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March 16 is the second-best day of Homura's life.
She opens her eyes and she is in her hospital room. It is a familiar room; it is a familiar day. Today, she will be discharged after months in the hospital. Today, she will go home and begin making preparations to transfer into a normal middle school. Today is the first day of the rest of her life.
Today is the first day of the rest of Madoka's life.
This time, Homura swears to herself as she swings her legs over the side of the bed, stands, strides across the room, and stares at her own flinty, unyielding gaze in the mirror. This time, I will not fail.
Homura stands at the front of the classroom, listening to the scritch-scritch of her name being written on the whiteboard. "My name is Akemi Homura," she says, too much by rote to be truly polite. She does not care. "I look forward to getting to know all of you."
She bows, properly. When she raises her head, her eyes are fixed unerringly on Madoka.
Madoka. Alive, breathing, her skin flush with warmth. The part in her hair dividing her two pigtails is slightly crooked, and she flinches a little under Homura's gaze, averting her eyes, fidgeting nervously. She doesn't know Homura, is unnerved by the way this new transfer student is staring at her. Intimidated, even.
Homura doesn't care. Instead, she drinks in the sight of Madoka. Madoka. Madoka.
This time, Homura promises to herself. This time.
She goes to her assigned seat and sits quietly throughout the entirety of homeroom, sneaking only occasional sidelong glances at Madoka. She can't help it; her eyes are drawn to Madoka of their own volition. Even after so many reversals, part of her is still amazed by the sight of Madoka alive, whole, well. Madoka is alive. Madoka is alive because of her.
(So many times, Madoka has died because of her. But none of that matters right now, because right now, Madoka is alive.)
Homura waits, patiently. When the bell rings to announce the end of homeroom, she stays in her seat, even as her classmates cluster around her. "Akemi-san," the girls all say, twittering like birds. From afar, the boys stare at her like she's some sort of exotic creature. She pays them no heed. Instead, she presses her fingers against her temple, feigning a headache. From the corner of her eye, she watches Madoka, who wavers uncertainly, looking up from her desk once, twice, bites her lip. She's nervous. No wonder; Homura had stared at her too long, too intently, at the beginning of class.
But Homura knows what kind of girl Madoka is. She's seen it countless times--in the glint in Madoka's eyes as she draws her bow against a witch, in the brightness of her smile as she speaks to people she's saved without them ever realizing it. In the strength of her grip as she clings to Homura's hand with the last of her dying strength, begging for salvation. Homura knows; Madoka is a pure, good, honest soul, one who suffers just watching others suffer, one who will sacrifice herself to save others from sacrificing themselves. She will act.
And she does. Madoka takes a deep breath, straightens, gets out of her desk chair and approaches Homura. "Excuse me, everyone," she says. "Akemi-san, you don't look well. I'm the nurse's aide for this class--should I take you to the nurse's office?"
Homura looks up. Madoka is looking at her, shifting a bit uncertainly, her hands clasped nervously behind her back. Homura breathes in, slowly. On the outside, she is calm and steady, but inside, she's trembling beneath the sheer intensity of her own emotions. Madoka.
Madoka beaming, taking Homura's hand in excitement, her fingers soft and warm, touching--
Madoka gasping in delight, "Wait, Homura-chan, you're a magical girl too? I had no idea! I look forward to working with you!"--
Madoka gritting her teeth, her face contorted in desperation, her soul gem pulsing with an uncanny, sickly light--
Madoka reaching out a hand, reaching for Homura, reaching--
Homura closes her eyes, shutting out all these pasts she's unwritten, all these futures that will never come to pass. "I would appreciate that," she says demurely, rising from her seat.
"No!" Sayaka screams. "You're the worst! I know what kind of person you are! I know!"
Homura looks at her dispassionately. Sayaka is a miserable wreck of a girl, her dress torn and bloodstained, her eyes wide and wild, dirt and blood smeared across her cheek. Her soul gem is clouded and sludgy and noxious. She doesn't have any grief seeds. None of them do.
Sayaka is doomed.
"What do we do?" Madoka whispers, pale and drawn. She turns to Homura, helpless. "What do we do, Homura-chan, we have to help her!"
"It's too late," Homura replies, and too easily, she lifts her pilfered gun. She doesn't look at Madoka; she cannot afford to flinch or waver or yield or break. Instead, she fixes her eyes on Sayaka, Sayaka who glares at her with such venom and loathing. "I'm sorry, Miki Sayaka," she says. She says the words, but she is not sorry, not in any meaningful sense; her empathy has curdled and warped, her ability for compassion atrophied. She has seen Sayaka die too many times to weep for her. For Madoka's sake, Sayaka is a sacrifice that must be made