

Oh, yeah, she was technically some kind of saint now. Because a god had both laughed at and yelled at her. Some witches had even cornered her and made her spill every last detail she could recall, writing furiously.

The Great Witch, oddly, was nowhere to be found-she normally loomed in the background of major spiritual events.

When the eating-and interrogating-was done, the elaborate stage was deconstructed (the witches had left when the first pair emerged from the cave, after a good five minutes), formed into a pile, and-save for the section deemed most well made, in this case carved with The Ringed Maiden-burnt in a great bonfire.

The new men celebrated their change of status, a new witch was ushered into a circle of her seniors, and the fire burned, a daring taunt to the ever-glaring stars.

Junko thought she saw a shape fly out of the fire, and decided that it was a good time to get drunk.

It was a good few years before she approached the cave again, at least with any intent to enter it. This time she was carried in a wagon. Tomohisa and Kazuko accompanied her again, along with the Great Witch.

There was a mechanism hidden in the brush. A sort of platform, attached to a counterweight. A wave of the witch’s hands set several large stones on the counterweight, and it lifted them all up the cliff. 

Her marriage had been held at the base of the cliff-only witches had to enter it, for their marriages.

Tomohisa stood vigil at the top, bare-chested, spear in hand. He looked ridiculous-he was a herbalist, not a warrior or hunter, though he received the same basic training as everyone else. Still, tradition was tradition, and this one seemed harmless (at least, outside of winter).

The Great Witch led the way down, Kazuko trailing behind with a basket of supplies, Junko in the middle.

The walk was, of course, short and easy, the Earth Womb directly at the end of the Throat. They settled her on a-surprisingly comfy-stone bed, and waited.

The Great Witch very carefully did not stare at a corner. The crow in the corner very carefully ignored the former. Both turned to her.

Some hours later, Kazuko helped her up the Throat. Junko was very much appreciative of the witch’s magic, allowing her to walk at all, so soon after her ordeal.

As she stepped out onto the cliff, Tomohisa turned, his face a mask of worry. She held up the bundle in her arms.

“Madoka.”

Mitakiharan Rites 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Propheteering 6 Next>>

Homura, to be clear, was not a prophet. She was just someone with a special relationship to, and knowledge of, a being who lived on a higher plane, and could rewrite the universe in her own image. Someone who felt duty-bound to watch over Her world, and naturally found herself speaking on Madoka’s grace, of her sacrifice and salvation.

She just happened to have girls traveling from across the country-and, increasingly, foreign countries-to hear her presumed wisdom.

…

Fuck, she was a prophet.

Her new revelation made it awkward, the next time she spoke to strangers with an interest in Madoka. Preaching to potential converts, she now realized.

At first, the careful poise she’d developed proved elusive. The little public speaking techniques she’d picked up deserted her, as the context she’d learned them for turned out to be false. Then a thought occurred to her: why shouldn’t they worship Her?

That night’s sermon was especially passionate.

In the warehouse-turned-cathedral, but also as far away as could be, one Miki Sayaka, personal “secretary” to the law of cycles, held up her camera and hit record. This was going straight to her “blackmail” folder.

Some things became a lot easier, once she admitted that she had a growing religion on her hands. A proper understanding allows for better preparation, and she many years of experience with trying to achieve precisely the right effect-mostly with trying to impress Madoka, but some skills carried over. 

The faith grew, bit by bit, life after death being a particularly appealing concept to those likely to die young. Homura soon found herself struggling to keep up, the sole shepard to an ever-growing, geographically dispersed flock. She learned how to use Skype and a half-dozen alternatives.

Then she had an idea.

Maruyama Miwa ruled her domain nearly unchallenged. Nearly every magical girl in the city had learned at her feet, or were taught in turn by those who had. It was probably as close to being a grandmother any magical girl was likely to get.

By the standards of dictators, she was positively gentle-her only demand was to respect the neutrality of her bar. The little bits of tribute she received weren't her idea-someone had got it in her head that it was a good idea, and everyone else followed suit, unquestioning. It was almost annoying.

On one particular day, the building was all but empty-her assistant was puttering around in the back somewhere, and a couple of magical girls-possibly a literal couple, considering some general trends she’d noticed-were talking quietly in the corner.

She was reaching for her book of sudoku puzzles when the door opened. The air seemed to crackle, the quiet of a lazy afternoon replaced with the silence of anticipation. The couple in the corner turned, both staring openly. 

Miwa allowed herself a brief glance at the little shrine in the other corner, reassuring herself that it was in decent shape. While not typically one to stand on ceremony, she’d rather not tempt fate when eternal salvation was at stake.

The Prophet of Cycles, as some were calling her, walked with the same easy grace that she’d seen in any real veteran of their war with the wraiths-she saw it in the mirror often enough. There was something beyond that, though. Even before that revelation, Akemi Homura had carried-something. Some hint of knowledge in her eyes, and beyond that, an intangible taste of something, as if God herself watched her every move.

Madoka was, at that moment, rubbing her cheek against Homura’s thigh. She may have been drooling a little.

Miwa was about to open her mouth in greeting when the prophet spoke.

“Hey, barlady, want to become an apostle?”

What.

Maruyama was, in some ways, a very obvious choice.

On a practical level, she was a local leader, and proprietor of an establishment that already attracted magical girls-her religions key, practically only, demographic. On a more theological level, she was among the first group to hear what, Homura supposed, was her divine revelation, and also hosted the first shrine (outside of Homura’s personal one, which was meant more for mourning than worship). 

On a personal level, she felt a degree of respect to the older (younger, with time travel) woman. She had a certain sense of “I’ve seen some shit” radiating off of her. 

It wasn’t much of a ceremony-not that either of them really thought of it as such. In the future, their successors would come up with all sorts of rites and rituals and ceremonies-some were in the process of being born, even then. But not quite yet-those were the days of raw faith, when the prophet yet walked and everything was new.

They went to a side room-it would feel wrong to just do it in the middle of the bar, even in those days. They were brushing up against greatness, and even primeval man had felt a need to seperate the sacred and the profane.

Madoka, lost in her own little world, breathed in the scent of Homura’s hair. What was supposed to be sacred, again?

Maruyama kneeled on the ground-that felt somehow appropriate-with Homura standing behind her. She thought about saying something to mark the occasion, but came up blank.

All she knew was that she couldn’t trust Madoka’s legacy to anyone but herself-or someone with a bit of herself.

She rested her hand, fingers splayed, on the other woman’s head, and pushed.

Miwa gasped. Her mind was pink .

Pink hair. Soft to the touch, sweet to her nose. Gently caressed or roughly seized. Pure and perfect or dirty and matted or sullied with mud and blood.

Pink eyes, staring with joy or pity or sorrow or guilt or admiration or fear or mischief or determination or lo-or blank.

Pink lips-

Pink light: brilliant arrows piercing the wicked, the flash of teleportation, a rune spanning the sky, a brilliance beyond mere light-

She saw a girl kill herself out of the most selfless selfishness. She saw a goddess claiming her throne. She saw her beloved leaving her behind.

She collapsed, an instant after Homura’s hand touched her. She fell a woman, but when she rose-there stood something more.

Madoka frowned. She (reluctantly) pulled herself off of Her Homura, drifting towards the other woman. She sniffed.

Odd. Why did her soul smell like Homura’s, just a little?

The question so distracted her that she didn’t struggle when Nagisa came to collect her, muttering about useless goddesses.

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Chapter Text

Linked Destinies 1 Next>>

A shadow came from the desert.

It was less than a shadow, at first-more a memory of shade, the rare passerby might get a vague sense that it should have been colder and darker, and that was a common enough thought in the desert day (though this thought, unlike those, could be felt in the marrow). 

It grew. Every day it seemed to suck in more of the sun, steal light and heat from the world. Every night it wandered, a hunger it could never sate driving it forth. It came across a desert rat, left a pile of bones, and found it wanting. 

Soon, it left the nights of rats behind.

There was a shrine, a formerly hallowed place that once hosted great power-now more a memory of power. The shade, now more than a memory of itself, devoured it, tasted the wind’s sharp edge. 

There were people outside. A priestess and her-guard? Guide? Attendant?

The ever-hungry shadow crept forth, a slightly darker patch of air or ground, a silent howl, a surging stillness.

Then it stopped.

The second woman had approached the first, placed her hand on her shoulder. They spoke, words the shade felt as only vibrations, yet they cut through it regardless. Something about their easy companionship called to it. 

Then they kissed.

Something broke within the shade. Something else healed inside it. A memory was only supposed to feel hunger-and perhaps it still did, just a new type of it.

The shade crept away. It needed to feed.

A shadow came from the desert. It slid along the dunes and dripped down gullies, neither glaring sun nor grinning moon dissuading it from its path.

It came across a rope bridge across a chasm, and found that it could not cross-the gaps between the boards just large enough for its body to slip through. So it dropped down and climbed up the other side-such is the strength and limitations of its fluid form.

The shade now found itself gliding atop soil and stone, with little patches of grass appearing with increasing frequency. Then it rounded a bend.

Green. Green almost as far as its (eyes?) could see. A vast field of rolling hills, cut by a lazily winding river. Great mountains in the distance, one towering above the rest, fuming in fiery rage. A forest, fuzzy greenery at the edge of its vision. But mostly just the field, dotted with a few little hamlets-and there, looming ahead, a mighty castle overlooking a great town.

Some previously suppressed part of the shade started murmuring questions. Why was so much land left fallow? Surely such a big settlement required a thick belt of farms.

The shade decided that this voice was largely irrelevant, and set off for the castle.

The castle was, in truth, a town in its own right. Long gone are its days as a fortress-the castle town, more a small city, was itself walled, and while the castle remained a formidable redoubt, centuries had passed since it was last needed.

Instead, it fulfilled the many other roles a castle may have. Barracks, seat of government, symbol of might, home.

Squads of servants and brigades of bureaucrats rushed here and there, watched over by the actual guards. 

Some section, of course, were more exclusive than others-the royal residences being one of them. This was a compound within a compound, only the most trusted servants and guards allowed within. 

In this sanctum was a garden (several, in fact), and this was where the shade found Her.

Madoka looked up from the flowerbed (lilies, of course), and stared into a corner. Was someone there? Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed that the shadow of a tree was much deeper than it should be-and almost humanoid in shape.

She suddenly remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.

She kept it to herself, the rest of the day, trying to ignore how evey shadow felt like it had eyes.

That night, she stayed awake, staring at her door. Her eyes snapped to a window-there was a silhouette on it, on the inside. It slid down the wall, along the floor, up to her bed.

It was-warm.

Footsteps echoed within the ancient temple. The sage felt the weight of destiny on his old bones-the prophesied time was upon them, and it fell to him, out of a line of sages going back to primeval times, to advise the hero foretold. 

The footsteps stopped, though their echoes carried on. He turned.

She was much…bluer than he had imagined.

Her voice carried only a hint of the hesitation she must have felt. “Hey, the princess has been kidnapped. Someone said I should talk to you?”

Interesting-it seemed that she was still unaware of her part in all this. Well, it wasn’t his place to inform her-not yet, at least.

He cleared his throat, then consulted the ancient texts:

Need to test a potential hero, but don’t have time to put together an ancient trial of power? Too busy sharing the wisdom of age to think up clever puzzles? Or are you just looking to whip up a quick test of courage? 

Never fear, Generica corp is here! 

With our triple-patented QuestQrawler (™) technology, all you need to do is enter a few bits of information, and our automated systems will produce an appropriate quest for you (dungeons, boss fights, loot, and actual tests of heroism will also be generated for premium subscribers).

The old sage fiddled with the packaging, and pulled out a slip of parchment. He coughed.

“Ah, yes, you see-”

“Oh brave [applicant’s name here],” he paused, wondering whether or not he was actually supposed to read that part out loud, “in order to [achieve heroic goal(s)], you must first:”

Step 1: verb

First letter of given name:

“...spirit the…”

Step 2: number of objects/tasks

For the last digit in the current year (or hero-candidate’s birth year):

If 0-3: roll 1d3 + digit

If 4-7: use digit

If 8-9: roll 1d10

Leap year bonus: add 1d4

“...five…”

“Why did you need to roll a die there?”

“Divination.”

Step 3: adjective

By the hero-candidate’s birth month:

“...Spiritual…”

Step 4: noun

By hero-candidate’s birth day:

“...Spirits.”

There came a moment of silence.

“The fuck?”

“Oh brave Miki Sayaka, in order to rescue princess Madoka, you must first Spirit the five Spiritual Spirits.”

…

“Again, the fuck?"

At that point the air *dinged*, and a scroll appeared in front of her.

Thank you premium user, all dungeons have been generated. Presenting map.

The sage and hero candidate stared at one another. “Just take that map and go.”

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Chapter Text

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Excerpt from the journal Anthropology.

Witches and Wild Hunts: Magic and Priesthood among the Mitakiharans

Tomoe Mami

The Mitakiharan people, and especially their religious specialists, have received a fair bit of interest from the general public recently. Now, they are an interesting people in their own right, but it seems clear that this attention is the result of an extremely popular novel of lurid adventure set, supposedly, in their lands. As with most works of popular fiction, it is also a load of bull.

As one of the few people fortunate enough to have spent a great deal of time with them, over the course of several ethnographic studies, I feel the need to address the relative lack of scientific literature on the subject.

Note that this is only meant as a brief overview, more detailed accounts will have to wait for the rest of my team to publish their accounts. As we’re the first group to engage in a serious anthropological study of the Mitakiharans, most of my references will be to them as well.

Now, the main subject of public fascination is the group of magico-religious specialists, the Mitakiharan Witches, but before we can get to them, we should discuss their overall religion and worldview.

First, though, a brief introduction to the Mitakiharan people. They are an isolated group, mostly confined to a single village. Their government form is considered a chiefdom rather than a tribe, with a degree of specialization and social stratification. They have only recently started to make regular contact with the outside world, thanks to yearly caravans to the border town of Kamihama-before this, they mostly used the neighboring Kazamino tribe as intermediaries.

Their priesthood is primarily composed of women, though men tend to inherit more material wealth on average (witches normally don’t inherit much, being considered somewhat above such things; non-witch women inherit roughly as much as the men).

These are, of course, shaped by the ever-present danger of wraiths, much like any other culture group. Their answer to the wraith question (theologically speaking) is to blame the stars, glaring eyes of heavenly jealousy. This has interesting knock-on effects, like burying their dead in caves and taking pains to make sure that no animals are left out beneath the stars (near the village, at least-they can hardly be expected to comb their entire territory every day).
Outside of the stars, they also acknowledge a vast array of gods and spirits. These include other celestial bodies and figures (the sun, moon, and milky way),genus loci (spirits of mountains, caves, rivers, and individual plants), and animal spirits. Ancestors may be gods or spirits, depending on the individual.

Gods are distinguished from spirits by not only degree, but action and relationship with humans. First, gods are greater than an individual spirit. Second, gods are (or were) active forces, whereas spirits are reactive. Third, where spirits are appeased, gods are worshiped.

For instance, a mountain spirit is unlikely to act up unless someone offends it, whereas a mountain god could get offended on their own initiative. Furthermore, every god (save perhaps the ancestor gods) has to have performed at least one major, purposeful act, like teaching the secrets of fire or creating the earth.

This panoply of supernatural beings create a rich and varied cosmology-and requires specialists and semi-specialists to keep track of, let alone deal with them.

Semi-specialists are individuals that mostly live secular lives, but may be relied on for magical/religious tasks in certain circumstances. These include the headman/woman, the elder(s), spirit/god-touched, and much of the general population.

While several of the oldest Mitakiharans may form a circle of elders, only the oldest is the elder. As a whole, they serve to choose and advise the head(wo)man, engage in rituals to appease important spirits, and (from first-hand experience) complain. Their leader, unhelpfully called “the elder,” is trusted with the knowledge of certain secret rituals, though details are hard to come across.

The head(wo)man is their main secular leader-duties include settling disputes, negotiating with outsiders, organizing larger work efforts, etc. Their role in rituals is largely symbolic-they aren’t actually considered to have magical power, but some Mitakiharans say that they’re the only one in the village, aside from the elder, appropriate to depict certain major gods, such as the moon.

The spirit/god-touched are, as the name suggests, non-witches that have had considerable contacts with spirits or gods. To be considered spirit-touched, an individual has to display repeated contact with at least one major spirit, or several minor ones (the precise line between major and minor spirits seems to be a matter of some debate) over an extended time period.
The god-touched, meanwhile, only need to have a single encounter.

They are often consulted on matters related to their spirit, spirits, or gods, and sometimes supersede even witches on specific religious matters. A few have even gained enough followers to become full-time specialists, as a form of shaman or medium. Today’s Mitakihara boasts two spirit-touched and one god-touched, though only one of the former is full-time.

Finally, much of the general population has some knowledge of rituals, medicines, or spells.

Most Mitakiharans know some form of divination, such as throwing bones or dice, a form of tarot (the latter two seem to have seeped in from outside), and the study of animals-ornithomancy (reading the flight patterns of birds) and apantomancy (interpreting chance encounters with animals, such as a black cat crossing your path). These last two are considered the most reliable, as they require the least human input. Divination is actually considered quite unreliable, more entertaining than enlightening, though an individual with a history of accurate divinations can become quite influential.

Beyond divination, there are a number of common rituals and widespread bits of spiritual knowledge.

Curses are seen as the baleful influence of starlight, so nighttime travel is considered especially dangerous, beyond the obvious issue of sight. Everyone, as far as I can tell, learns to dab a bit of ash behind their ears before they go out in the dark (most witches don’t seem to bother though). If they are caught out without this ash, the average villager will immediately seclude themselves in a ritual hut (several are maintained in a ring around the edge of the village, with one set aside for female coming-of-age rituals and the rest fulfilling general purposes) and fast for a short period, until a witch makes a round of the huts and performs a counter-curse.

Several types of medicine are known to the average Mitakiharan. Some are seen as almost fully mechanistic, like applying a wet cloth to a fevered forehead, but most are seen as at least partially magical in function. A type of local flower-a cousin of roses, named “Anthony” for reasons that no one seems to recall-is often steeped in tea to counteract migraines, which are thought of as one’s spirit trying to leave the body. Many such cures are common knowledge, though most are the secrets of herbalists.

Finally, many common tasks have some form of ritual associated with them-some of these are in widespread use, while others are limited to (otherwise non-religious) specialists or even family lines. For instance, it is important to pacify the spirit of a tree through a ritual
before chopping it down, with said ritual being known among a few families. Non-relatives who wish to learn it generally have to provide a number of gifts to the family head, and enter into a sort of apprenticeship.

Another aspect of religion available to the general populace is the totem. It is fairly common for them to encounter spirits as part of a few different rituals. In the case of an animal (or, less commonly, plant) spirit, they will adopt its form as a totem. There’s a strong taboo against killing one’s totem creature (though some interviewed witches have opined that it’s allowable in extreme cases, such as starvation, though at the cost of a period of penitence), but they are thought to act as guardian spirits, bringing fortune and protection in exchange for reverence and offerings.

Totem spirits tend to be passed down to children, unless and until they encounter a spirit themselves. According to local lore, some totems have lasted as many as ten generations-either because of a lack of new totems, or because a descendent of the original totem-finder encountered the same spirit or type of spirit again.

Specialists include herbalists, mediums, and witches.

Herbalists are straightforward. Their knowledge of plant life makes them crucial for some rituals, which can require specific plants. They also interact with some nature spirits on a regular basis, prompting them to learn several rituals. Finally, they’re also responsible for most forms of healing that a given villager can’t take care of themselves. Men with magical potential tend to become herbalists and/or mediums.

Mediums are, as previously mentioned, spirit-touched individuals who become full-time religious specialists. It is worth noting that the Mitakiharans themselves do not have a specific word for these, simply calling them spirit-touched like their part-time counterparts. The word “medium” is used in the common anthropologic sense, as religious specialists that contact spirits through several types of divination, often including deliberate possession.

These individuals can obtain small cults, treating them as a direct link to their spirit, spirits, or god. Sometimes these movements spring up around very reluctant mediums. The only current god-touched individual has complained, during an interview, about the “damn bird-botherers,” and their tendency to interrupt her business (the god she’s associated with being a crow).

Now, at last, we get to the actual subject of our discussion: witches (and myths regarding them).

Witches are an all-woman group of full-time religious specialists with a variety of ceremonial and practical duties. They are healers and diviners, though most Mitakiharans only approach them after performing their own divinations and medicines, or consulting a herbalist. They are keepers of knowledge, with most of the less commonly told myths being held within their memories (or, more recently, their book collection), along with a great deal of more mundane knowledge. They act as intermediaries with gods and spirits, especially for those not associated with a spirit-touched.

Their primary duties, however, revolve around curse breaking, purification, and magical combat. Curse breaking is what it sounds like-if any Mitakiharan believes themselves to be cursed, then they will usually isolate themselves until a witch comes (usually within a day). Purification rites take place when a location is considered cursed or corrupted, or before some major rituals. Finally, magical combat takes place every night, for obvious reasons.

Witches show traits common to priests, shamans, and magicians. Like priests, they form an organized, somewhat hierarchical alignment of religious specialists. Like shamans, they can control or negotiate with (some) spirits. Like magicians, they have personal magical authority separate from the spiritual realm.

Witches occupy a quite high social position, while at the same time being relatively isolated. Most of them sleep for much of the day, saving energy for their nightly patrols. Many live at the fringes of the village, acting as a sort of defensive cordon. This is the traditional arrangement, at least. More of them can be seen in the village during the day in recent times, a trend that demands additional research.

Witches are considered above many social conventions, and even taboos. They can marry any willing adult, regardless of other factors, and can even take multiple spouses (their fellow Mitakiharans are largely monogamous). They can kill their totem creature without need for repentance, ignore ritual fasts, and even steal from the villagers. Most of them do not do any of these things, however.

Now for some myth-busting.

No, they are not sheltered girls, eager for foreign men to teach them the ways of love, nor are they part of some sort of vast sapphic polycule-

Mami looked up from her typewriter and bit her lip. Images came to her unbidden, memories of her time among the Mitakiharans. She made a change to her draft.

…nor are they most of them part of some sort of vast sapphic polycule.

They do not kidnap children-though witch training can begin at a young age, and they may be kept in isolation for some parts of it. They do not, as a rule, engage in cannibalism. Sex magic is not a common occurance, and what little there is revolves around established relationships, not wild orgies.

And for the last time, no, they aren’t satanists just because they live by a portal to hell.

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Madoka awoke with luxurious langor, warm and soft and encased in shadow. Normally she would expect to be swept up by a bevy of ladies-in-waiting, along with handmaidens to do any actual work, getting her washed and dressed and all that. It wasn’t the worse way to wake up, all things considered. She counted several of those girls as friends, and getting dressed and receiving the latest bits of gossip before she was even awake had its advantages.

Still, she clung to her sleep-warmth as well as she could. She couldn’t recall ever being more comfortable, and she knew that she would be pulled out of it any moment.

Any moment now…

Sayaka adjusted her grip on her sword-it used to be her uncle’s, the mermaid emblem on the crossguard echoing the larger, more detailed coat-of-arms emblazoned on her shield. She came from a long line of knights, direct vassals to the royal family since time immemorial. She carried not only her weapons, but knowledge itself, a song of service and heroism out of the hazy past.

This song echoed in her head as she squared off against her enemy. One of the many servants of The Enemy, it resembled a sort of soldier, tin body clutching an odd-looking spear. Its red-rimmed eyes scanned her, searching for weaknesses. It would find none.

Her ancestral song reached a crescendo, and Sayaka struck. The spear threatened to intercept and impale her, but her arms moved in tune to a beat older than the mountains, sweeping the point aside and guiding her blade forward.

Tin was no match for steel.

The song faded, but never quite went away. She found herself humming as she prepared to leave.

Madoka huffed. She couldn’t have woken up all that early, could she have? A soft chuckle came from in front of her, the voice unplaceable yet familiar. Was this some kind of joke? The thought was almost, but not quite enough to prompt her to open her eyes.

Her skin tingled a moment, before the hand cupped her cheek, warm enough to make her shiver. It moved, brushing through her hair, and Madoka forgot any hint of anger she might have possessed.

The map really was a wonder.

Not only did it show all the kingdom and beyond, with surprising detail at times, but it even seemed to update itself. When a bridge collapsed-sabotaged by a strange doll with a sharp grin-the map had reflected this change. A blinking representation of her face showed her location, making navigation a breeze (she’d still managed to get lost once). Conveniently, it even had the five spirits’ locations marked and ordered with numbers 1 through 5.

She looked up from the map, eyeing the path to the first Spiritual Spirit. It was a giant fuck-off cliff. Joy.

Part of her wanted to simply lay there forever, caressed with the tenderest touch, but something grew in her. Curiosity. Whose fingers were slipping through her hair? Whose breath could she just about feel, tickling at her face? A lady-in-waiting? A servant? Someone completely unexpected? Was there someone she wanted it to be?

Madoka was no fool-now that she was awake (if comfy), she had a pretty good idea what was going on. She remembered the night before, the creeping shadow. The bed felt wrong-it was warm, yes, and soft, but different from her own-the obvious implication was that she’d partaken in the fine royal tradition of kidnapped princesses.

Something niggled at the back of her mind. Something from her endless studies, the wisdom of ages crammed into her head.

Ah. Yes.

She spoke without opening her eyes. “Hello Homura.”

“Hello, my love.” Came a voice from primeval days, speaking with love and remorse and guilt and need.

Sayaka panted at the base of the cliff, mentally cursing all forms of terrain out of spite. As it turned out, climbing off of even somewhat rough rocks walls with your bare hands was far from easy, attested to by the various Sataka-shaped dents in the ground around her.

“Excuse me-.”

Her sword was at his throat in an instant, breaths calm, the song in her heart driving the exhaustion from her limbs.

Merchant. Unarmed, unless you counted the fishing rod. Weighed down by an enormous pack-shouldn’t he have a wagon, if he had so much to carry?

“Woah, hang on now-”

He blinked, and her sword was already back in its scabbard. She turned back to the cliff face, partially to hide her blush. Some destined hero was she, stopped by a rock formation and ambushed by a man wearing a pack three times his size.

He coughed. “I uh-noticed that you were having trouble with the cliff…”

She could salvage her reputation by killing him. No one would ever know-just one more traveler lost to monsters. The thought was strangely comforting, even as it appalled her. The destined hero, while bound by fate, at least had the power to cut their own path through it.

The destined princess had far less agency.

The merchant-that she very definitely had not considered murdering out of embaressment, nosiree-coughed again. He should really get that checked.

“As it happens, I sell a special type of crossbow bolt. Its designed to carry a rope and latch on to just about any surface.”

“I’ll take your entire stock.”

The merchant chuckled, nervous. Fair enough, he did just avoid death by an inch.

“Well, you don’t look like you have a crossbow…”

“And you don’t sell any?” She gave his pack a glare. Really?

“Well, uh, I normally do, but they were stolen by this monster…”

Sayaka straightened (but remained as bi as ever). Now, this sounded like a job for a destined h-well, actually, it sounded like a job for novice adventurers, but she’d take it.

Homura was even prettier than the stories said, all marble skin and ebon hair. Or maybe that was just from the way she looked at Her, affectionate gaze and lovesick smile.

Her smile widened. “You remember?”

Madoka found herself pulled into an embrace, the ever-returning shade all but squishing against her.

“Um-it's more that I was taught?”

“Oh.”

Sayaka stared.

Of course. Of course the thieving monster was hiding out in an honest-to-gods dungeon. The entrance was a gaping maw, staircase leading down into darkness.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

…

“Wait, do I get paid?”

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When pride fell, so did the Devil. A blazing dark star descended from (ironically) the heavens, the crash of impact echoing for miles.

The patrol marched by, dark spears glinting in the hands of tin soldiers, tooth-riders glaring haughtily from the flanks. A small cloud of Liese circled overhead, cawing incessantly. They, and countless others like them, prowled Mitakihara and the surrounding lands-she could see other clouds of Liese in the distance.

Whose soldiers were they? Were they loyal to Ai, Ibari, Noroma, or Yakimochi? Mayhaps they were the combined forces of several others (for those four commanded the largest contingents of familiars, though Nekura might match them if she could bear to pull hearse away from her toys). Perhaps they were wild, masterless familiars, banding together for whatever reason suited them. Maybe they were even Homu’s own, the rare few that actually listened to their self-defeating mistress. 

It all looked like far too much effort.

Namake lounged in a hammock, stringed up between two trees. The tin soldiers didn’t so much as glance at her, the Liese ignored her presence, even the Lisa were blind to her. Probably for the best-she didn’t care to get swept up in whatever nonsense they were getting up to this time.

She sipped at a margarita, not because she liked it, but because it looked like the thing to do.

She vaguely wondered at what they thought they were doing. It looked like they were searching, but their formation was atrocious-more a marching column than any kind of screen. If whatever they were looking for was off the main roads, they’d end up being a pretty useless effort.

Namake hated wasted effort.

Well, she supposed that the Liese made up for it abit. At least the little parade was giving her free entertainment.

Deciding that sipping at a barely palatable drink was a waste of time and effort, she dropped the Margarita. One of her personal Lilia leapt for it, the tooth’s teeth grinding glass and ice to powder. 

See, now that was how you used a familiar. Clean, efficient, playing to their strengths. You didn’t use them in ways contrary to their nature-and if you had to, you actually made them do it right.

And you definitely didn’t tie up entire aspects of your personality in them, though Namake couldn’t complain about that one too much. Or maybe she could? Nonexistence sounded pretty sweet at times. Easy.

Nekura massaged her temples, porcelain moving as flexibly as skin and flesh under her fingers. Why, oh why, had Ibari gone and gotten herself killed off? Now she was the eldest. Now she was the one who had to deal with the chattering horde of her sisters.

And why were they trusting Yakimochi again? She was the one who kidnapped the Goddess in the first place, were they really supposed to believe that She’d been kidnapped from Her kidnapper? She’d assume that they were bullshitting, if Noroma weren’t too damn stupid to fool (and if Usotsuki didn’t say not to trust them-she honestly could have kissed the liar, for being actually useful).

She slammed her hand against Ibari’s table, getting the bickering dolls to turn to her. And immediately start shouting again. 

Wagamama, Ibari ?

The selfish one twisted in her chair, looking down at the ground.

Still dead. Man, that really is a lot of pieces. I didn’t even know that we had brains. I wonder if-

Thank you, sister. 

Nekura sighed. She wasn’t getting out of this anytime soon.

Reiketsu, any news?

And so Nekura gradually descended (deeper) into madness. Warukuchi’s grin was sharp as ever.

Namake wandered the city, bored as ever. Walking was always a chore, but she moved as efficiently as possible, making it a bit less so.

The marching patrols were amusing at first, but now they just felt kinda sad, like a dog that kept running into a glass door. She’d caught glimpses of other patrols, spread out in a proper search formation. Why were these so bad?

Something tickled at the back of her mind, the ghost of a suspicion. Maybe they were trying not to find something. 

She stopped, her blank face pulled into her kind’s trademark smirk. Sounded like something interesting was at foot. Finally.

Now, if she was trying not to find something, and was surrounded by groups that were actually looking for it, how would she go about not getting to it?

She started walking again five seconds later.

Madoka was, above all else, confused.

First she got kidnapped by RiceCake-chan, which was unexpected (she’d thought that the girl would be like her sisters, living up to her name, and probably obsessed with cooking). That was fine-well, not fine, but she’d felt like she could deal with it. The girl would probably calm down after a hug or heapat, if her sisters were anything to go by.

She was not, however, prepared for the second shock of the day-Sayaka somersaulting through the door, dressed up in some kind of anime knight cosplay, complete with cape and sword. A sword, mind you, that was quite sharp, judging by how it slid through the ropes binding her. It was pretty irresponsible for her to go around performing acrobatics while holding a sharp blade (or so thought the girl who had once broken through a window while rappelling down a helicopter).

Also, since when did Sayaka have a sword?

Namake was not stealthy by dint of effort. She was, however, quite good at walking while producing a minimum of sound or bouncy movement-both were signs of waste, as far as she was concerned.

So, her target-whoever those familiars were trying so hard to not find-was completely unawares as she walked up to their hiding place.

“...I don’t get it. Why are we avoiding the tin soldiers?”

That was-Mado. Namake froze, still as only an unliving being can be. She was a statue, stopped in time as readily as if Homu had pulled out her shield.

What was Akemi Homura’s standard of laziness?

What was Sloth to someone who kept to a single goal for well over a decade?

Namake was a whisper in her ear, the eternal temptation to lay down and rest. The call to set aside one time loop-a mere month and a half-to unwind. To spend some time with Madoka, to remind herself what she was fighting for.

It was a sickeningly persuasive argument. What was forty-six days to someone who could set back the clock? How tempting was a moment’s rest to someone who was soo, soo tired?

But Homura was always immune to reason, where Madoka was concerned-she needed to be. A reasonable person might give up, or give in. They might try to move on, live a life without Madoka, accept that death came for everyone at some point.

A reasonable person would not have created a goddess, only to overthrow Her.

So every ounce of reason was purged from her, alongside genuine sins and foibles. Namake was born of her sloth, yes-but also her reason.

“Are you kidding Madoka? Do you want to get caught?”

That voice was also familiar. Saya, one of Her “secretaries.” A formidable foe. Namake could take on a regular magical girl readily enough, back when Homu was merely a witch. As one of the devil’s strongest familiars, she could trade blows with the best.

Saya, though, for all her faults, very much was among the best-especially if she was in her self-assured servant-of-the-goddess mode. Hopefully she didn’t remember. Saya was no easy opponent-this could get ugly, especially if she remembered everything.

Did Mado remember? No-She was too nervous, lacked the quiet confidence of her divine self. 

“Uh-”

“I swear to-well, you, you have no sense of self-preservation.”

She remembered. At least Mado definitely didn’t. 

Information gathered, Namake stepped forward.

“Wait, you swear to wh-oh. Hello, you must be Namake-chan.”

“Get back!”

“Wait-Saya-”

The magical girl surged forward, sabers in hand-not quite attacking yet, trying to read her moves. Standing still was the best possible option-it would confuse her, make her wary…but not for long.

Her pin-spear pierced the ground, as Namake slid on one knee.

My lady, I trust that you are well ?

“Uhh…what?”

Mado curtsied, playing up to Namake’s vaguely courtly manners.

“Why yes Namake-chan I’m fine, and of course Sayaka will apologize for her aggression.”

“Hey, wait a-”

Mado glared, a hint at the being that became the goddess peeking through.

“...Sorry.”

The three stood (or kneeled) for a moment. 

“So…now what?"

<<Previous Familiarity 10 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Linked Destinies 3 Next>>

Dungeons sucked.

Sayaka wasn’t sure why a word for a specific kind of prison was also used for a (often ruined, or at least abandoned) compound full of traps, monsters, treasure, and random puzzles that ranged in difficulty from too easy for children to full-blown bullshit. She did, however, agree with it on a deep-seated emotional level.

The first room was empty, save for a couple statues of…ferrets? Weasels? Stouts? Something like that. They flanked the center of the room, which was floored in old tiles-they were likely quite vibrant at one point, but time and grime had left them more brown than their likely intended red. There was only one exit, to the right.

She approached one of the statues wiping away a layer of dust on its base. There was some writing there, in a slightly archaic Madokian script. 

“Thief Dungeon?”

Sayaka dearly hoped that that was a coincidence, or that the monster had picked its lair out of a sense of humor, or irony. But knowing her luck, the entire thing was probably built and abandoned specifically so that she would have to navigate her way through it-such were the pleasures of being a reincarnated hero.

In fact…

Sayaka moved to the other statue, wiping off its dust, and promptly cursed every goddess she could think of.

Dungeon 1: No Spiritual Spirits

It hurt, of course-it always hurt when Madoka didn’t know her, only recognized her through stories and legends. She’d recovered enough from her last sealing to remember that much.

But she’d allowed herself to hope-to believe that this time, for whatever reason, Madoka was more in tune with her ancient self. That she remembered .

Now it was all she could do to cling to her, trying not to cry. She was an ancient demon queen, a being of pure darkness, the Herald of Despair, breaker of cities and dissolver of bonds. She was not a lovesick teenager-she just felt like one at times.

Madoka, inevitably, offered sweet comfort, stroking her hair and whispering nonsense. She was always ready to soothe away the hurts she caused-no. That was uncharitable. It was Homura’s own expectations that had hurt her, not Her.

Her breathing calmed, and she forced herself from her thoughts to her felt sensations. The warmth of Her flesh, the softness of Her touch, the rhythm of Her breaths, the gentle scratch of Her hair on her skin.

Madoka was here. All was right.

The dungeon immediately opened up, with three exits from the next room-and a giant tooth. Her sword quite simply bounced off its enamel, and she beat a hasty retreat to the north.

She would, in official accounts of her adventures, describe what followed as “a careful probe into the dungeon, getting a feel for its denizens, favored traps, and overall design.” In reality, it was more of an unplanned, fumbling march through room after room, narrowly avoiding death what felt like every five seconds.

Lottes were a common sight, the tin soldiers easy enough to dispatch on their own-but she rarely found one alone, at least not without complications. Like traps. Crossbows attached to tripwires were a particular theme. She’d tried to take the first one she found, but it had been solidly mounted to the wall, and could not be removed without damaging it. Hopefully there was at least one good model left somewhere, else the entire ordeal was a wash.

On the bright side, at least she found a fair bit of treasure. Her wallet was soon swollen with rupees. On the other hand, she’d also fought past a gauntlet of Lottes and crossbow traps, only to find in the chest a glass jar. An empty glass jar.

She took it anyway. Hoarding was a proud heroic tradition.

In a sparse room, a young woman waited. Patiently. Very patiently. She very much wasn't ready to knock down the door if that damn destined hero didn’t hurry up.

Honest.

One chest in particular held a compass. It didn’t point north.

Sayaka chucked it down the next bottomless pit she found.

A girl waited, whistling off-tune. She was promptly brained by a falling compass.

Ow. The fuck?

The next chest held something far more useful-a map.

“Oh thank Madokami and Usagi.” She breathed, unrolling the parchment.

She stopped. She stared. She cursed. There, on the map (which updated itself similarly to her overworld map, showing her location and highlighting rooms she’d already visited), was the outline of the dungeon. Mostly one floor, sprawling, its main thrust being from the southwest to northeast. Some bits stuck out oddly.

It was also in the shape of a weasel. Or Stout. Or Ferret. Something like that.

“Damn dungeon feng shui.”

Spiritual Spirits were old, holy, and wise. They had seen the previous incarnation of Homu, Homura or Homudorf (long story), with their own eyes. They had patiently waited for eons, waiting for the next hero to approach them.

Generica corp had really outdone itself with QuestQrawler(™)-though mostly by accident. Destiny always finds a way, but she’s also very bored, and has a sick sense of humor. 

The Spiritual Spirits were also notorious gossips, the lot of them.

“Seriously, she hasn’t even reached you yet?”

I’m afraid not.

WEAK.

“Now ladies, let’s not judge her too harshly yet.”

“Of course you’d say that. You’re always too soft on her.”

“I’ve also seen the most of her. Trust me, she’ll pull through.”

“Easy for you to say.”

IMPATIENT.

Looks like someone is feeling lonely.

“Sh-shut up!”

Three voices echoed in otherworldly laughter. One fumed. One listened in silence.

Sayaka had been stabbed, crushed, tripped, flung, and bashed; stumped, lost, ambushed, and harassed. But she still stood, a trail of dead enemies and solved puzzles behind her. Her grin was triumphant, as she stood in front of the final door.

It was pretty fancy, as doors went. All stone, carved with elaborate scenes of Stouts. Or weasels. Or ferrets. One of those.

It made a gratifying rumble of stone on stone, and she entered the final chamber. 

It looked almost like a temple.

The room was longer than it was wide, perhaps by three or four times. It almost felt like an oversized hallway. The floor was a mess of flagstones, some once-careful pattern disrupted by shifting earth. The walls seemed to be made of one single block of…something gray, smooth and stained. The rectangular room turned to a dome, as the walls rose up and curved in. There was an opening at the center, wide enough to drop a Brocken Lotte through (good thing she hadn’t ran into one of those, yet).

Leaves and twigs and all sorts of debris had fallen down through the years, leaving patches of dirt in places, and even a small tree growing in the shaft of light.

Near the center, just past where the hole would line up with it, the floor rose up in steps, leading up to a chest. 

Her ancestral song rose up in anticipation, playing a tune of discovery and victory, while carrying a reminder of the dangers ahead. The light flickered.

It played a triumphant jingle as she cracked open the chest, her grin quirking up to meet it. There was a single pristine crossbow, alongside a quiver of bolts. She held it up in the light, admiring its craftsmanship, the inlays of brass-it was mostly functional, but had a few embellishments that marked it as being meant for someone of class, or at least wealth.

The song surged a warning, but she was already spinning around, sword deflecting the stabbing spear with a flourish.

Her grin was, after a brief pout, matched by her assailant’s, though the doll’s toothy maw certainly made it seem more impressive. The red headed doll held her pin spear…mace…thingy at the ready.

“So, you’re the reason I heard boss mu-wait, what’s up with your head?”

A suspiciously compass-shaped portion of the doll’s head was cracked, porcelain parting to permit a peek at a perturbing void.

The doll scowled, and leapt to the attack-only to be greeted by a crossbow bolt to her face. She staggered back, clutching at the shaft. 

There was a slight click as Sayaka pulled a second bolt into position.

She almost dropped it, as a shadowy point stabbed through her previous position. The doll had pulled out the bolt, carrying a significant chunk of her porcelain face with it.

Yeah, she looked pissed.

<<Previous Linked Destinies 3 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Monstrum Puella 2 Next>>

I’ve mentioned it before, indirectly, but to reiterate and make plain: I am not a stranger to monstergirls. I’m mildly obsessed by attractive non-human personages of monstrous description, yes, but I am not some shy maiden, smitten by the first weresheep or elf to give me a smile. 

So, understand that when I say that Akemi Homura is smoking hot, it wasn’t just because she was a catgirl. Her hotness is an objective truth (edit: in hindsight, I was far more correct than even I thought at the time).

How can I even describe her? Her lithe form and graceful motions? Her flowing hair and coy tail? The way she stared at me, eyes pinning me to my seat? Needless to say, I was…mildly interested…in her from the start.

I can’t say that I was the only one-the girls of the class (human or otherwise) descended upon her at the first opportunity. I would’ve joined them, but I was still recovering from the initial shock of her staring at me. I did listen fairly closely, though.

There were the usual questions-where she was from (“south”), what shampoo she used (L’Oreal), her previous school (something about a Catholic school).

I was therefore distracted by the idea of her in a catholic schoolgirl uniform (as opposed to the schoolgirl uniform she was already wearing…I’m a connoisseur, alright). This happy image kept me entertained while a number of other questions passed.

I was pulled out of my fantasies when the class’s Leanan Sidhe (a sort of fairy of the arts, for those not in the know), one Rin Majikkuhea, abruptly asked for her hand in marriage. That was…honestly quite reasonable from a monstergirl, but not from Rin-the poor thing had all but fainted the last time I tried to talk with her. Why was someone so shy suddenly proposing to strangers (as opposed to me, dammit)?

Was…was Homura going to seduce all the monstergirls in class?

I watched as the catgirl took the fairy’s hands in her own, stood up, and looked down into her eyes. I am told that she let her down gently, that she was sweet, even poetic about it, that Rin had spent the next class period smiling through tears. Sayaka, later, said that she’d noticed Hitomi drooling (I pretended not to see the bit of dried drool on Sayaka's own chin). I noticed none of these things at the time. I was too busy seeing the future (edit: no, not really…though I was pretty close in some ways).

Akemi Homura was going to seduce every girl in class.

By the end of the day, I revised my earlier statement.

Akemi Homura was going to seduce every girl in school. Maybe the city. And the women, too.

In math class, she downright annihilated a math problem, and I cursed under my breath-several types of monstergirls are attracted to intelligence. Even the math teacher, a lich girl, gave her an appraising look. I made a mental note to keep an eye on the undead mage, and report her if she tried anything.

Wait. Was I upset because Homura was attracting all the girls, or because all the girls were attracted to Homura? (edit: I’m still not sure, but I do know what the answer would be now.)

Gym class was…enlightening.

Now, I normally spent a lot of time staring at monstergirls in P.E. uniforms, watching them sweat…erm, admiring their often superhuman (or at least above the human/teenaged girl baseline) athleticism. Really, looking at the new catgirl as she strutted her stuff was par for the course.

But it was different this time.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I barely noticed when she set a prefecture record. I just raised an eyebrow when I noticed the coach (a hobgoblin) blushing. I did notice when a minotaur used the teacher’s distraction to challenge her to a wrestling match that she goddamn won .

What was she?

In any rate, something inside me railed at all the attention she was getting. I had to do something-and I found myself moving without thought.

“Hey Homura-chan,” I said, automatically wearing the blushing maiden mask, “Do you want to go to the mall with me, after class?”

Her face transformed, a smile so sweet and sincere that it had to be fake. No one got that happy over me asking them out-most girls, in fact, tended to look utterly terrified at my approach. I did have to wonder if her more stoic demeanor was more or less of a mask than that smile.    

In any case, I didn’t even need to hear her answer-it was clearly a date.

Oh gods, it was a date.

That seems like something that I should have realized before I asked her out, but I was so caught up in the need to distract her before she stole all the cute girls that I just completely overlooked the implications.

I, Kaname Madoka, asked a cute emo catgirl out for a date. And she said yes. And I somehow managed to overlook this fact right up until we met up outside the school’s gate. Sayaka had the gall to wish me luck, and even Hitomi looked unbearably smug. I swore that I would have my revenge on those two.

All such thoughts were as morning dew before the noontime sun, however, when I saw Homura waiting for me. Just that part-that she was waiting for me -set my heart to pounding. I’m sure that Hitomi could hear that, the damn perv, but I’d already forgotten that she existed.

The walk over to the mall felt like an eternity, but I can remember very little of it in hindsight. Homura seemed content to walk in silence, and I was too busy staring at her to think of anything to say, the steady swish of her tail proving itself all but meditative.

When she stopped to turn around, it caught me completely off guard. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, and I was startled to find myself in what seemed to be the mall’s backrooms. How had we ended up there? And why?

Homura again found a way to completely derail my train of thought.

“I know.”

What does she know? That was the obvious question. Was it that I sucked on my thumb until I was eleven? That I used to practice kissing with a poster of some girl band I only got because the singer was cute? That I was jealous of her ability to effortlessly seduce damn near every pretty girl in sight?

“All three, though I was referring to the jealousy thing.”

“What-are”

“I’m not a mind reader. I don’t need to be.”

She started stalking forward-I instinctively backed up until I met the wall. She caught one of my hands with her’s.

“I’m sorry, to give you reason to be jealous. I just couldn’t bear the thought of someone else looking at you.”

Waitaminute-

She went down on one knee-an extremely pleasant sight, from my angle-and looked up into my eyes, even as she brushed her lips against my knuckles.

“Oh.”

<<Previous Monstrum Puella 2 Next>>

Chapter Text

The life of a naval ensign (the rank, not the flag) was a busy one.

On an average day, when she didn’t have a “night” shift, Madoka’s morning began well before what, in Mitakihara Capitol time, would be daybreak (heh, Daybreak Flame ). Even as the most junior of officers, Madoka still rated a small cabin to herself-though that was a slightly enthusiastic term for it. It was more like a closet that someone had built around a small bunk and tiny desk. Still, it was nice to have some space to herself.

So Madoka got out of her closet at an unholy hour, dragging herself to the showers she shared with other junior officers. She did her best not to stare, or to get self-conscious about her own state of dress. It was probably for the best that the captain had a private shower, and that the ship didn’t need one-Madoka wasn’t sure she could survive seeing either.

In any case, the water, as well as the presence of other young women chatting it up as they cleaned themselves (seriously, did none of them notice their situation? Or were they all just that good at hiding their embarrassment? Maybe she’d get used to it-and Madoka really didn’t know how to feel about that idea), worked together to make sure that she was very much awake.

The officer’s mess was her next stop-a mixed blessing. Sure, everyone was wearing clothes, but they were also wearing uniforms. Damn her, Madoka really liked women in uniforms-maybe a bit too much. It didn’t help that the captain herself appeared there more often than not-there was a captain’s mess for senior officers, but her CO seemed to prefer to dine with the general officers. At least Madoka wasn’t the only one she caught staring at her.

Her own attentions, however, split off whenever the ship deigned to sit with the captain. This was a fairly common occurrence, even if she didn’t eat. Madoka guessed that she liked the company or something.

She couldn’t allow herself to stare too long, however, for an officer’s duties did not wait for her to deal with her Gay.

It was general policy for a newly-assigned ensign to rotate around her berth’s divisions, departments, and what-not, whether said berth was a ship, station, or planetbound base. While she would eventually settle down at one point or another (preferably, the joke went, with a cute girl), she would need a basic familiarity with damn near the entire ship first. They took cross-training very seriously.

This constant switching left her off-balance. She’d barely feel like she was starting to grasp the mechanics of one station before she’d get flung off to the next, starting over nearly from square one. 

Still, this constant shuffling around kept her from actually being in charge of anything-a situation she was in no hurry to remedy. She’d known, as far back as the academy, that being a line officer would put her in a position of command (if only over a small group for one shift in a larger department). Back in school, she’d assumed that the utter terror of that concept would fade with time, experience, and education. She could now tell that the latter was very blatantly wrong, and the former two were evidently too scarce in her to make a difference.

Granted, as an ensign-and even as a junior lieutenant, a rank she could reach by simply not fucking up horribly for a standard year or two-her responsibilities would lean more towards checking that no-one slept on the railgun coils or something (if she’d learned one thing from reading officers’ biographies, it was that the crew would sleep or shit anywhere given the oppurtunity). Still, even the thought of that much left her nauseous. Maybe, she thought, she should request a transfer to some desk job, where people were marginally less likely to die if she fucked up.

On the other hand, that might mean seeing fewer cute girls in uniform…

Following the captain’s announcement on pirate-hunting, the entire ship had gone into overdrive. There was something in the air-not quite bloodlust, but close. A sense of anticipation pervaded every action, as the ship and crew readied itself for-well, their purpose. 

Daybreak-chan herself was everywhere-well, okay, she was already everywhere because oh yeah, the ship was her body, but her avatar was spotted all over the place, checking and rechecking what felt like every last bolt and wire. It was kinda cute, in a way.

It was just over a week before Daybreak Flame was ready to go, the last bits of adjustments from observing her maiden voyage put into place (...did that mean that Daybreak-chan was no longer a maiden?), along with the normal mess of mass of tasks needed to make ready any large warship.

As it happened, Madoka got off her shift just a bit before it was time to leave. She crowded up into the observation bridge with the other gawkers. A bit of a holdover from bygone days, said bridge topped a tower towards the back of the ship, on the “top.” A large space, with walls of clear glassteel, it offered a commanding view over much of the ship. 

She suspected that such rooms mainly existed to impress government officials, much of their practical use being long obsolete. Madoka was no ship designer-as a potential line officer, her education in the subject had focused more on evaluating the strengths or weaknesses of a given ship or ships in context, rather than how to design one herself. Still, she knew that waste-of space or weight-was never appreciated. The space could perhaps be written off-there wasn’t too much else that could go up there. She supposed that the weight was also pretty negligible.

Still.

Then she promptly forgot her inner monologue on ship design, as there came a distant thrumm from beneath her feet.

Daybreak Flame did not need an observation deck. While her avatar stood on the bridge, dutifully besides the captain’s chair, that was but one tiny fleck of herself.

She was not that little frame, any more than a human is a strand of their hair. She was her hull, the sensors in her armor, the complex interchange of her systems. She was in the walls and floors and cameras and wires. Her nerves were the spark in her generators, the living lightning that ran throughout her everything. Her mind was spread across a thousand computers, racing to match the demands of a spaceborne city. She bristled with fangs and claws, weapons fit to end civilizations, singing out their need to rip and rend.

And as her engines spun up, her heart beat with a deep, resounding thrumm .

The Daybreak Flame slowly slipped from her mooring, out towards the endless frontier.

Chapter Text

<<Previous Propheteering 7 Next>>

“We want you to marry us.”

“Pardon?”

Homura stared at the two girls before her. She felt a warmth work its way from her cheeks, down to her toes and back, skin flushing in a full-body blush. Her heart was fluttering in a way that would have deeply concerned her, long ago, when her body was the seat of her soul.

How was she supposed to respond to this? Were they…were they actually expecting her to say yes? She was flattered, of course. They were rather cute, she thought, looking at them through the corner of her eye. One leggy and dark haired, one stout and blonde, they both carried themselves with the deadly grace of experience. She recognized them as church members-Fujimoto Kyo and Seo Miki (no relation-her personal name was the dead mermaid’s family name…though it still made her jump a little, the first time she heard it).

Maybe she didn’t hate the idea-true, she didn’t know them especially well, something that she would want to remedy before committing herself, but that was just a delay, not a rejection. There was also the matter of Madoka, but she was sure that she’d understand.

On another layer of existence, a goddess’s golden eyes grew blank. She revved her chainsaw.

Homura realized that she was talking herself into it. Truth be told, getting married to no less than two attractive young women was…suspiciously close to some old fantasies of hers, almost enough to make her paranoid. She discreetly pinched herself, on the webbing between the base of her thumb and forefinger, just to be sure. Then she did it again, this time remembering to turn her sense of pain back on. It stung a little.

Alright, so she wasn’t dreaming. And maybe the idea of spending the rest of her life with two attractive women was growing on her. Still, she had to ask…

“Why?”

Fujimoto and Seo (likely soon to be Fujimoto and Fujimoto, or Seo and Seo…or Akemi and Akemi) looked at each other, faint blushes blooming on their cheeks.

“Well, I really admire the work you’ve done, bringing us,” here Fujimoto motioned towards her Soul Gem, “together.”

“I can’t think of anyone else I would like to do it with.” Seo added, stoking the flames beneath Homura’s cheeks.

“I thought that the Goddess would approve of this sort of thing.”

A growl reverberated over the riotous chainsaw, angry and deep and inhuman.

“I really admire your passion, when you really get started talking about Madoka.” The last name was spoken with appropriate reverence.

They glanced at each other. “We figured that you’d be up to doing it with two girls.”

That last one nearly made Madoka’s prophet faint. Was she really that obvious (were they present and privy to her thoughts, Mami, Miki-not-that-one, and Kyoko would point out, with increasing bluntness, that she’d started an entire religion by ranting about her dead girlfriend)?

She thought that she rallied pretty well, before Seo struck the last blow.

“We really can’t think of anyone else we’d want to perform the ceremony.”

The sounds of growls and a chainsaw abruptly stopped, the golden-eyed goddess receding from her jealousy-induced stupor.

“Ah.” Homura fought off her mounting sense of disappointment. “You want me to marry you.”

Seo froze, a blush of her own making its way to her cheeks. Fujimoto frowned.

“Well, yes, I thought that we were clear with-oh. Oh . You thought…” Now all three young women sat in an embarrassed triangle, the air heavy with unspoken words.

It was Seo who recovered first, her face sporting an impish grin. She leaned forward, and quirked an eyebrow.

“Of course, if you had something else in mind, I’m not-”

She stopped, paled, and sat back. Homura thought that she could almost hear a…chainsaw?

“Right. Marriage. Us two.” Fujimoto interjected, eyes darting around, looking for an unseeable threat. 

Homura lunged for the opening with the fiery determination of someone who dearly wished to pretend that the last five minutes hadn’t happened.

“Right! Planning! Uh, I only really know Catholic ceremonies…”

After a brief detour to explain what Catholicism actually was, the three set out to determine what, precisely, a Madoist wedding-or at least this one-was supposed to look like.

It was meant to be a small affair, a few close friends of the couple. Seo didn’t really have a family, but Fujimoto had an older brother who knew about their…situation. Making an opening in his schedule was surprisingly hard, so the precise date of the event (and plenty of preparations contingent upon said date) wavered. In any case, the intended participants were him, Homura and the brides-to-be, and around a half-dozen magical girls, plus a potential.

But someone talked.

As it turns out, a new religion's first wedding ceremony was a pretty big deal for its adherents. Really big.

A horde of magical girls descended upon Homura’s warehouse-turned-church like an especially colorful avalanche, leaving a gaily (and gayly) decorated venue in its place. There were soo many lilies. 

The young brides-to-be, to their credit, took it in stride. Homura suspected that Seo, at least, was grateful for the opportunity to offload as much of the planning as possible. That was the impression she gave off before a bevy of seamstresses (a surprisingly common skill among that horde, it seemed…she suspected that every magical girl in Japan who knew how to sew had come running) had dragged her off into the abyss. She made a note to look into funerary services.

The warehouse was not really well-situated for large events-it was surrounded by alleyways, not any sort of field. The self-appointed caterers (and their assistants, who lugged around tent poles and chairs) had taken one look around, and decided to set up shop on the roof. Homura wasn’t sure if that was technically legal, or if they should get a permit for it, and said a quick prayer of thanks for the various magics at work, that kept government workers from noticing anything.

She stopped walking. Did she just make a prayer to Madoka? That was new. She’d pleaded with her (or the thought of her), yes. She’d sung her praises (literally once, in the shower-never again), yes. And yes, she’d started a religion about her-but this? This brief, muttered phrase? There was something different about it, something she wasn’t quite sure what to feel about.

She distracted herself with a nearby flower arrangement-lilies, inevitably. She frowned. Something was off about it. The flowers themselves seemed fine (though she was more familiar with roses, thanks to Gertrud). Their composition was, at least to someone as unversed in the topic as her, certainly at least adequate. Maybe it was how it was held together and hung up, bound in yellow ribb-.

Ah.

Ah, yes, of course she’d be involved. Probably in decoration and catering and dressmaking, knowing her. They needed to talk, she supposed-they hadn’t really sat down and discussed…a lot of things.

But that had waited, and could wait a bit longer. For now, there was a wedding to prepare.

It was a fairly eclectic mix of rituals. Some bits were distinctly western, others more traditional.

A bit before the main event, she and Fujimoto’s brother had exchanged small gifts. He represented the rest of their family in spirit, while Homura (a little reluctantly) stood in for Seo’s-something about orphan solidarity.

It was a testament to her stoicism that she avoided fidgeting the entire day in her new robes. A seamstress had overheard her say that she planned to just wear her Puella Magi outfit, and she’d found herself pinned down next to Seo and very thoroughly measured.

The sound of a revving chainsaw filled the air with warning.

The resulting garment was not, actually, far removed from her normal (magical) clothes, save for the skirt, which was actually a direct extension from her top, smoother and with more white highlights, and reached her ankles. And ribbons-there were a lot more of those than were strictly necessary (she blamed Mami, despite not seeing her during the process). The pink rose on her lapel was a nice touch, though.

The wedding proper was pretty short, and leaned more towards western traditions. Homura was pretty sure she gave a speech (or  sermon?) at some point, but remembered none of it.

The brides wore white kimonos. Fujimoto’s brother escorted her up the aisle, Homura did the same with Seo. They kissed (Fujimoto and Seo, of course). It was, in Homura’s professional opinion, about as cute as possible, considering that neither had pink hair.

And then the party started.

They retreated to the roof. Fujimoto’s brother started up a toast…a series of toasts…

Homura woke up two days later, with a pounding headache, atop a pile of-thankfully-mostly clothed magical girls. In the Australian outback.

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Chapter Text

<<Previous Monstrum Puella 3 Next>>

Okay, so I might have a girlfriend. A cute girlfriend. A cute catgirl girlfriend. A cute goth catgirl girlfriend. A cute goth catgirl girlfriend who seemed unable to go five minutes without making some grand statement of love and devotion.

So, it started when she lured me into a dark corner, kneeled before me, kissed my hand, and pretty much confessed-I mean, she didn’t explicitly say “I want you to have our gay babies” or something like that, but the implications were pretty clear.

Now, at that point I had some… ideas . About the whole “luring me to a dark corner” thing. I was sadly mistaken, as she stood up and led me back out to the mall after only a short makeout session. What a session, though.

Catgirl tongues aren’t as sandpapery as actual cats, but they are a little rough, which allows for some…interesting sensations. Sensations that I would quite happily catalog, in the name of science. Heh. “CATalog.”

So I spent most of our first date with a goofy grin on my face, only matched by Homura’s smug smirk (I wanted to wipe that off, but the only technique that came to mind was the same reason she had it in the first place). 

Looking back, I can’t remember all that we actually did, but a few things stand out. I’m pretty sure that we did general mall stuff, like clothes shopping-In fact, thinking about it some more, I’m starting to remember that I talked her into a bit of a fashion show. There was a Lolita fashion shop…I think I might have blocked out those memories for the good of my heart. Just about the only part of that that doesn’t threaten my physical health was the long-suffering, indulgent look on her face.

We might have been by that music place, I vaguely recall learning that she could play the piano. I probably learned a lot of things about her then, but most of it was lost in a vague, pink haze.

We probably had lunch at some point…I can clearly recall the sensation of her tongue running along my face, slow and rough. I don’t think that she would have done that in public without an excuse, like me getting food on my cheek.

She walked me home. I must have invited her inside, introduced her to my parents (good to go through with that early). The rest of the afternoon is a soft haze, my back sunk into my bed, surrounded by an onlooking crowd of stuffed animals (well, mostly stuffed monstergirls), Homura on top-she was pretty bony, but knew what she was doing.

She left just before my dad would have insisted she stay for dinner, coolly sauntering out into the Mitakiharan evening, as if she hadn’t spent the last couple hours in a makeout/cuddle session. Her tail lazily swayed back and forth, as if to show off her new bow, made from a red ribbon.

Mom obviously caught sight of it, her eyes flashing from me to my hair to her and back, eventually settling on me with an outright wicked expression. I sounded out, before she could say anything.

“We’ve already had The Talk!”

Her expression only grew more dangerously amused.

“And the lesbian talk! And the monstergirl talk!”

She was utterly unimpressed.

Dad popped his head in. “Something wrong?”

I groaned.

“Hey dad, do we have any swords? Especially magic swords that could, say, vanquish a dark lord?”

“Check the linen closet.”

Several days had passed. Mom had taken great delight in putting together “The Talk: catgirl version.” It was a powerpoint presentation. It provided me with no end of embarrassment, several pieces of information that I really didn’t need to know, and a few more that I carefully filed away for future use.

Dad gave the impression of being utterly unaffected, except for a few comments about what she might like for dinner. Then he pulled me aside and gave me a long lecture on the responsible use of catnip.

Long story short, I was now quite eager to work on my other source of inevitable doom. 

I rummaged through the linen closet, setting aside linen (imagine that), a bolt of Arachne silk, a dusty old lamp, my collection of Pocket Monstergirl trading cards (so that’s where they went), a ring of power, a small pile of the Sports Illustrated magazines that somehow accumulate despite nobody ever getting any (I set aside the swimsuit issues-one of them had a rather fetching kraken on the cover), and a human skull that whispered promises of power, before finally finding a pair of swords (complete with scabbards) in the back-one still had a tag announcing “buy one get one free” hanging from it, while the one in front had a small flier:

Generica Corp universal darkness-slaying/sealing sword

Guaranteed to stop the endtimes, or your money back!

Usage: sharp bit goes towards evil.

Perfect.

Entomo-san waved as I passed by. I waved back, though it was awkward to do with a sword in each hand. No one seemed at all concerned with the armed teenaged girl walking down the street…they probably figured the same as me, that I was some destined heroine, what with the hair and all. I even got a couple calls of “good luck.”

My first stop was Sayaka’s house, but her dad said that she was over at Hitomi’s. After I thanked him and started to leave, he added “good luck storming the castle!” I nodded back in thanks, every inch the cool protagonist. Then my swords got stuck on a windchime and he had to help me untangle them. Turns out that they don’t sound so pretty when you wrap them up and shake them a lot, discordant as an especially poorly organized collection of pots and pans when you need one from the back corner.

The Shizuki clan compound is pretty easy to spot from nearly anywhere from the city. It wasn’t that it was especially tall-most of it, in fact, is hidden in a hollow, surrounded by woodland. It was kinda in the boonies, so I had to take the bus. I ended up sitting next to an ogre, who kept bragging about her new wife.

My mind wandered back to Homura, to her silky ears and scratchy tongue.

I eventually reached my destination, and walked out. Again, no one saw fit to comment on the girl going to a vampire compound with magical swords in hand. I can’t help but feel that the reliance on schoolchildren to save the world has pushed society towards negligence.

In any case, I walked out into a sunny day, took two steps, and was submerged in a dark night, the air heavy with the promise of rain and threat of thunder. That’s what really marked the Shizuki estate-a great storm cloud that always hovered over it, a constant reminder that here dwelled the children of darkness.

“Hi Frank.”

The vampiric sentry threw an idle wave at me, barely glancing up from his security feeds. I know three things about him-he’s the one that normally guards the main entrance in daytime, gets most of his blood through coffee, and, I think, is the half-foreign son of one of Hitomi’s distant cousins. Oh, and four: he doesn’t talk much.

I’d vaguely planned on grilling him about vampire politics from a relatively low-ranking position (Hitomi was generally happy to talk about it, but she was pretty much the main branch’s princess, so her perspective was presumably quite different), but I never really got around to it (edit: I did, but it took a decade. Turns out that Frank gets quite loose-lipped after five bottles of vodka).

I walked past his post with a well-armed wave of my own, and walked into the compound proper. It was surprisingly quiet for what was pretty much a small village, only a few servants and lesser vampires around. Of course, it was before noon, so most of them were asleep or having a blood orgy or playing scrabble, whatever vampires did on a sunday morning.

The main family’s estate was towards the back of the compound, centered, a three storey high (plus who knows how many layers of basement below) mansion of wood and stone, with more windows staring out at it than mermaids had scales (and yes, I do know how many scales the average mermaid has…don’t judge me). Having so many openings for sunlight may seem odd for a vampiric home, but its something of a status symbol-”look at me, I’m soo rich that I can afford enough servants to cover each window with blackout curtains during the day, and uncover them at night.”

No one stood guard for the main estate, though a few servants waved at me (they were all cute girls in frilly maid outfits, as the clan head is a woman after my own heart). If someone got into the compound and went right for the den of the strongest vampires around…well, their dungeons were well-stocked.

Hitomi’s room was up on the third floor-another show of power, sleeping underground was always safer. I knocked twice and went in.

“Hey Hitomi, is Sayaka here, I-oh.”

Sayaka was, indeed, there. “There,” specifically, being Hitomi’s bed (coffins were for medical emergencies, or the poor…caskets are surprisingly cheap without the attached cost of a funeral). It was a nice bed, all fancy and frilly, the bed that you might imagine a goth princess laying in, possibly with a yuri manga in hand.

The entire room gave off a soft vibe, despite all the spike and skull decorations, rugs and fluffy furniture abounded. Her stuffed animal collection rivaled mine-I recognized Mr. Flappy, a stuffed bat large enough to act as an extra chair at need. 

Sayaka was pulling one of Mr. Flappy’s wings, trying to block my view of Hitomi licking the blood off of her thigh. The seaweed-haired girl looked right at me as she did it, too. I guess that bloodlust (or just regular lust) made her bold, as she would probably have melted into a puddle of embarrassment otherwise-instead, her gaze was steady as it met mine. Her expression was almost dangerous.

Damn, if I hadn’t just gotten myself a girlfriend…

As it was, I couldn’t ask to join them. 

Anyway, I abruptly realized that I’d been staring at my best friend lick my other best friend’s thigh for over a minute without comment, to the bluette’s increasing agitation. This would not do, so I cleared my throat.

“Called it.”

<<Previous Monstrum Puella 3 Next>>

Chapter Text

Shades of the Afterlife 1 Next>>

Madoka’s heaven was awash with heroes great and small, some of whom had their names and deeds burned into humanity’s collective memory, others whose struggles went unnoticed. You might find quiet, wise old souls drinking tea (or harder liquids) on a park bench, while younger, more energetic girls raced along the paths and fields-perhaps making up for lost time. Or the other way around-even the ancient and stern might mellow out in the endless springtime (metaphorically, and sometimes literally-each park had its own theme, and being locked to a particular season was common enough).

In this world of countless warriors, a certain etiquette arose. It was rude, to simply ask for another’s story-for they all had at least one, whether it be heroic epic or tiny tragedy-outside of certain places set aside for such things, such as the first heavenly mead hall, which encouraged embellishment and bullshittery-so long as it entertained

Still, some stories were hard to avoid. The general shape of Tart’s exploits was well known, a thing of scholarly research and popular myth-making. Sure, a newcomer might not be able to precisely reconcile historical record with the existence of wraiths (or witches, once they became aware of that system), but the general shape was clear.

On the other hand, some stories were bound to attract interest. “Who was the first magical girl” was a common enough question, often asked shortly after a new resident realized the sheer age of Madoka’s garden. Luckily, Sineya seemed to enjoy the attention.

On a third-presumably magical-hand, their existence did bring up certain questions. Big questions. The Big Questions. Who/what are we? What is life and death, really? Why do magical girls get their own afterlife, and is there one for other people? 

All eyes turned, eventually, to the goddess. 

It was natural-She came to each of them in their darkest moment (hopefully, as a Soul Gem darkened beyond repair did not come without a great deal of suffering, except perhaps the ones spent up in a heroic last stand…and no one wanted to think that someone might have had even worse experiences before becoming a magical girl). An ocean of light and a river of pink often appeared in their more comforting dreams, among those who preferred to both sleep and dream. Some speculated that this was some built-in aspect of heaven, that Her light would keep them from experiencing especially horrid nightmares. Others thought that their moment of salvation had left its mark on them (for even those who treated Her as an especially powerful magical girl, as opposed to an outright goddess, still acknowledged Her as their literal savior).

Outside of their dreams, She was still a comforting presence-the world felt calmer near Her, more solid. She always seemed to know when to show up-some suggested that She could be anywhere, or everywhere, and at any time-but chose not to be, out of politeness. 

Still, the human mind is ever-curious. No matter how relaxing it was to simply bask in Her radiance, their minds always turned to questions. She was, luckily, not a goddess opposed to questions-though She preferred not to speak too much on the matter Herself. She’d instead direct questioners to the scrying pools, to view the relevant bits-or later (with a degree of reluctance) to the adjacent Madokami Museum and Archive, which included a growing collection of scholarly articles, animated shorts, trashy romance novels, and at least one live-action film depicting Her life.

Truly, godhood was not conducive to personal privacy.

So, most of them knew at least the basics, of Homura and Walpurgisnacht (Walpurga herself was rather miffed at that creature’s name) and time travel, of wishes and witches and magic and miracles.

Having an entire new timeline to learn of, many of them would get lost in studying it. Not the least of this was coming to terms with their own alternate selves, most dramatically with their own witches. Familiars were a…familiar sight, in some sections of their heavenly existence (others were kept clear, since it was rather awkward when someone ran across one that tried to kill them once).

There’s a rumor-

Uwasa, Uwasa-

No, not that kind of rumor, you may put down your weapons, Kamihama girls. 

If you wander certain sections of the familiar-friendly grounds, so the story goes, you might just come across a rare sight. On rainy days, if you listen carefully, you might just hear the sound of a second storm. Follow that sound, and you might just find the mermaid’s concert.

The rumors tend to disagree over what happens afterwards-a common theme is that you get cursed to play with the concert for all time. Nobody actually believed that last part-the goddess would not tolerate something like that within her heaven-but it paired well with roasting marshmallows over a fire, when surrounded by the chirping night-or better yet, huddled within a gazebo or porch, straining your ears to find that second set of raindrops.

Of course, if the goddess’s own life was so thoroughly studied, then it was only natural for her close friends from her mortal life to receive a fair bit of attention. The lion’s share went to Homura-how could it not? The goddess’s “best friend,” the one who blazed her trail to the heavens, the face that launched a thousand of those trashy romance novels-it was hard not to pay heed to her.

Still, the others received their share of the attention-and, for a long time, that was focused on the one that walked amongst them.

Miki Sayaka was there from the beginning-when the first magical girl was collected, the blue swordswoman was waiting. Some thought that, if there were ever a final magical girl, Sayaka would close the metaphysical door behind her.

That she was close to the goddess went without saying-even in the very early days, they could be seen walking together, discussing this or that. 

She’d picked up an endless array of unofficial titles over the eons, most of which she was hopefully unaware of. To the more martially inclined, she was the knight-captain or heaven’s champion, a veteran of tourneys and familiar face on the training grounds. These were among the least cringeworthy/chunni of her nicknames, it only went downhill from there.

Still, no matter the name, she always commanded a degree of respect. 

When someone had trouble connecting with their inner witch, she was the one to approach-she was one of only three girls that remembered the old universe directly, rather than as a dreamy haze. That came with a certain aura-she felt ancient, as anyone who predated the current universe should feel.

When someone went out to vent their frustrations through controlled violence, she provided an excellent stand-in for their inner demons.

When the Devil made her debut, Sayaka led the charge to cast her into her hell.

Sayaka, while still living, was a girl who loved fast and deep, who doggedly pursued her version of justice with self-destructive zeal.

As the right hand of god (at least until Homura arrived, she expected a fight then), Sayaka was a well-tempered blade. 

Love had been affirmed by loss, justice balanced with empathy, and zeal reigned in by discipline.

Death, it seemed, was unexpectedly good for her.

Shades of the Afterlife 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Cuckoo 6 Next>>

It had been a long day, and a hectic evening.

A fresh batch of Incubator eyes weighed down my pockets (If there’s any sort of kami out there, designing/assigning magical girl costumes, then I really should thank them for making sure that mine even has pockets). They’d kept us busy, a new pack of them brushing up against the edges of my perception almost as soon as we finished off the prior one. Our patrol had dragged on into the early hours.

I smelled like sulfur-hardly a surprise, when Mami had used a regiment’s worth of muskets, and Kyoko always seemed to manage to set something on fire. It was infinitely preferable to working alone all the time-oh, I could take care of a small nest or a couple patrols on my own, but it was…inefficient. My fighting style was all about evasion, dancing around the enemy, being here instead of there , generally being as annoying as possible. I simply lacked the brute force to do much else.

Have you ever spent an entire night dancing while eldritch abominations try to eat your soul? I can assure you that it's good exercise.  

So I was slower than I normally would have been, walking through Mitakiharan suburbs that I would have normally all but flown through. In hindsight, It would have been much faster if I’d just purified my Soul Gem first, but I honestly couldn’t think of much besides my own bed.

I gave no outward signs of relief, once my home came into view-emoting took far too much effort. I presumably walked the rest of the way, but my next conscious thought came while I shimmied open my window. We really should have gotten alarms for them, but that would make my job a whole lot harder.

I shut my window, more by reflex than anything else, and dropped my transformation. I spent the next couple minutes cursing myself for not waiting until after I was in bed to do that, leaning back against the wall to keep myself upright.

Several shaky steps finally brought me over to my bed, but the sweet release of unconsciousness was abruptly denied to me.

Madoka was in my bed. This I did not mind-she served as a good replacement for those stuffed animals she loved soo much. No, the bit that had me cursing was the other things on my bed-two old shoeboxes, labeled “School Supplies” and “Yuri Hentai,” respectively.

The message was clear. Something fluttered in my chest.

Sighing, I cracked open the “School Supplies” box, instantly greeted by a dozen or so eyes. To this I added my latest haul, over doubling their number. I’d cut it a little close for comfort. Mami had been stressing herself out over the new girl in town, and everyone was worried about Verschlingendenacht. I’d perhaps been sneaking a few extra eyes into the others’ bags, for a while.

I’d had a pretty good idea of my own needs, so I plucked out three eyes and held them up to the edge of my soul. Dark Grief spiraled out of my true self. The eyes lacked lenses, a dark maroon orb inside a pink one. As they absorbed the black, smoky substance, they-unituitively-lightened, the pink fading to white and the dark maroon to maroon to pink to white.

The change was subtle, yet profound. I felt exhausted still, but also almost human. Almost. 

One of the eyes still had a hint of pink to it, so I placed it back with the other “School Supplies,” and cracked open the “Yuri Hentai” box, adding two more to the nearly full container. They would be around, soon.

I slid the boxes back beneath my bed, and turned to my dresser. Feeling somewhat less dead meant that I now felt an obligation to change into pajamas, especially if I was to sleep with my sister.

She stirred a bit, as I crawled into bed, but settled down quickly enough. The cadence of three heartbeats lulled me to sleep.

Kyoko was easy to get along with.

Oh, she was a goddamned tsundere, but-to be frank-she was also pretty simple at heart. Once you knew her buttons, she was easily tamed (I believe that I’ve mentioned before, how Madoka had her downright domesticated within a week). Besides, most of her “tsun” was directed at Mami anyway. That did mean that I had to spend a lot of time running interference between the two, whenever they were feuding. Fun.

Luckily, this particular incident was not brought on by some sort of self-defeating squabble. As much as one or the other of them (but, let’s be real, mostly just Kyoko) might get all stubborn and prickly about something, having a team empath generally kept them in line.

I could generally pacify Mami by just letting slip that Kyoko was acting up out of guilt or shyness or whatever notion she’d gotten in her head, at which point the musketgirl became a force of nature. The redhead, at that point, would be best served by giving in and accepting the inevitable. She rarely did. So, I’d seen her get forcibly dragged into emotional conversations and cuddle parties a fair number of times.

Each time was equally hilarious. Well, it got me to chuckle the first couple times, which is pretty much equal to a normal person laughing until they can’t breathe.

In any case, Kyoko was fairly emotionally stable at the time, so this was more preventative maintenance than intervention. Sometimes she needed to be reminded that she was allowed to have friends and shit. Plus, if I went too long without spending time with someone outside of the family, then Madoka would start giving me disappointed looks.

I was considering the possibility of harnessing Madoka’s “I love you, but you’re failing to live up to my expectations” look in a Magi-pacifying weapon when we arrived at one of Kyoko’s usual haunts.

The arcade wasn’t somewhere I’d go on my own, but it was a pleasant enough way to pass the time. I could keep up in her favorite dancing game, mostly thanks to my above-average helping of magical girl agility. She called it cheating, an assertion that was too far beneath my dignity to merit a reply.

We whiled away a good chunk of time on the shooting games, pretending to be Mami while coming up with increasingly over-the-top names for our attacks. The culmination of our efforts was what google translate assured us to be “Ultimo grande colpo ardente del cielo dell'elegante fanciulla.”

We wandered a bit more after that, from air hockey to skee ball to all sorts of game cabinets. We grabbed pizza at some point, too.

Our leisure time ended when the afternoon was starting to drag on, the first hints of sunset trapping the city in amber. Kyoko knelt before one of those gacha machines, muttering something about rarity. I, for my part, was wondering if Madoka or Father would want me to bring her home for dinner (yes), and how I was supposed to manage that (a thornier issue) when nothing touched the edge of my awareness.

“Hunting pack, a couple dozen, east-by-northeast, about a klick.”

Kyoko grunted, cursed, and grabbed one last gashapon prize before getting to her feet. Her grin, however, betrayed her underlying eagerness. Something inside me prompted me to match it.

The hunt was on.

Something in my chest fluttered in excitement.

People can react in a lot of different ways, when they get close to someone who can read their emotions well enough to (on a good day, when I’m in top form) mimic mindreading. Kyoko mostly just shrugged it off, pretending that it wasn’t a thing unless relevant. Madoka was similar, but sometimes got very self-conscious, getting embarrassed at her own feelings, and then again when she realized that I was right there (that particular phenomenon was becoming more common, after Akemi showed up).

Mami, though? She didn’t handle it well, at first. She was always a member of the “fake it till you make it” school of thought, projecting the image of a cool, calm, mature senpai to us younger magical girls (and Madoka and her friends, once my sister decided that we needed more mundane company too). So, her response to finding out that I could see right through her was…worrisome.

But that was in the beginning. Once she’d gotten used to me, she started warming to the idea.

Which was how I found myself with Mami’s head in my lap, absently stroking her hair as she complained about…just about anything that came to mind, I guess.

“...and really, of course my group members were absolutely useless.”

I grunted. “So that’s why you were ranting about entropy, when we killed that pack of incubators.”

I’d honestly thought that she’d (finally) gone off the deep end.

“I was not ranting! I was practicing for my presentation, because someone had to.”

I continued to stroke her hair.

“Fine, maybe I was ranting a little. Just a little!”

It was quite a lot, honestly, but I decided against pushing the issue.

She went but to complaining about something or another, but my mind was on other things: the smoothness of her hair, something she obviously took pride in; her steady breaths, unnecessary yet calming; the tension slowly draining from her body and soul; her heartbeat, and the second one shadowing it, mirrored by the fluttering in my own chest.

Mami, after her initial panic, had quite warmed to the idea of someone that she didn’t have to (and couldn’t) keep at bay with a mask. When everything's out in the air, there’s not much left to fester. 

It was an example that the rest of us would have done well to follow.

<<Previous Cuckoo 6 Next>>

Chapter Text

“You died.”

“I’m…sorry?”

One might forgive Madoka for being a bit off-balance, what with apparently being dead and all. That did check out, actually. The last thing that she could remember was trying to shoo Amy off the street. She’d thought that she had plenty of time before a car came, but evidently not, from her faint recollection of the world abruptly jerking to the side. At least it seemed to be quick.

“You weren't supposed to die.”

And now she was sitting on tan tiles in a mostly blank room, while a strange woman glared at her from her computer desk.

The woman was about average height-globally speaking, so a bit tall from Madoka’s perspective. Her eyes were a dull green, while her hair was a mass of curly locks, giving her an almost wild, unkempt vibe. Said hair was mostly brown-mostly a dark bronze, though it was almost a gleaming copper where the light hit it.

Her face was round, her nose a bit large and pudgy, and her mouth was knife-sharp. A pair of glasses sat on her nose, its lenses rounded rectangles that sat in a thin wire frame. She wore sweatpants and a well-worn hoodie.

Not sure how to respond, Madoka repeated herself. “I’m sorry?”

She sighed, rolling her head back to an unhealthy-looking degree, regarding the vaguely-defined ceiling with murderous hate.

“Right now you should be meeting your future wife.”

“Wait, wife?”

“And realizing that you’re gay. I suppose that one out of two ain’t more than half bad.”

Her lips quirked up into a smirk, as she lazily dragged herself back upright. Her eyes now held a dangerous gleam to them, and she started pounding away at her keyboard. It was honestly enough for Madoka to fear that the computer might break-it already resembled some kind of frankensteined mishmash of parts, as if a half-dozen desktops had been caught in a car accident (an analogy that made her wince even as she made it), along with a couple laptops, a large calculator, and the other car’s gps and radio, with the resulting lump dragged from the wreck and duct taped together.

The click-clack of keys echoed in the otherwise silent room. The sole other occupant spent a good while wondering over the “future wife” thing, a process that prompted a great deal of fantasizing. She finally shook herself free from an especially interesting daydream involving an idol that, in hindsight, was probably her first crush. She could-hopefully, considering that she was still around despite her apparent death-fantasize later. For now, she had questions.

“Umm…excuse me, miss?”

“Hmmm?”

“What are you doing?”

That made her pause for a moment, head whipping around to face her pink visitor. 

“Did I not say?”

“No?”

“Isekai.”

“Isekai?”

“Yes.”

She turned back to her computer, apparently satisfied with that. Madoka decided to shelve that particular line of questioning, gently shoving her multifaceted reaction to the answer to the back of her mind, next to the Sapphic fantasies. 

“Are you some kind of god?”

Now that got her attention. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting-a casual confirmation, a sudden turn to the serious, now that she’d broached the topic? For a hidden door to open, her friends and family pouring inside as the woman-she really should ask for her name-announced that this was all an elaborate prank, and that she’d earned an all-expenses paid vacation to Hawaii for being a good sport; she’d get to see a certain idol in a bikini, starting a whirlwind rom- down girl, you only realized that you’re gay, like, two minutes ago .

(it was actually about ten minutes-she’d spent more time fantasizing than she’d thought)

The woman turned to look at Madoka, blinking.

“Am I a god?” She repeated.

“Umm…yeah, that’s the question.”

She chuckled. Then she giggled. And all of a sudden she was on the floor, body wracked with laughter so intense that Madoka thought it might be some sort of fit.

Then she stopped. Suddenly blank-faced, the woman climbed back into her seat, a couple giggles still breaking through.

“Oh, I wish that you realized how ironic that question was-heh, wish.”

Before Madoka could question that little outburst, the woman continued.

“No, not quite-well…maybe. I’m not any sort of god that you might have heard of, I’m more of a…programmer. I Keep the multiverse going, maintain it and facilitate special responses when something goes wrong, but I had no hand in its creation.”

Despite this relatively humble statement, she visibly preened as she shared it. Maybe she thought more highly of it than her words suggested, or maybe she just liked talking about herself.

Then she started grumbling.

“Though I’d do a better job of it…seriously, who uses floats for…” The resulting rant grew increasingly quiet and unhinged.

Seeing that the room’s sole other occupant was spiraling downwards, Madoka cleared her throat.

“Um-what’s your name?”

The woman blinked.

“I didn’t-oh. You can call me, uh…,” She looked honestly uncertain, as if it wasn’t something she’d ever really needed, “it was something with a ‘k’...Kyu-no, that’s taken…Kyukoh? Yeah, that’ll do. Just don’t mistake the ‘u’ for an ‘o,’ okay? Its Kyuu-koh, not kii-yo-koh*.”

*(note: I actually don’t know how either should really be pronounced, language nerds are free to complain in the comments)

Kyukoh, then.  

Said woman cocked her head.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to ask: do you want to die?”

“Eh?” Madoka took a step back, subtly reaching for the pepper spray she kept on a keychain.

“Because death is a valid choice-I just got started on the isekai stuff because that’s what most people go for.” 

She took her hand away from the spray. Now, that did raise some questions-mostly one big one. But first:

“Do you do this with a lot of people?”

Kyukoh shrugged. “Maybe one in a million. It adds up.”

Okay, that was quick. Now for the big one:

“What…what will happen if I die?”

The programmer shrugged.

“I dunno, not my department. Well, okay, technically speaking you’re already dead, but there’s dead and then there’s dead , ya know?”

“Uh…”

“You seem like a sweet girl though, I’m sure that you’d be fine. Maybe go to Elysium or get reincarnated as a monkey or-”

“I think that I’ll take the isekai.” Madoka interrupted, perhaps slightly more firmly than necessary.

“Oh, good, I already got it ready. There’s just one more person to convince, then.”

“Who?”

“Yourself. Kaname Madoka, meet Madoka Kaname.”

Kyukoh slid around one of her computer’s many monitors, showing an image of Madoka-or her twin at least. She wore a different kind of uniform, kept her hair straight, and had a belt with various odds and ends attached to it-her eyes were drawn to a knife.

“The second child of some fairly prosperous merchants-”

“Second?”

“Of four.”

“Four!”

Kyukoh ignored the obvious question, rolling on into her spiel.

“From the republic of Mitakihara. She dreamed of becoming an adventurer at a young age, worrying her parents with her increasingly wild ways. Her parents eventually sent her to the merchant republic’s prime adventuring academy, possibly using the logic that if she was going to get into trouble, she might as well know how to be professional about it.”

Madoka sent a small mental apology to her other self’s parents.

“Of course, before the first day of school, she managed to get herself killed by saving a cat from a runaway cart.”

Ah.

Kyukoh nodded to herself.

“So, we have another you, from another universe. She’s adventurous enough that she should probably be fine with exploring your world instead-you have plenty of interesting shit going on over there, you just can’t see it.”

Really, now? She filed that away in the back of her mind.

“Now, this is a fantasy world, so the technology isn’t up to the same level as yours, but magic is widespread enough that your quality of life should be fine. Any questions?”

“Well, first off-”

The programmer sagged in her chair, visibly exhausted. Madoka was downright perky, almost humming.

It’d taken a while. But there was one question left.

“Now, about that future wife-”

Kyukoh suddenly slammed her hand on the keyboard.

“Oh, would you look at that, I started the Isekai process. I guess that we don’t have the time for any more questions.”

“But-”

"Don't worry, your other self agreed to this while we were talking."

“But-”

Kaname Madoka blinked, and turned to her left. There stood Madoka Kaname, blinking back at her. 

One of the walls was gone, replaced by a room much like the first-there was another Kyukoh, only this one was dressed in a ragged robe. The furniture was more rugged, and instead of a computer the desk was strewn with a variety of divination tools: bones, dice, a basin of water, a crystal ball, several more crystals and prisms, and one live chicken, to name a few.

Madoka didn’t get to look for long, however, as her ears filled with the sound of rushing wind, and suddenly left was down and her other self flew up and they were going to crash-

In two worlds, two girls lurched up from the sleep of death.

Chapter Text

Daybreak Flame had hardly left her station when three shapes slipped out after her.

Madoka gulped. It was just her luck to end up on the command bridge during her first fight on a real warship. 

Her job was, thankfully, fairly minor-as one would expect of any task given to a greenhorn. While there were plenty of different ways to display battlefield information, a flat table showing icons for every ship (and smaller blips for striikecraft and missiles) was still quite popular, preferred for its simplicity and ease of communication. Madoka’s place was to support the tactical officers glaring down at it. This mainly seemed to consist of bringing them coffee.

Of course, space is 3d-but that was less of an issue than one might think. Due to the way shields worked, any blows from too far “above” or “below” would be deflected with hardly any effort, meaning that the most effective assaults would come in “on the level” with their target-which was precisely where they kept their sharpest teeth.

So Madoka had a good perspective, as the three destroyers ambushing Daybreak-chan (and, by extension, everyone in her) came in on the same plane, arrayed on her left. This was perhaps the best angle of approach besides straight behind, as it kept them safe from her spinal gun- Daybreak Flame would only be able to bring her port and top/bottom weapons to bear.

Normally they would simply activate her K.I.T.E. system, exit that state of dilated time with her main gun pointed forwards, and annihilate at least the first destroyer at ease-but that system was down for repairs after a small fault had nearly started a fire earlier. Instead, the ship shook a little as her maneuvering thrusters strained to turn her great bulk around.

Captain Tomoe sat well in front of the table, facing away-she had her own displays. She sat in stoic silence, occasionally breaking out of it to give out orders. She managed to sound like she was sending out invitations to a tea party. The bridge around her was noticeably less sanguine-much of the bridge crew was still inexperienced (compared to the normal expectations of their rank), as new as their ship-though there were plenty of exceptions, it still showed in the general chatter on the bridge.

“Pilums firing, sir.”

That was from one of the many weapons officers-pilum missiles were a mainstay in space combat. They were long ranged, two-stage weapons. The first stage was relatively slow, efficient engines and an advanced guidance package making sure that they could keep pace with most slower ships (and even give very fast ships something to think about) for a long while. The second stage cut in when the pilum neared its target, boosters kicking off to (hopefully) slam into the target. Their warhead packed a decent punch, and could release an emp pulse to disable a ship’s systems. The pilum’s real strength, however, came in their specialized autoforge, which could pump out an effectively limitless supply on a combat-relevant timescale. They were the ultimate weapon of harassment.

The destroyers were already well within pilum range, and closing fast.

As Madoka returned from a coffee run, one of the tact officers pressed a few buttons, and the name “Taylor” suddenly popped into view besides each of them-Madoka saw this replicated on the captain’s display. 

Madoka could recall what Taylor -class destroyers were like readily enough. They were a fairly widespread design, with just about every civilized spacefaring faction-plus the pirates-seeming to field at least a few. They were small to average by destroyer standards, and solidly midline in terms of tech (neither obsolescent, nor cutting-edge). Their main weapon was typically a medium-sized energy weapon, mounted up on a turret, with smaller ballistics and more energy weapons arrayed around the ship. This meant that they were capable of threatening larger vessels in numbers, but were generally better suited to fending off smaller craft.

What really got everyone’s attention, however, were the torpedo racks. 

Front-mounted in hardpoints, these were always something to be wary of-in particular, these three seemed to carry hammer-class torpedoes. Nasty weapons-they lacked proper guidance systems, but made up for it through three great virtues: speed, carrying a big boom, and being cheaper than a very drunk Hitomi (who was, Madoka could attest, quite cheap).

With two hammers per rack, and two racks per ship, that meant that Daybreak Flame had twelve very unfriendly surprises coming her way.

“Ship” The captain spoke, “ECM report.”

Daybreak Flame ’s even tones came out of the speakers.

“The enemy is showing significant cyber warfare capabilities, well beyond most pirates.”

Well, that was a concerning prospect on multiple levels. While they couldn’t mess with the hammers’ guidance systems anyway (seeing as they didn’t have any), having an advantage there could have opened up all sorts of possibilities.

Sayaka’s hands shook only very little as her hands hovered over the terminal, eyes locked on the targeting feed. She really shouldn’t have been there-she was, in fact, perhaps the very last person in the room that should be trusted with firing a heavy autocannon turret. 

The gun crew’s chief (as Sayaka had come to expect, she was a cute girl that looked no older than twenty, and was probably at least twice that) seemed to either really like her or really, really hate her, and now she was sitting with her hands twitching over the literal trigger.

She breathed.

She’d almost drowned once, as a kid, slowly sinking in the bluest water she’d ever seen. She was terrified in hindsight, of course, but at the time? In that moment, drifting within that sunlit sea, she’d felt perfectly calm-tranquil. Death barely seemed a concern.

Sometimes she wanted to return to that state, and immerse herself in the water until she couldn’t find the border between the Sea and She.

She’d never told anyone, of course-it was rather hard to describe it in a way that didn’t sound suicidal.

One more breath, and her mind went blue. A second, and her hands were steady. A third, and she pulled the trigger.

The turret screamed its fury, the triple guns ripple-firing into an ocean far greater than her old one. All across the portside hull, Daybreak Flame erupted with fire and lightning, weapons fit to level cities howling for blood.

They were getting close.

Three destroyers were not, in most circumstances, a serious threat to a battlecruiser. The larger ship should have been able to fire far sooner, and punished them severely before they could close the distance. Perhaps the attackers could have made it through with only a single ship lost, but then they would have been in close proximity to a ship that outmassed them horribly-they might harass her, get around her shields, riddle her with torpedoes-but they would not live to celebrate whatever wounds they managed to inflict on her.

In Daybreak Flame ’s case, her largest weapons (and the pilums) were generally of limited use at knife-fighting range, but she essentially had a light cruiser’s worth of guns (and a heavy cruiser’s armor) on each flank. Combine this with her K.I.T.E system allowing her to suddenly turn to face her foe with her main weapon already firing-a rather unpleasant sight-and you had the makings of a massacre.

This battle, however, did not fall under “most circumstances.” The destroyers had gotten the drop on her, starting so close that she couldn’t bring her spinal mount to bear-especially not with her K.I.T.E. down. The three of them, combined, might manage to cripple her if they got around her shield-or maybe even destroy her outright, with an especially well-placed torpedo barrage.

But she wasn’t going to make that easy.

The Taylor -class destroyer Gray led the pack, thirsty for blood and glory. She mainly received explosions. The storm broke over her, flowers of flame blooming against her shield. It buckled and bent, finally shivering as some especially accurate autocannon fire took its toll.

Her shield winked out. 

Gray blinked at the sudden lack of light-before the goddamn lasers lanced into her, eager to melt through armor and hull. So brilliant were they that she almost didn’t see the Pilum salvo coasting in.

“Well, this is going-”

Madoka returned from another coffee run just in time to see one of the icons of a ship wink out. A few members of the bridge crew whooped. 

Captain Tomoe was unimpressed.

“Ship.”

“Yes captain?”

“Did that free you from your own battle?”

“Negative sir, Gray only accounted for a fifth of their EW capabilities.”

The captain seemed to consider this for a moment.

“Ship, can you manage to take over a few missiles?”

The heavy autocannon’s crew cheered, and Sayaka felt a few impacts on her back and shoulders. She was pretty sure that someone called her “Tex,” in the ancient and mysterious tradition used to honor fine shooting of all forms.

None of it reached her, not beneath the waves as she was.

The turret turned to face the second ship.

The remaining destroyers spaced themselves further apart a bit-hoping to split the larger ship’s fire without exposing themselves to yet more guns.

Yuuki took the rearward path, her hammers burning a hole in her metaphorical pocket as she raced for Daybreak Flame ’s unshielded engines. Kinetic slugs pounded upon her, while others flew past. Pilums trailed after her, while no new ones faced her from in front-perhaps they were all going after her sister. 

The Taylor class were a fairly nippy bunch, even by the standards of their size-and Gray had drawn most of the fire as they raced in from their already close starting positions. 

As Yuuki neared her goal, she even saw the battlecruiser’s point-defense weapons spit at her. Her crew had been keeping up their own fire all along, but she barely paid them any mind-they were more to keep the other ship from pouring all her power to her weapons, than for doing any actual damage.

The Yuuki ’s ai grinned as she spun herself about, at last turning to face her enemy’s exposed rear. Four hammers roared out-and could hardly miss at that range…or so she thought. She had to stare in disbelief as one of them managed to fly right past Daybreak Flame ’s vulnerable engines, instead slamming itself against her shields-adding a notable, yet largely unimportant dent in her power (or rather, waste heat, flux) reserves.

The ship was turning , and fast.

Yuuki  was gratified to see it slow, as three torps (and her guns and energy weapons) bit into her.

The surprise and gratification distracted her enough that she didn’t notice as several salvos worth of pilum missiles suddenly lit up behind her.

The Taylor class destroyer… Taylor , barely had time to blink (and an AI can blink really fast), after her second sister was knocked out of the fight.  

Instead, she was occupied by the giant-ass railgun that the battlecruiser had managed to swing around. It was a disquieting sight. One shot of that would overload her shields, the second would annihilate her frontal armor, and probably break her into a million million little pieces of scrap.

Then her shields went down. 

This time she didn’t even have time to blink, before Daybreak Flame ’s avatar flickered into existence next to her.

“Hello, Taylor . I think that you’ve lost.”

Gray and Yuuki ’s hulls started moving again, systems firing back up from their feigned death.

The captain did not slump in her chair, but did sit less erect.

“Simulation over, return to your regular stations.”

All over the ship, officers and crew rose from their stations-those that weren’t already supposed to be there, anyway-and stretched themselves out, coming down from the high of a practice battle.

Sayaka had to be all but dragged from her seat, still aiming the simulated turret.

Back on the bridge, video feeds popped up from the Taylor , Gray , and Yuuki , their own commanding officers sending Tomoe their congratulations (all of them, inevitably, were cute girls). On another level, Daybreak Flame exchanged data with the other three ship ai, each putting together a diagnostic for their respective captains’ later perusal-after all, a practice battle is more about lessons learned than mere victory. 

Madoka, for her part, was just happy that she didn’t need to keep making runs to the coffemaker.

Chapter Text

When Homura rewrote the universe, she may have made a few…subconscious changes. To be frank, the new world was noticeably gayer. 

Homosexuality and other sexualities were more widely accepted; she could see same-sex (but mostly sapphic) couples walking in the street; One of her favorite novels was changed from a story of feminine friendship to lesbian erotica; various old myths had a notably gayer cast to them (Amaterasu & the Cave goes hard).

Another change, however, completely escaped her attention for the longest time.

“The Devil’s Dictionary?”

Madoka stared down at the book, one eyebrow quirked up. It was old, and battered, and in english-she might not have been able to read the title before her three years overseas.

On the cover was an image she vaguely recognized from Paradise Lost (from her literature class), the most beautiful of angels falling from heaven, only with the slight twist that she was hastily scribbling down in a book. Were it not for the title, Madoka would have assumed that she was scribbling in her diary, venting her frustration after her rocky breakup with the Abrahamic goddess (because anyone with even the vaguest grasp of christian mythology knew that they were former lovers).

Something about the Devil, on either cover, always struck her. It gave her a vague sense of familiarity, along with the ghosts of emotions-respect and pity, a great well of regret, and something else that she could not quite name. She mostly chalked it up to said Devil being pretty hot in the pictures.

A quick flick through the pages showed that it was, in fact, some kind of dictionary. Notably, a lot of it was hand-written. Perhaps it was never published, or she was holding a pre-publication draft.

She picked it up-she did need something to read on the flight back to Japan

Noroma was on Madoka duty that day, for the devil only trusted her two mostly loyal familiars (maaaybe two and a half, with Ibari, if she wasn’t currently planning a coup) with such an important task.

She saw the book, but failed to report it-surely the mistress couldn’t blame poor old Blockhead for failing to see some book as a threat to the other mistress. 

The flight was a good ten, eleven hours-plenty of time to get lost in a book. She refrained for a little while, chatting with her parents or gazing out the window, or watching an in-flight movie ( Mrs. and Mrs. Smith , a romcom starring a pair of assassins from competing agencies, each hired to kill their wife), but something about the book called to her, an itch in the back of her mind.

So, as her mother napped and her father admired the ocean, Madoka cracked open a dictionary.

A- indefinite article

1. A nonspecific item from a given set: a girl.
2. A specific item: a Miss Kaname.

Madoka blinked. Was the writer part Japanese or something?

     3. One: a single kiss.

     4. A resemblance, an analogy: She’s a real Sappho.

Aardvark- noun

     5. An animal that only still exists because Madoka thought that it was “cute, but in a weird way.”

“What the-”

Madoka stopped herself, remembering her place. A nervous glance showed her that her mom was still asleep, and that her dad was having an animated discussion with his neighbor-about tomatoes, of all things. 

She returned her attention to the book.

Aardwolf- noun

1. An animal that only still exists because Madoka thought that it was cute.

Aargau- noun

1. A Swiss canton that only still exists because Madoka might want to visit some day.

She muttered to herself. “Is this a prank?”

The reference to her family name, she could shrug off as a strange coincidence. But this?

This was blatantly wrong.

She checked the book’s first page, the one that would normally have publication info, but found nothing. A quick glance at the back revealed no dedicated author’s page-she wasn’t sure whether or not that was normal for parody dictionaries.

She did note the author’s name, Akemi. H. It sounded Japanese, at least, though it was a little late for that to explain anything.

In the end, she found no real answers-and the only recourse for more information left was to return to reading.

Her eyes started skimming over proper nouns, as they were nearly all the same.

A-axis- noun

1. The horizontal, front/back, crystallographic axis. Useful for formal studies of Soul Gems

The fuck was a Soul Gem?

Abaciscus- noun

1. Architecture. a small abacus. (see: abacus)
2. An abaculus
3. a tessera.

Abacist- noun

1. a person skilled in using an abacus. (see: abacus)

Aback- adverb

1. toward the back. My favorite direction to watch Madoka from.
2. Nautical. so that the wind presses against the forward side of the sail or sails. I’ll be the wind in Her sails.

- adjective (Nautical).

1. (of a sail) positioned so that the wind presses against the forward side.
2. (of a yard) positioned so that its sail is laid aback.

- Common Idioms

• Taken aback, surprised and disconcerted: “I was taken aback by how cute Madoka was.”

“Gee, thanks, potential crazy stalker person.”

She really, really hoped that the author knew a different Madoka, and that the entire thing was some inside joke or prank.

Abacterial- adjective

1. not caused by or free from the presence of bacteria. “I have to make sure that my hands are abacterial for our date tonight.”

Abactinal- adjective

1. zoology (of organisms showing radial symmetry) situated away from or opposite to the mouth; aboral. “Abactinal to Madoka’s face is her cute butt.”

“Thank you?”

Abacus- noun

1. a device for making arithmetic calculations, consisting of a frame set with rods on which balls or beads are moved. “I used my abacus to count my sins and failures, but I ran out of beads.”
2. Architecture. a slab forming the top of the capital of a column. “Who cares?”

“Ah, so they’re a depressed psycho stalker. Great.”

If Madoka kept treating the entire book as a joke, perhaps it would be so.

Abaddon- noun

1. Apollyon. the destroyer; the angel of the bottomless pit. Revelation 9:11. “I’ll be your Abaddon in bed.”
2. a place of destruction; the depths of hell. “Life without you might as well be an eternity in Abaddon.”

“A depressed, horny, psycho stalker. Great.”

ab aeterno- adverb (Latin)

1. from the most remote antiquity. “My love for you is ab aeterno, older than the sea and sky and stars.”

abaft- preposition

1. to the rear of; aft of. “Hey babe, mind if I-” [the rest of the line was a confused mass of scribblings, as if someone had warred with themselves while writing it]

- adverb

1. in the direction of the stern; astern; aft. “I have already noted my position as to Madoka’s stern.”

Madoka sighed. This was going to be a long trip.

Chapter Text

<<Previous WvW 3 Next>>

The air rang with the steady clatter and clang of metal on wood and metal, of sword striking shaft, deflecting the head, tangling up in chains.

There was something inherently satisfying about sparring with Kyoko, as opposed to any of their teammates. It made sense-the two of them were the only melee-focused girls on the team. Some of the others could hold their own in a pinch, but any serious practice bout with them tended to be…frustrating.

For one, Mami shooting her guns at you was a pretty nerve-wracking ordeal (Homura had, by her standards, enthusiastically concurred). Even if she could block out the pain and heal the wounds, feeling a musket ball pierce her flesh and crack bone was never a sensation that she was in a hurry to repeat.

She was damn near unapproachable at times, her sheer weight of shot keeping them at bay. Weaving a path through the wall of lead was possible (and good training for approaching a pack of laser-spewing wraiths), but not precisely a pleasant experience, and she always had to be wary that she might be being herded into a trap. And that wasn’t even taking into account her ribbon magic, a real battle-ender to the unwary, or any of the many tricks the veteran had picked up.

And even if you got past all that, her gun-kata was not to be underestimated, answering sword and spear with musket barrel and stock, putting up a competent defense while she tried to line up a good shot.

So, yeah, fighting Mami was good training, but far from satisfying.

Her sword was wrapped in a chain, but Sayaka was already holding two more, twin sabers striking from different angles. The red magical girl jumped back, chased by the thrown blades, but an idle twirl of her spear accounted for that (swords just weren’t very good ranged weapons, no matter how much magic and her inhuman strength tried to compensate).

Kyoko answered with a volley of spears, which the blueberry ran through while hardly slowing-partially thanks to her own agility, partially because her spears weren’t all that good as ranged weapons either (the head was a bit too wide, aerodynamically speaking).

The swordswoman closed the distance at a sprint, each of them readying for the next clash.

Homura was, at first, an easier fight than Mami.

She just couldn’t keep up the same rate of fire, one bow that she had to pull back, as opposed to Mami’s inexhaustible supply of pre-loaded muskets. On the other hand, her magical bolts (arrows, she supposed, though they only vaguely resembled them) hurt . One bad hit could end the fight.

Of course, then there was that whole “the-sky-hates-this-grid-reference-in-particular” attack, which could actually outshoot mami. It wasn’t all that useful against magical girls, though, the relatively indirect fire much easier to dodge than Mami’s direct cone of pain.

Combining that with her magical-bird-arrow-thing (wildly impractical for sparring), and the violet girl felt less like a fellow puella magi, and more like the last boss of some rpg.

This impression was only strengthened when you got close, and she busted out her gods-be-damned second form.

Those wings were shiny, pretty, and godsdamned annoying . They could outright block just about anything short of a Tiro Finale at least once, and a quick sweep could knock away anyone trying to get into brawling range (Sayaka was half-convinced she could see her own outline, in the wall of the warehouse they’d been training in).

That wasn’t even getting into how she could freaking fly (or at least jump good) with the accursed things.

So, yeah, Homura was hard to approach without getting impaled by glowing javelin-sized arrows of shiny doom, and if you did get close she’d either knock you away or just jump off with the sort of aerial agility that not even most magical girls could muster. And, despite all that, she still gave the impression that she was going easy on you, if your name was anything but “Mami.”

Seeing those two go at it was a rare treat, one a well-armed spider trying to catch the other, a butterfly with a laser gun. They mostly stopped doing that, though, after their last training area collapsed on top of them.  

Several familiars cheered them on from the sidelines, Hitomi silhouettes (cheerleader version) all but dancing, while some of Kyoko’s gaily-garbed warriors waved torches and rung bells.

It drew part of Sayaka’s mind away, even as her body sunk into an instinctive dance, one of parrys and blocks and slashes and stabs.

“So, what does it mean when your familiar…looks like someone?”

It was perhaps a little rude, opening their first talk in a month with such a question, but it’d been eating at her for a while. Besides, Sayaka was aware enough to recognize that the older girl really liked being relied on. It would probably ease her worries, too, if she had some concrete issue that could be addressed.

Mami, for her part, sipped at her tea with a contemplative expression.

Sayaka jumped a little when someone placed a platter of dainties on the table-one of Mami’s own familiars. It (she?) resembled some sort of waitress or maid, with an almost cartoonishly hourglass-shaped figure and a tall spike of blue hair. Several more busied themselves in the background, their main differences being hair color, pink or red or black. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

“What do you think a familiar is, really?”

“Um…”

Madoka, her sweet friend, was a demon at heart.

Her and Homura’s weapons were much the same-enough to raise an awful lot of questions. Were they secretly sisters or something? That would be awkward, what with all the times she’d walked in on them making out. Even Mami had eventually shrugged it off as one of the ineffable mysteries of magic (Sayaka suspected, from the way the blonde would get all heart-eyed, that she thought that it was some sort of romantic destiny thing, a thought that always threatened her with a headache).

In any case, Madoka seemed bound and determined to be no less obnoxious in a fight than her girlfriend was. It seemed that their magic was similar enough to replicate Homura’s sky-glyph thing (no luck yet with the bird-thingy), which got a whole new lease in her use.

Madoka’s arrows, you see, were no less deadly than Homura’s, but they opened an entirely new avenue of frustration in the pink regime. Madoka didn’t have wings (or if she did, hadn’t figured out how to use them yet), and was far more vulnerable in melee. In theory.

In practice, getting her in melee was damn near impossible, because she could teleport . Teleport. Teleport. As it turned out, teleporters were obnoxious to fight, and Madoka’s particular technique had given Sayaka a twitch.

You see, Madoka could teleport to any of her arrows. Any of them. In an instant. And she could also call down a constant barrage of them from the sky (she’d spent a long while modifying Homura’s technique, creating a version that traded density for duration).

So, yeah, fighting Madoka meant getting attacked from every angle at once, with each attack creating a new vector from which she could launch yet more attacks. Sayaka had only beaten her once, and that was by wearing her down, using her particular form of stamina to outlast her.

In short, her best friend had become a goddamned monster. Her instincts said that it was probably somehow Homura’s fault.

“Familiars are projections of your heart, Sayaka.”

“Eh?”

Sayaka glanced from Mami to her familiars, a blush growing on her cheeks. The veteran cocked her head, then suddenly blushed in turn.

“Not that way! Or at least…not necessarily. It just means that your familiars can reflect something-or someone-important to you. And it can be platonic!”

That last claim was, perhaps, said a bit too forcefully, but Sayaka was already on her feet.

“Thanks Mami, I feel like my head’s on straight for the first time in a while.”

She was already walking towards the door, a fire in her veins as she felt ready to take on the world once again.

“Now I know that it’s normal for my familiars to spy on me when I change clothes.”

“Pardon?”

Mami’s eyes widened, but her question landed on a closing door.

Nagisa was a less annoying opponent than the archers, but not by much. Her bubbles hurt and she could shotgun them out in a stream of exploding pain, but she needed a moment to recover for her next volley. That left her vulnerable, if only for a brief window, and that was what allowed her to close in.

Somehow, beating up a grade schooler didn’t make Sayaka feel any better about herself.

Kyoko though? She was good , fast, strong, and clever. She could entangle with her chains, strike from odd angles, launch spears at range, and even call up those barriers of hers. Despite all that, fighting her felt just much better.

So, as spear and saber clashed, Sayaka found herself grinning.

On the sidelines, her cheerleaders managed to give off the impression that they were pouting.

<<Previous WvW 3 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Familiarity 11 Next>>

Each doll had at least one lair or hidey-hole, outside of Homu’s apartment building. Namake didn’t know all of them-privacy was kinda a major point of the practice-but she was aware of most: Ari had a penthouse suite in one of Mitakihara’s taller buildings; Nek had a small aircraft carrier; Wags lived in Mado’s new basement/dungeon, and War had a burgeoning real estate empire. As for herself, she just used her apartment-though she knew a few out-of-the-way spots to lay low, just in case.

Which was why, after a pair of Luiselotte rode by a small park, Namake arose from the grass. It was as abrupt as if she’d teleported. Saya and Mado followed suit, glancing between the now-distant familiars and their own feet.

“How the hell did that work?”

Namake shrugged at Saya. In truth, there was a small hillock. It rose just enough above its surroundings that supine forms would be completely blocked from the view of even mounted patrols, while a snarled tree blocked off the sight of flying familiars. But explaining that would take too much effort.

Instead, the doll of Sloth strolled across the street. Her two companions exchanged a glance before following.

There were all sorts of odd places, scattered around the city-the world. Mitakihara had more than its share, likely from its role as ground zero for at least one universe-restructuring event, and the main focus of a second. Not to mention how Goth-and-Gay, the devil herself, as well as their Goddess dwelled within.

Given all that, it wasn’t too surprising that some locations were…odd. Buildings in the wrong place, rooms larger than their entire building, houses that only existed when approached from a 90° angle, and so on and so forth.

In one particular spot, one could find that the second floor of a suburban home contained what looked to be several large clothing stores, enough to clothe a city. In this warren of apparel, near the main entrance, one would find a sizable workshop-an atelier, if you will. It looked a bit out of place, despite its mistress's efforts-one could only go so far, when working with such a sterile-feeling environment. Part of it stretched into a back office, while a large portion was partitioned off from the shop floor. It was strategically located-near the entrance, by a set of changing rooms, and where two different stores met (so that she could easily hunt in both biomes).

The changing rooms were arrayed around a sort of carpeted hall, supplied with benches and chairs and magazine stands. This section was dominated by a hollow column, each facet of which was set with a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

In this column stood Mie, the vain doll, checking herself out in the mirror. She made finger guns at herself. 

Hey there hotstuff, looking good. And I’m not just saying that to distract myself from the existential horror of being the personification of a portion of an angsty, gay, fourteen-going-on-twenty-four year old’s personality.

The mirrors replied with silence.

Shit. Goth-and-Gay, you need therapy.

The devil failed to reply, what with being well out of earshot and buried in the crater she made when she fell from the sky. She probably wouldn’t say anything worthwhile, anyways.

Mie jumped when she heard the entrance door open, whirling around with pin abruptly in hand. 

Did she somehow hear her thoughts? Was this the end of poor Mie, or at least the beginning of some onerous punishment detail? Or was this one of her sisters, come to fight their inevitable civil war?

She crept forward, to the edge of the hall, and stood utterly still. Her porcelain ears strained to pick up the slightest sound. Two sets of footsteps, cautious. Not Goth-and-Gay, then. Could be a couple normies that had wandered in, or perhaps come seeking after rumors of a haunted house.

Well, she could certainly give them something to tell horror stories about.

Sup Mie.

Dogs barked, cats fell from trees, small animals of all sorts froze still, while even the largest predators eyed their surroundings warily.

Many miles away, the Devil twitched. The stinging in her ears was almost as sharp as the pain in the rest of her body and soul.

Was that a…scream?

Holy fuck Namake, you need to stop doing that.

The slightly senior doll grunted, walking past her to drop onto Mie’s second comfiest chair. That got a frown out of her. The slothful one was not the sort to give up the comfiest spot, not unless if she thought that-

“Um, hello, you must be Mie-chan.”

Homura twitched for a second time, as a high-pitched shriek pierced her ears. 

Pink! And! Cute!

Mie was all but nuzzling Madoka, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

You have to let me dress you up.

Namake grunted, drawing her sister’s attention away from the nexus of their existence. 

Her first .

Mie turned and noticed Sayaka for the first time, the swordswoman gingerly withdrawing her hands from her ears.

Oh. Blue-and-Sad.

“Hey!”

Why should I bother with her?

Namake sighed.

She remembers, enough at least.

Mie froze.

What was Vanity to the devil?

Or rather, what was Mie, 見栄?

There was a certain amount of the obvious interpretation-she liked to be pretty, to show her best self to the world. But that was just the surface.

見- “see, hopes, chances, idea, opinion, look at, visible.” An interesting combination, some aspects emphasizing visibility, while others are wrapped up in ideals. Sight and thought.

栄- “flourish, prosperity, honor, glory, splendor.” Again, a range of options, though more coherent than the first kanji. It means to possess greatness, to live well.

It can translate as “vanity,” yes, but also “appearance, show, display, charm, attraction, allure, fascination, appeal, enticement, and call”-all nouns, not verbs as some might imply. It is an intrinsic quality, not an act.

To be Mie is to be someone that people are drawn to, that they might covet or aspire to be. 

Homura might have scoffed at this, but she rarely recognized her own charm-especially in how it affected the one she most wanted to attract. As a sickly girl in glasses and braids, she’d all but radiated a sort of fragile charm, one that appealed people with a nurturing nature (truth be told, when Madoka escorted her to the nurse’s office for the very first time, it had been as much to fend off the other girls swarming her as anything else).

Later, when she carried her trauma like a suit of armor, she presented herself as a cold beauty. This was no less successful, though she might have been surprised to hear that. Her allure had a sharp edge to it, a thrill of danger that set people on guard, even as she drew their eyes to her. So magical girls, as enticed as they were, kept their defenses up in the face of this supposed seductress. 

The hair-flip thing was practically a declaration of war.

So, Mie was, on a basic level, something about herself that Homura never really understood, or even noticed. 

And, on one note-it said nothing about pointlessness or failure.

Sayaka barely had time to blink, the doll going from stock-still to in her face.

Mie was also able to recognize herself in others, a natural, inborn trait of hers. What she did with this was all her own.

Oh, good, your whole confident-secretary thing was downright sexy.

“Wait, what?” Utterly lost.

What? Caught off guard.

“What.” Mildly murderous.

So you need to get in touch with your inner bi self, right?

“By what?”

Mie didn’t deign to answer, instead dragging Sayaka into the depths of her lair. The magical girl struggled, but in vain.

Alright, let’s get you out of those clothes.

It was probably meant innocently. Probably.

Madoka watched in bemusement as Mie dragged Sayaka back from the darkness, the latter resembling nothing more than a mushroom, the wide cap consisting of the great pile of clothes she was lugging around.

In a moment, the clothes were arrayed on nearby racks, Sayaka was pushed over to the half-open column of mirrors, and her clothes were abruptly swapped out for a cocktail dress. Mie whirled around her friend, holding a fancy-looking camera, taking pictures with abandon. Sayaka started to say something, only be silenced by a whirl of wind, as she was now wearing a french maid costume. Mie’s camera flashed like the threat of lightning.

Madoka, not taking her eyes off of the scene (Sayaka was now in a cheerleader outfit, which she pulled off pretty well), sidled over to the other doll in the room.

“Hey, um, Namake-chan?”

Laziness grunted, not taking her eyes off of Sayaka, blushing in a frilly swimsuit.

“What’s with the fashion show?”

Namake took a moment to consider her words, idly watching Sayaka’s struggle-Mie had broken out the gothic lolita outfits. Madoka wolf-whistled.

Mie is good at…giving people a new perspective on themselves. Saya needs that, as do you.

That got Sayaka to look up from the third schoolgirl uniform in a row. 

“So this is, what, some kind of therapy?”

Mie glanced over from her camera, where she was looking over the last couple photos of Sayaka in a wedding dress. 

Huh? No, this was just for my private collection.

A flash of light, a magical girl outfit, a sword.

Your real therapy clothes are right there.

Mie pointed to one last outfit, hanging from the rack. It was, in hindsight, a little obvious. Mie seemed content to admire her latest collection of pictures, so Sayaka had to pick them up and walk into a changing room herself. 

She wasn’t sure what to make of it, some kind of suit. Mie took one last photo, as she exited the changing room. She handed her a stick.

Sayaka looked down at it, then up at Mie, who jerked her head towards the mirrors.

She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, just a confused-looking girl in a suit. The stick. It felt important somehow, like it was the key. There was a knob at the end and-oh. Duh. It was a conductor’s baton.

Sayaka looked back up to the mirror, and Oktavia stared back.

<<Previous Familiarity 11 Next>>

Chapter Text

<<Previous Haunting Homura 3 Next>>

In the wooded hills of the American Pacific coast, in an old hollow sunk into the ripe old earth, there sat a jagged and foreboding manse. The locals tried their best to forget about it, ignoring the rotten presence that seemed to linger in the air. She, in turn, ignored them back (and would object to being called “rotten”).

A short walk from the main house was the groundskeeper’s cabin-though do note that this was how the incredibly rich defined “cabin,” so it was comparable to the mansion itself in style, if not scale.

Old man Fir had Madoka wait on his veranda, muttering something about not wanting any hint of misunderstanding. Said veranda (the original owners were evidently too rich for even their servants to have a mere “porch”) hosted a fine collection of rocking chairs. She felt rather zen, drifting fore and aft like a ship rolling through the waves, something meditative in the motion. 

She hadn’t really taken the time to sit down and think, yet. Moving to a new country had been-stressful. It was always hard, pulling up stakes and settling down somewhere new, and the new language and customs weighed on her. She supposed that it could be worse-she at least knew a little bit of English, and about America, from school and cultural osmosis respectively. Even if the former was more about reading than speaking, and the latter an extremely limited perspective, she still had more to go on than, say, Spain. No offense to the Spanish.

Honestly, she was pretty grateful for the ghost (and not just because she got to kiss a cute girl out of it, if accidentally). She presented an extremely effective distraction.

Luke E. Fir shortly emerged, balancing a tea set on one hand, while his other clutched a stack of albums. Madoka moved to help, but ended up just hovering as he set the set on a tableset. He dropped the albums on another table with a dusty thump , pulling the top one off while simultaneously pouring two cups of tea. It was all quite impressive.

“Right, where to begin…” He drawled, despite obviously knowing where to begin, as he was in the process of opening the first album.

He placed it on the table, spun around to face her. The first picture was of a tired-looking group, a harbor in the background. They were kinda blurry, indistinct, looking as ghostlike as their presumed descendent. There was a handy caption: “Gae-Lorde family, Boston, 1847.” 

“They were pioneers in a lot of ways-part of the first big wave of catholic immigrants to the U.S., and Otto Gae really took to the camera, back when a photo took a good minute or two.”

There was a story there. “Wait, Gae? Gae-Lorde?”

He nodded. “Ah, yes, Otto fell in love with this lady, Mary Lorde. She was the last of her line, you see, and her father didn’t want to marry her off without some way of continuing the family name, so they hyphenated them.” 

Fir chuckled, as if something had just occurred to him. “When they came over to America, chasing a business opportunity, the immigration official misspelled it as ‘Gaylord,’ and it stuck.”

Two sets of eyes espied the pair. Tomohisa glanced over on the way to his burgeoning garden, and gave them a little wave that they were too absorbed to notice. Well and good, hopefully the old man would help her settle in a bit. Something about him just felt…trustworthy?

From above, in the highest tower, glared a set of ethereal orbs. A twist of worry unsettled her undead gut. What was he planning?  

“...and so Ignatius Gaylord made a killing in the fruit canning industry, moved out west, and started building the new family home.” Luke nodded in the direction of the mansion.

“Now, his grandson, Adam, went off to Japan to pursue some sort of business venture. He came back a couple years later with a missionary friend , and an adopted daughter.”

Here he turned the page, showing a picture of a man in a dapper suit, a second in some sort of religious garb, and a girl-

“Ghost-chan!”

He chuckled, a wry and wicked little thing that shook his chest. “Homura Gaylord, formerly Akemi. An orphan, and the last of their line-well, except for some resort owners in Florida, but they haven’t really been in touch.”

“Homura.” The name came naturally from her lips-perhaps just because it was Japanese, a welcome taste of the homeland. Or perhaps it tasted sweet for other reasons.

“She came from some town, Mitakihara-”

“Wait, but that’s where I’m from.”

“Really? Small world.” He didn’t sound surprised.

“Well, now you know.” He said, abruptly sweeping the albums back into a pile.

Madoka blinked. “But wait, how did she, err…”

“That’s not really my story to tell.”

They both turned to look at the highest tower.

Homura ducked, nevermind that they shouldn’t be able to see her in the moment. Fir’s eyes were always too sharp, like he knew what she was thinking. And Madoka-pink eyes (but not in the unhealthy sense, thankfully), soft lips-it was enough for her to double check if she’d suddenly acquired a pulse.

The ghost was cagy-Madoka barely caught a glimpse of her over the course of the next few days. Her inevitable doom stalked the manor, pulled on by a call she could not quite describe.

After several fruitless nights, Madoka started to realize that hunting someone who could be both invisible and intangible was, in fact, pretty hard. So she turned to her greatest weapon: the internet.

Her first attempt was no more successful. For whatever reason, the advice she found for “how to catch a Gaylord” was both strange and ineffective.

Homura would have disagreed on the “ineffective” part, as she ended up spending most of a week in a catatonic daze after seeing the first “technique.”

A more general search for ghost hunting advice turned up a surprisingly robust collection. She soon picked up a camcorder, tape recorder, and EMF detector. Somehow, though, the most effective hunting method turned out to be a smartphone app, “real 3d ghost haunting hunt AR.” She’d downloaded it almost as a joke, and tested it from her bed. She’d nearly dropped the phone when it revealed Homura peeking in through her door.

Well, that was unexpectedly useful.

Now what?

<<Previous Haunting Homura 3 Next>>

Chapter Text

MoeMonsters 1 Next>>

The route was as idyllic as any Homura had imagined traveling on, the well-trimmed trees on the sides plastering a veneer of control over the wilderness that always threatened to peek through. A few streams (or brooks or creeks, whichever was the most appropriate) cut through towards a larger river she knew was somewhere nearby, a few of the larger ones meriting small wooden bridges. As she traveled, the path got narrower, the ground rockier, but greenery still pervaded, and the path itself stayed level and clear.

A small girl bounced around her, dashing off here and there to admire a shiny rock or sweet flower, or to scare off the local wildlife. She wore a brown dress with a thick white fur trim round her neck. Her dress and hair and loose sleeves and fluffy white-tipped brown tail whipped around as she pounced hither and thither, her foot-or-so tall frame moving with the clumsiness that hints at future grace. 

Homura shook her head at the girl’s antics, but a small grin found its way to her face. It was good to finally be out and about, even if she was far behind her age group. 

They slowed, as they reached a particularly large stream, one that really did merit its bridge. It was perhaps ten feet or so wide, with high embankments, and not terribly deep, but was frothingly white, water crashing over broken ground. Two more girls sat on it. They were quite…colorful, one very blue and one very orange. 

The blue girl was about Homura’s age. Short blue hair topped a round face with-you guessed it-blue eyes determinedly into the white water below. A blue tank and white shorts covered a lean, athletic frame, a light white coat discarded on the bridge behind her. She carried a fishing rod, cast into the roiling water, but lacked the tackle box Homura had seen beside the other fishers she’d met. Maybe she didn’t have one, maybe she left it at home, maybe she simply preferred a simpler method-or maybe she just didn’t need one.

The girl besides her was much shorter, but still nearly triple the height of her own companion-though a vague recollection seemed to imply that she was more lightly built. Orange hair framed a cute little face, steely blue-gray eyes snapping to Homura’s, then to her companion’s. A yellow crown (or crown-like frill) emerged from the top of her head, while two yellow whisker-like strands emerged from the bottom, curling off to the sides at knee level. An upside-down crown-like accessory (an ascot? A bib?) covered her neck, while her body was enveloped in a well-patterned dress. Several shades of orange appeared as it fell down her body, while the bottom trim, undersleeves, and insides were all a smooth white-she imagined that touching it would be like running her hands along a well-weathered river rock.

The orange girl made a small noise, and the fisherwoman leaped up to her feet-she was, to Homura’s annoyance, taller by a small, yet noticeable, margin. Their eyes met. Homura sighed, accepting the inevitable.

“The name’s Sayaka, come see what I’ve caught!”

The orange girl rose to her feet, planting herself ahead and slightly to the side of Sayaka. Lily squared up against her, going down to all fours in preparation for a charge. 

“Lily, tackle.”

“”Eeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeee!”

The girl took off like a slightly uncoordinated bullet, legs and feet clawing at the bridge beneath her, the slightest shimmer of an underworldly energy cloaking her in an aura that felt…almost mundane.

“Magikarp, use splash!”

“Karp.”

The orange girl weakening flopped her arms in Lily’s general direction-she didn’t flail them, that would imply far too much power behind those movements. She just sort of stood there, uselessly. She’d probably send out some little bit of water, were she down in the stream below. 

Lily, by contrast, pounded forward with all the force her diminutive body could muster.

“Eevee!”

“Magi!”

A brown and white blur slammed into the Magikarp, a third her size, yet two-thirds the mass. The fish-girl toppled, lights out, some critical bit of her consciousness floating away.

“Darn. Magikarp, return. Go get her…Feebas!”

The orange girl faded into a stream of red light, swiftly replaced by a second girl coming in reverse. She was only two feet tall (still twice Lily’s height), long blue locks trailing down her back, to the ground. Her body was enveloped in a sort of ragged blue dress, her body a tannish-brown beneath it. She looked away, shyly holding a mask up to her face.

“Feebas, use splash!”

“Fee.”

The girl started waving one arm in Lily’s general direction, still looking away. It was, if anything, more pathetic than her orange predecessor’s attempts. Even Lily seemed to feel bad for her, hitting her with less of a tackle and more of a gentle push. The Feebas’s splash became more desperate, though no more effective.

“Good Arceus, just stop this!”

“Feebas, return! Alright, now you’ll provide experience for two of my moe. Go, Wailmer!”

Now, this was a step up. Full sized at  6’ 7”, and weighing in at a number that best went unmentioned, the Ball Whale Moemon was a much more substantial foe. Now, Moemon often shrunk down for everyday convenience, so she was currently no larger than the Magikarp. She wore a  blue hat-perhaps a beret, though Homura was no haberdasher-with little spots that looked like eyes. This covered a slightly disheveled head of white hair, perhaps long enough to reach the small of her back. The rest of her outfit was…eye-catching. She seemed to be wearing a blue leotard or one-piece swimsuit underneath a sweater of sorts, tan with full-length sleeves the same color as her hat and swimsuit, ending in flapper-like hand coverings.

The overall effect was striking. Homura struggled to pull her eyes from her bare thighs, only to be drawn upwards, to where the swimsuit was doing…interesting things to her chest. Lily wiped some drool from her mouth. Even Sayaka, who presumably knew what to expect, visibly strained to keep her gaze fixed forward.

“Wailmer, use splash!”

“Oh sweet Arceus, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Far away, Arceus looked up from her phone, casting her gaze eastwards.

“Nah, nothing to do with me.”

She turned back to her phone, and her game of Floppy Fletchling.

MoeMonsters 1 Next>>

Chapter Text

Three destroyers and a battlecruiser was a rather interesting composition, light on smaller escorts and support ships. They lacked small and agile frigates, or the even smaller and nippier fighters and strikecraft (and the carriers to support them-though the proposed Mikuni class BCs were designed to carry their own drone fighters, the “Oracle Ball Interceptor drones,” also in development). They also lacked cruisers, to fill in the gap between destroyers and capital ships.

Still, it wasn’t a group to take lightly. The three Taylor class sisters took up a triangle-shaped “scorpion” formation-two slightly ahead and to the side of Daybreak Flame , one directly behind and “up,” two claws and a tail stinger. Yuuki was in the stinger position, gamly resisting the urge to make a joke about her torpedoes stinging the battlecruiser’s rear.

They were not the largest of destroyers, Taylor and her younger siblings. Their singular pulse lasers were effective general-purpose weapons, mounted on a turret with a good arc, but plenty of ships their size could support multiple guns of equivalent power. Their two forward missile hardpoints, currently outfitted with simple and cheap Hammer-class torpedoes, were far from noteworthy, even a bit anemic. Where they shone was in point defense and anti-frigate roles, their oval-ish shape bristling with smaller mounts, capable of engaging multiple targets, or overwhelming one or two with sheer weight of shot (well, their lasers didn’t precisely fire heavy ammunition…sheer volume of fire?). They were also fast enough to chase down many frigates, and had the flux dissipation to keep up in a sustained engagement. Still, they would struggle against tougher, more heavily armed destroyers and larger ships.  

Of course, their response to that was in the center. The claws were forward enough to not interfere with her side-mounted turrets, and far enough to the side to keep her spinal gun mostly free to engage. DF-chan epitomized the battlecruiser ideal of speed and firepower, her single large gun allowing her to engage at extreme range, while her speed and special systems made sure that she controlled the tempo of combat (except maybe against smaller, faster targets, especially the ones who ambushed her at close range…). She was not, however, especially well suited to drawn-out slugging matches with other large ships-they tended to have multiple capitol-sized weapons, not as long ranged as her specialized armament, but more than capable of pummeling her to death if she let them get close.

If.

The ship AIs were beings on a whole nother scale. They had the capacity to administer an entire inhabited planet, though such possibilities held little interest to the present group. They were raised for war, to slip across hyperspace and leave venting hulks in their wake.

They could quite easily run their ships without the help of a crew-though the Mitikiharan navy had little interest in that idea. Despite the Dominion’s instance otherwise, they were quite aware of the risks of AI-and how to counteract them. 

Daybreak Flame could remember with digital clarity her early simulations-being raised as a human, with normal-seeming (if quite philosophical) parents. Making friends with other children-copies of real people at first, then later, in other simulations, her fellow AIs. It’d been hard to tell the difference at the time-they all thought like humans, if much, much faster-and the copies were very good at pretending to be human-or, rather, the creche AI controlling them all was.  

AI avatars were complex, sophisticated, flexible constructs-maybe a bit too sophisticated, a dusting of pink rose in her projected cheeks. It was probably for the best that she didn’t know the identity of the AI who controlled her first girlfriend…and second…and third…and that harem she had in highschool, minus a few who turned out to be future ships and stations.... 

Yeah, ignorance was bliss.

Luckily for her flagship dignity, the three sisters were far too busy squabbling among themselves to notice her preoccupation with her wild youth. They presented quite the interesting tableau. Warship AIs were not required to stick to any particular avatar, except when directly giving orders (though that was rare enough), when they were expected to “wear” an appropriate uniform. Otherwise, they didn’t even need to stay human-a lot of ships (and other AIs) had at least one preferred alternate form for their avatar, like a shadow monster or a giant, colorful…caterpillar? Worm? DF-chan’s usual shape was pretty bland, by those standards.

The three girls did at least look human, sitting around the “war room.” Truth be told, they could have already finished their meeting, if they’d simply exchanged data, instead of resorting to an “in-person” gathering. They would have, were it urgent. Sometimes, though-sometimes they liked to pretend that they were the humans they were raised as. Hence, their presence on one of Daybreak Flame ’s servers.

Gray’s outfit was perhaps the most conservative design, her dress and hat resembling some sort of uniform, if nothing like an Mitikaharan officer’s outfit, nor the fukus of common sailors. The vertical bands of color on the skirt and her ribbon added a dash more character, and the fur-trimmed fishnet leggings brought back some…interesting memories, from the battlecruiser’s harem phase. 

Taylor and Yuuki , meanwhile, looked like clowns. That wasn’t an insult, just an observation, with the latter wearing an orange motley, and the former apparently having stolen all of said motley’s other colors and patterns.

The larger ship tried not to judge them for it-they weren’t breaking any regulations, or causing any real harm by what they displayed themselves as. She did, however, worry that they might cause each other grievous bodily harm if left unsupervised.

She coughed. Gray looked up from her drawing of Taylor holding Yuuki in a full nelson, the latter two destroyers having the decency to look a little sheepish. Gray just looked amused.

All three had terrified looks, as a mountain of paperwork materialized in the middle of the table. Any one of them could have quite readily filled them out with barely a moment of concentration. If their flagship ordered them to fill it out by hand, though, while they (or at least, the most conscious part of them) were quite literally in her world…

The threat went unsaid.

All present breathed a digital sigh of relief when the mountain disappeared a moment later. Daybreak Flame cleared her throat.

“I believe that we were discussing our performance in the exercise…”

The Taylor -class ships, aside from the already sitting Gray , dropped into their seats with groans that sounded more suited to middleschool girls than actual warships.

“...and ways to improve on it, such as through potential refits…”

Now that got them to perk up. Few things quite captured a ship's attention like the possibility of shiny new hardware. The destroyers almost immediately descended into bedlam, each presenting increasingly drastic rebuilds. 

Gray presented the sanest option, additional forward missile hardpoints. She rather undercut the “sane” aspect with a rant about turning her enemies into art installations.

Yuuki presented an alternative, that they completely remove their crew and main gun to make room for a hangar bay and fighter drones.

Taylor , however, took the cake by declaring that the three of them should be welded together into a frankensteined monstrosity of a cruiser, if you could even call it as such.

Their nominal leader sighed. At least they were vaguely on topic now.

Kamihama was both a center of trade and a military stronghold. A vast battlestation stood sentinel over the last bastion of civilization for lightyears. The star itself was orange, one of the better candidates for supporting life, a promise borne out by Kamihama b. The system’s sole habitable planet was a tundra world, only warm enough for unaugmented humans near the equator. Its colonization was a recent event, only started once the Mitakihara system was built up. Most people actually lived in the great station above the planet, or various smaller habitats scattered around. 

Various other planets, moons, and sizable asteroids had their own stations, if only for mining. Kamihama e, a gas giant, sported a sizable volatiles industry, with its largest moon refining it into fuel.

At the fringes of the system floated a massive ring, a memory of times long past.

Kamihama was the only viable stopover in a trade route, between the sector proper and the far-flung redoubt of House Kassador. It was also the only Mitakiharan system where foriegn ships were a regular occurrence-merchants loading up on fuel and supplies, mercenaries accompanying them, scavengers and explorers taking advantage of the somewhat isolated pocket of civilization to range out deeper into uncharted territory, and sometimes they’d see a fleet that was all of the above.

Trade means wealth, and wealth, of course, attracts attention. Pirates were always a concern, lurking in hyperspace to pounce on the unwary, or else bursting into the system in an attempted lightning raid. The battlestation made sure that they couldn’t do any extreme damage, discouraged the great raiding armadas that were the talk of bars all over the sector, and the local patrols kept the smaller groups at bay-but it only took one little raiding party to slip through, lunging at a lightly-defended merchant fleet and disappearing with whatever loot they could salvage (they weren’t likely to take you alive, pirates, nor your ship intact. Something to be grateful for). Lives would be lost, ships destroyed, trade disrupted, relations deteriorated.

Hence, the navy’s newest battlecruiser jumping into realspace, flanked by her modest escort.

There was a very brief moment of panic throughout the system, as various sensors picked up the arrival of a BIG ship, an instant before they recognized her IFF codes. Various AIs stood down before their human crews even reacted, breathing simulated sighs of relief. On the station, an admiral looked up from charts of nearby systems, briefly concerned, and then determined. 

At the edge of the system, an unassuming freighter slipped out into hyperspace.

Chapter Text

The devil descended upon the poor, defenseless villagers, with a steely heart and fiery eyes. Her lips drew up in a cruel smirk as she ransacked their homes, stole their crops, harassed their merchants, and burned down a few buildings.

She alighted upon a hill overlooking the carnage, a cruel little laugh escaping her throat, a dark thing that promised eons of pain and suffering. Then she noticed the time.

“Ah. That will be all for today, my loyal demons.”

With that the world disappeared, replaced by the image of a goth princess’s bedroom. 

“Oops, wrong room.”

The image abruptly shifted, to a similarly themed study. After a moment, the devil herself appeared, seated behind the desk. She clasped her hands together, tilting her head to the side. A slight smirk completed the look, giving her an air of arrogance.

“Alright, that was hardcore Minecraft. As a reminder, I’ll catch up with this week’s superchats tomorrow, and post next week’s schedule on monday. It’ll be lighter than usual, since I’ll be busy with…uh…hell stuff.”

She swiftly recovered from her momentarily slip, a wicked grin breaking out across her face.

“Until then, goodbye my little demons, Akuma Hoshi-sama out!”

She gave a jaunty little wave, the chat scrolling bye in a sidebar, a few last-minute “donations” flooding in. The last one to slip in (in the later archived version of the stream) was blank. 

Madoka sighed as the stream ended. She’d been hanging on to that superchat for a while, writing and erasing messages as she went. Now she’d given up her one guaranteed shot at getting her comment read for the week (Madoka was a responsible girl, and only allocated a portion of her weekly allowance to simping).

She rolled away from her laptop, clutching her favorite stuffed animal. Akuma Hoshi-Sama. She was a real veteran of the Vtuber scene-not quite from the first wave, but older than most of the big groups like Homolive or Rikusanku. She was still independent, though had plenty of friends and collaborators among the wider community.

She was also, in Madoka’s professional opinion, pretty “damn” hot.

She snuggled more closely against her stuffed animal, burying her face in it, as if to hide her blush. She knew that she shouldn’t be so enamored with someone’s 2d avatar, no matter if it moved with her, or if it had smoldering eyes, or if it pulled up the “evil demon queen” look well enough to give her funny feelings.

But that was only the beginning. Madoka’d really fallen for her favorite streamer for the little bits of personality that poked through her devilish veneer. The hints of clumsiness, like her mixup with the background earlier. Or the way she’d talk about “hell school,” whether the things she’d learned or the friends she’d made. It sounded…beautiful. Madoka wished that she was one of Akuma Hoshi’s friends, so that she could see what she loved about it so much.

These thoughts drifted around her, as she felt her bed sway. It rocked back and forth, the way it did when sleep was coming for her.

Her last conscious thought, before she was carried off to dreamland on demonic wings, was that she looked forward to chatting about the stream with Homura-chan tomorrow.

Homura really wasn’t looking forward to talking about the stream with Madoka tomorrow. This was not, to be clear, from any particular aversion to her company. She loved her “best friend.” The problem, if it could be called that, was that Madoka really loved her…her vtuber self. Listening to her enthusiastic rants about how cute “Akuma Hoshi” (a name she’d been quite proud of at the time) could be did dangerous things to her heart.

Already, she could feel her heart stumble, Madoka’s blank superchat doing things to her. Part of her felt kinda guilty for taking her friend’s money in disguise, part of her suspected that Madoka would only be more determined in her generosity if she knew the truth. Just one more reason to keep it a secret.

That pink siren was going to be the death of her one day, she just knew it.

Madoka dragged herself out of bed, and the devilish arms her dream-self had been wrapped in. She paused, staring down at herself, a faint blush creeping into her face. It looked like, after her last dream, she’d have to find time to discreetly wash her sheets.

The rest of her morning, thankfully, went smoothly. She burned her mother with the hateful glare of the sun, the two performing many of their abulations together. Madoka was on tiptoes the entire time, some part of her convinced that her mom could read her mind.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nope! No! Nada! I definitely didn’t dream about-”

Madoka slapped her hand over her mouth. Junko, mercifully, didn’t push further. As much as she would like to tease her daughter over her apparent celebrity crush (did streamers count as celebrities? Junko would admit that she wasn’t too sure, most of her knowledge of the subject coming from her daughters’ rants), she was not yet awake enough to bother. It was a good thing that her issue was largely harmless, or else she might be forced to Parent. 

Tomohisa, bless his soul, had breakfast ready with his usual aplomb, rising to meet the chaotic mornings undeterred. He really was something special-she’d like to see any of the dumb pigs she worked with try to do the same. 

Her eyes swept over her kids. Madoka inhaled her food with the enthusiasm of someone who’d just avoided an embarrassing conversation and wanted to get out of the building ASAP. Tatsuya, for his part, seemed determined to eat as slowly as possible, while maximizing the amount of wasted food. It was almost admirable. 

The last plate was already in the sink. The slightly earlier hours of highschool meant that Kyubey was at the door when she sat down, lingering just long enough to say goodbye to the other women of the house before escaping into the light. Real responsible, that one. Barely a freshman, and she already had a part time job. Yet…a faint headache warned her that that one was going to be the most troublesome of all. A tomato bounced off her cheek, Tatsuya letting out a cheer.

Second most troublesome.

Chapter Text

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“Called it.” I crowed, grinning as Sayaka tried to cover up her thigh-a rather difficult proposal, seeing as there was a vampire licking it. 

Hitomi glared at me through bloody eyes, her nails digging into Sayaka’s soft flesh (drawing out a yelp). Her tongue flicked in and out of a mouth full of sharp fangs, looking like it could tear my throat right out. It was, not gonna lie, pretty damn hot. If it weren’t for a certain goth catgirl…

Anyway, Ms. seaweed hair blinked a couple times, her eyes returning to their usual green. It seemed as though all the red from her eyes rushed to her face, as she came down from the blood high. Shame, she was pretty hot in her “this-is-my-prey” mode. 

Slowly, sheepishly, the monstergirl pulled herself away from her lunch’s leg, Sayaka taking advantage of the opportunity to finally cover up (not that that accomplished much-she wasn’t really showing any more skin than usual, and she was hardly going to delete that memory from my brain-I’d already flagged it for long term storage).

Hitomi, still blushing, seemed determined to change the subject. 

“He-hello Madoka, what brings you here today?”

Frank the vampire sipped at his blood-coffee, an utterly disgusting creation that nonetheless kept him awake during the long daylight hours. He didn’t actually mind his job-decent pay, good benefits, an excuse not to mingle with his kin. 

The compound was mostly quiet, on an average day, the cameras showing a few servants making their rounds while the masters slept. It was never entirely still, but this was about as close as it ever came. He liked it.

The eternal storm clouds up above kept the light down to a soft glare, the indirect sunlight only enough to tingle. 

He didn’t have much to do most days, besides flipping through the camera feeds and occasionally glancing up at the road, plus directing the occasional delivery truck. Most people were smart enough to not poke at the vampires’ den. He didn’t need to go much real guarding, though he still kept up a modicum of effort.

Perhaps, were he a bit lazier, or had the duller senses of a human, things would have gone differently. As it was, he caught a glimpse of something. A shadow, a flicker in the corner of his eye. 

He caught the wrist holding the first blade, saw the dull glint of light off the second. It seemed as though it was time for him to do his job.

Something tingled in the air, as Sayaka took the sword from me. A little tickle started up in my chest, and my back ached from an invisible weight. I supposed that the sword was acknowledging its new owner, who looked at it with the fear-tinged awe any girl who dreamed of being a hero might give a sacred sword.

Hitomi, more sensitive to magic than either of us, frowned at the exchange. Said frown disappeared with a shriek as Sayaka drew the weapon. The seaweed-haired vampiress all but leapt off the bed.

“Are you alright?”

Sayaka turned as she asked, her movement bringing the sword closer to Hitomi, who scrambled back and cringed away.

“Sayaka, holy blade!”

“Huh?”

“Holy bad for vampires!” The mere presence of the blessed blade apparently drained her vocabulary.

“Oh! Sorry babe.” 

Sayaka sheathed her new sword. I, for my part, resisted the urge to draw mine and wave it in Hitomi’s face. That felt like something that only her girlfriend/lunch could get away with. The vampire knew me a bit too well, and kept one eye on my anti-dark lord weapon as she drew herself up.

Sensing that it was time to change the subject, both Sayaka and I spoke up.

“So, what’s with the swords?”

“So, how long have you two been together?”

We stared at each other for a moment, before she evidently decided that my question needed answering first. 

“Together? No-umm…we aren’t…”

“We aren’t?”

“We are?”

“We are!”

“Okay.”

Sayaka turned back to me.

“About five seconds, officially?”

I turned to Hitomi, raising an eyebrow. All trace of her earlier, bestial self, was gone, replaced by a blushing schoolgirl. That was quite some gap there.

“About a month…I forgot to bring a blood pack one day, and you were off chatting up a harpy…”

Ah, I remembered that. Technically speaking, she was actually a thunderbird, a pretty rare species of harpy relative around here. I thought that I was actually getting somewhere with her, but I turned away and she was gone in a flash.

I nodded. “So, you abducted Sayaka and carried her off to your-”

“I did nothing of the sort!”

“Ah, so you enthralled her with your lesbian vampire powers and-”

“I don’t have lesbian vampire powers!”

“Fine, bisexual vampire powers-”

“I just asked her for some blood!”

My grin had only grown throughout that entire exchange, while Hitomi’s blush intensified and her voice rose in pitch, and Sayaka's face had sunk deeper into her hands. Damn, angry-and-flustered Hitomi was adorable . I had to keep thinking about Homura, else I might’ve done something rash. 

“So, about a month then?”

“Yeah.”

“What does her blood taste like?”

“Madoka!”

Vampires, while many liked to pretend otherwise, were very close relatives of werewolves. Some thought that they were even the same species, as little as a couple thousand years ago (monstergirls, or just monsters in the case of the two species in question, could evolve quite rapidly). Some vampire clans even retained the ability to turn into wolves, though not the hulking hybrid forms of their more bestial cousins. In any case, this heritage could become obvious in times of stress-the hard glare of a predator, teeth besides the iconic twin fangs growing sharp and hard, a rumbling growl, and monstrous strength forced into a human frame.

An angry vampire, or a fearful one, could rip right through their own civilized veneer, letting out a beast that humans once spoke of only in fearful whispers.

So, it meant a lot when Frank realized that he was getting his ass kicked.

“So, you just had a couple magical darkness-sealing blades lying around?”

“They were buy one get one.”

“That…makes sense?” Hitomi seemed to doubt that even as she said it, face twisted in a look that obviously asked “is this a human thing, or a poor thing?” Not that either of the human girls were poor, per se (have you seen the size of Madoka's house? In a fairly urban part of Japan?), but the vampire was used to an entirely different level (having an entire family compound just outside a Japanese city).

“And you’re giving me one because?” Sayaka’s own expression was only marginally less confused, but she handled it better.

“The Dark Lord is coming, and I have pink hair.”

“Fair point.”

We all nodded, each pretending that our minds weren’t still dwelling on how I’d found the two. There was an awkward pause. Our obvious conversation options were exhausted, and it seemed that none of us knew where to go next.

I was almost relieved when the Ninja burst through the window.

<<Previous Monstrum Puella 4 Next>>

Chapter Text

“What.”

“Oh, damn, this is pretty weird.”

Miki Sayaka (Puella Magi vers.) looked down at herself, patting here and there, as if to assure herself that she was really there. Miki Sayaka (schoolgirl vers.), on the other hand, had the glassy eyes of someone who was in the middle of a mental reboot.

The pale-haired mystery girl, for her part, was still sobbing into Mami’s chest (a rather pleasant experience, Homura recalled from an early loop).

“Miki.”

“Yes?”

“What?”

Ah. This was quickly getting annoying.

“The one with healing magic.”

The magical girl stepped forward, looking down at her.

“Yes?”

“My spine is broken.”

“Wow, that sucks.”

Homura twitched. The (theoretically) less useless Miki stared at her. 

“Heal me.” Perhaps a little rude, but Homura couldn’t bring herself to say more-not to Miki. Part of her refused to show any weakness to her. Granted, having a broken spine was already a bit of a weakness, to say the least…

“Oh, yeah, sure-all you had to do was ask.”

Homura was going to kill her.

Now that her back wasn’t fucking broken, Homura grabbed the blue magical girl’s wrist.

“We need to talk.”

“Why Akemi-san, I had no idea that you felt that way! Though I of course cannot accept your feelings, as I-”

“Miki?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“I thought that you wanted to talk?” Her grin…her fucking grin.

Homura’s growl would have had witches running for the hills. Miki was, of course, completely unaffected. 

She dragged her outside, past the still-frozen Miki and… intrigued Madoka. That was going to be an issue, wasn’t it? Well, one thing at a time.

They rounded a couple corners, reaching what she deemed to be a sufficiently isolated corner in a relatively unused alleyway.

“What do you remember?”

“My favorite pokemon is Samurott.”

“Of course it-no, wait, you know that that’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah.”

Just like that, a change came upon the blue magical girl. Her smile fled her face and she seemed to lose several inches as she slumped down, leaning against the grimey brick wall for support. Homura knew enough about putting up a front to recognize when someone let go of theirs.

“Yeah, I know what you want to know, more or less. Oktavia. That shit.” Her voice had lost its teasing lilt, mostly sounded tired.

Where, there it was, the confirmation that she’d been looking for. At this point, Homura realized that she had no idea what to do with this information. Miki didn’t look any better, eyes gazing at nothing in particular.

“Do you…remember how you got like…this?” With that, Homura gestured at the other girl’s whole…not-being-a-witch-ness.

She got a shrug in reply.

“You and Mami took me down, things got dark for a bit, then things got weird and I was standing over you.”

“Weird?”

“Weird.”

Well. At least that narrowed down what sort of loop she was from-Tomoe survived until pretty late, Kyoko might not have even showed up, and Madoka probably wasn’t a magical girl. Probably somewhere between loops 12 and 47, she’d guess. An eternity ago.

They both stood there for a while, each caught up in their own thoughts.

“So…time travel?”

“Yeah.” It was a pretty obvious conclusion.

“That explains…things.”

Homura nodded. 

“That girl…she was Charlotte, wasn’t she?”

“That seems likely.” 

“She was acting like she’d killed Mami or something.”

“Mmm.”

“...How long?” Hesitance, an uncommon reaction from the swordswoman. Then again, she was in a situation that encouraged her to self-reflect. Remembering your own death can inspire caution.

“How long have you been doing this?”

A bestial snarl rumbled through the alley. Homura realized that she was growling.

“That long, huh?”

Since when did that useless bisexual get perceptive ?

It seemed that the others had been awaiting their return, as the other Miki ran up to them. She was moving her mouth flaps, yet Homura found that none of her supposed words reached her. One Miki was quite enough, thank you.

Pushing undead-Miki forward to distract mundane-Miki was perhaps a little cruel. She’d done worse.

It seemed as though Tomoe had calmed probably-Charlotte, the two talking in whispers. She started heading over, but was stopped by an obstacle. A very pink obstacle.

“Homura-chan?”

“Madoka.”

She was obviously uncomfortable, hunched over like she wanted to fold in on herself and disappear. Her eyes struggled to stay their course, and a faint tremble could just about be seen in her shoulders.

Despite all those very clear signs of trepidation, her jaw had a stubborn set to it, and when their eyes did meet, the pink pair had some fire to them.

“We…you’re a time-traveler, right?”

Of course they’d figured it out-there were only so many explanations for the appearance of a strange girl that seemingly knew them, not to mention another version of one of themselves. Plus, probably-Charlotte had calmed down enough that they might have gotten something useful out of her. Beyond that, Homura herself hadn’t precisely been hiding her nature, simply relying on the fact that most people wouldn’t immediately leap to that particular conclusion.

“And…you know me, from before?”

Homura suddenly felt very, very tired. This wasn’t the first Madoka had figured it out, but it was a pretty rare occurrence. Those loops were…rarely easy. Sure, she was very slightly more likely to listen to her, but the way that she would look at her.

Homura’s silence was, in hindsight, as clear an answer as any.

“Umm…Nagisa-chan…she said that you were my future wife?”

“Who did what now?”

Chapter Text

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It was odd, traveling with another human. What did that say about her?

Sayaka had taken her loss in stride-it was hard to imagine how she’d imagined winning, what with using three moemon who didn’t know a single damaging move. It was, honestly, pretty impressive-had she gone out of her way to catch them specifically? And, if so, why had she challenged her? Was she a masochist? Were her moemon masochists? Surely the Wailmer, at least, could have won simply by sitting on Lily?

That last thought brought to mind a good number of images, and some quite… pleasant ones, at that. She was beyond grateful that no-one could see her blush. Sayaka was walking ahead a bit, leading her to the nearest town. Granted, the route was largely linear, but it was a nice thought. Not as nice as being straddled by a cute whale-monster-girl who- woah there, calm down girl .

Lily chittered from above. Even if she’d won the battle undamaged (save for a slight headache from so many tackles), she was still pretty tired out-but not so much that she wanted to go back in her moeball. Hence, her current perch on Homura, legs straddling her neck, chin nestled in her mistress’s hair. Luckily, Homura’s general… distraction …didn’t extend to the Eevee. That would be weird-she was a foot tall, and…hers. Granted, she had heard rumors of Moemon and their trainers, which got her mind drifting back to her earlier preoccupation.

Sayaka, thankfully, provided a ready distraction.

“So, if you don’t mind me saying, I can’t help but notice that you only have one moemon…”

“Despite being my age, and carrying the tools of a trainer?” It was pretty easy to spot her Moedex on her belt, next to five empty slots for moeballs, and her bag was of a general style popular with young trainers. It wasn’t terribly hard to figure out her general status.

Sayaka nodded. “Yeah. I mean, it’s fine if you don’t-”

“I was sick.”

“Oh.”

“I only recently recovered enough to go on my journey, so I’m…late.”

Sayaka backpedaled. “Its cool-our current champion got a late start, too. Some sort of family thing.”

Homura made a vague noise in reply. Truth be told, she was a bit behind on League news. She’d obsessed over it, for a while, but it had…not helped her general state of mental health, once it became clear that she would be more than a little late for her own journey, assuming that she could have one at all.

Lily seemed to pick up on her general line of thought, nuzzling the top of her head in comfort. A smile crept onto her face. That was around when one of the nurses gave her Lily, saying something about her getting a chance to at least bond with a moemon, even if she couldn’t take her out to fight. That was the official story, at least. In hindsight, she suspected that it was a Jirachi Foundation thing, but they pretended otherwise for her own sake-that sort of thing was, after all, meant for the dying.

Well, not that she was complaining. She’d been too stubborn to die (or, more realistically, too pathetic for Yveltal to bother with), and had gotten her own partner out of the deal.

The fisherwoman (fishergirl?) had to look away and cough. Even for someone used to moemon (and, for that matter, cute human girls), the sight of Homura’s quiet little smile, paired with the Eevee straddling her shoulders, was dangerously effective, and she had to double check that she hadn’t been hit by Charm or Attract or something.

“So, I take it that you’re aiming for the Yorishi gym?” It seemed a safe bet, what with it being at the end of their current route.

“I don’t think so. Lily and I don’t have a good answer for steel types, and training up a counter would take a while…” She also didn’t want to get a second partner specifically for a particular gym. 

“Ah, it’s not steel-type anymore.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. You know how it used to be rock type?”

Homura nodded. “The leader’s son started his pokemon journey with an Onix, but returned with a Steelix.” She vaguely remembered someone making a movie about it, the clash of generations and types making for sufficiently dramatic fodder.

“Well, that guy’s daughter got her hands on some flying fire types, and came back to challenge him.”

“Huh.”

“So it became a flying-type gym, then her daughter inherited it. It’s still technically the same type, but the daughter has a preference for Dark moemon, so now its practically a dual-type gym.”

There was a moment of silence as Homura digested that. The route was steadily climbing higher, trees becoming scarcer, the ground stonier. The types of moemon they saw changed too, the plants and bugs of the woodlands gradually replaced with hill and mountain pokemon, especially rocks. She saw a couple Geodude cuddling off to the side, which probably meant that there were a lot more nearby. She caught a glimpse of a Nosepass up on a cliff, and thought that she caught the cries of a Houndour pack in the distance. None of them seemed in any particular hurry to trouble the travelers-perhaps Sayaka had a repel?

“Should I be concerned over how the gym has changed types so often?” She half-expected to arrive, only to learn that it had turned back to a rock gym within the previous week.

Sayaka shrugged. Fair enough.

They reached Yorishi town without further incident, both girls visibly relaxing at the sight of a moemon center. It was a moderately young town, only established a couple centuries earlier, to help exploit nearby iron deposits. They weren’t quite into the true mountains yet, but they were well into the foothills, lots of gray and brown and relatively little green-though it seemed that the locals did try to maintain some plant life.  

The day was wearing on, most of the inhabitants were probably seeing to their dinners-a growl from Lily’s stomach rumbling against the back of Homura’s head reminded her of how long it’d been since her own last meal. 

The moemon center’s lobby was as sterile as ever, but the lodgings in the back were cozy enough. It was kinda funny, how their uniform fronts gave way to disparate backs. The one in her hometown was pretty much a cheap motel, while one she passed on her way had a large common room. The Yorishi center had more of a dorm-like feeling, several rooms were set up with a couple bunk beds each, with a small shared kitchen.

Sayaka insisted on cooking at first, but somehow managed to burn water. Homura took over, and just about managed something decent. It beat hospital food. Their moemon might have eaten better than they did, devouring a supply of berries. 

Neither of the girls were in the mood to put off sleep. Lily had already claimed a bed to share with Homura, while Sayaka lifted her Magikarp into another. Sleep came quickly, lured forth by the steady beats of her partner’s heart.

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Chapter Text

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Kyoko had figured that she’d be the first to fall, of their little trio. It just made sense-she was the one who spent the most time within arms reach of a wraith, while Homura and Mami had the good fortune of having proper ranged weapons. So long as Mami was in the right headspace, and Homura didn’t do something stupid, they could both keep their enemies at bay.

With Kyoko, though-it only took one mistake. It wasn’t even a particularly glaring one, her timing was just a bit off. For a moment, she was vulnerable, and in a moment, she was dead.

“Well, shit.”

That was, she felt, the only proper response to seeing her own body lying at her feet, Soul Gem darkening by the second. She supposed that it must be trying to heal her, despite the futility (wow, those really were a lot of lasers).

Footsteps. Mami and Homura were coming, the last wraiths vanquished, hastily collecting grief cubes as they ran. Kyoko turned away. She really didn’t want to see what came next.

“Well, are you going to prove my dad right or not?” 

She glared at the sky. To be clear, she was aware that there were far more possibilities for the afterlife than a binary true/false answer to her father’s beliefs. Truth be told, she didn’t really care either way. It was just something to distract her from the events conspiring right behind her.

“Geez, you’re really going to make me wait, aren’t you?”

Then she looked up.

“Huh. Pinker than I’d’ve thought.”

Yeah, Kyoko saw her death coming, in general terms. That didn’t mean that she’d given much consideration to what came afterwards. She mostly avoided that particular line of thought, her mind edging away from it whenever it came up, and not just out of a general aversion to death.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it probably wasn’t a cheap motel room. A particularly distasteful shade of green wallpaper was peeling itself off of flimsy-looking walls, while thin, moth-eaten curtains barely reduced the glare of the sun through the single slit window. The floor was covered in something that was more dirt than carpet, and, as she turned on the light, she found that it was a flickering, pale yellow.

She felt right at home, at first. 

There was something off about it, though. The mattress was as comfortable as any, the sheets soft and pillows had just the right amount of give. When she got to her feet, the carpet didn’t feel especially dirty-indeed, it was delightfully fluffy between her toes. All in all, it seemed like a luxury hotel themed as a cheap dive, like some designer had based it off of pictures without ever being inside a place with less than five stars. 

Her hackles rose. 

Ring. Gem. Burning. She stalked forward, spear in hand. She wasn’t really in the mood for subtlety. The door flew open at her touch.

The sun’s light (was it just her imagination, or did it have the faintest tinge of pink?) was never quite blinding, but she found herself dazzled anyway. She blinked a few times, clearing her vision. She was prepared for the fires of hell, for legions of wraiths, for a very disappointed-looking St. Peter. Some part of her had even expected to join her father in whatever pit he’d been cast into.

She was utterly unprepared for what she actually found, for nothing could prepare her for the horrors of…an ordinary street. No, perhaps not quite ordinary-it was a nice street. On one side was a line of houses-she wanted to call them townhouses, but she wasn’t quite sure of that. On the other was some sort of park. Pedestrians walked along the sidewalk, or through the park. She could just about hear the furor of some rowdy game going on in the distance.

A few passerby glanced at her-in full magical girl regalia, holding a spear-and barely seemed to notice. One or two gave her a polite wave.

That was when she noticed that she was far from the only one there holding weapons. At least one girl in three walked around armed with magical weapons-and, come to think of it, everyone she’d seen was a girl. A suspicion formed at the back of her mind.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake.”

Kyoko’s building looked just as much like a cheap hotel/motel from the outside, albeit a rather small one. It contrasted rather harshly with the nice townhouses on either side. Some part of her was oddly pleased about that.

A second floor hunched over the one she emerged from, a plain balcony cordoned off with a metal railing, peeling with puce paint. On this rail sat a small girl, hair white, eyes rings of orange and yellow. Her heels swung back and forth, bouncing off the rest of the metal fencing below her, each hit sending little flakes of rust and paint swirling to the ground.

Kyoko responded as was only appropriate. “Who the hell are you?”

She seemed to find that funny. “Nagisa Momoe.”

She dropped down, landed lightly in front of Kyoko, just far enough away that she didn’t instinctively stab her.

“From Mitakihara, though we never really met.”

Ah. A few suspicions, along with the faint memory of her own death, clicked together.

“Welcome to magical girl Valhalla!”

There were…a lot of questions she could ask, though they were swiftly overcome by the next thing out of Nagisa’s mouth.

“It’s kinda funny that you woke up on my watch, Yuma and Sayaka were both hoping that it’d be on theirs.”

Oh. Two of her greatest failures, the girl that she’d taken under her wing and the one she hadn’t gotten to in time. Both coming to greet her in death. 

She wondered if it was possible to die a second death, before either arrived.

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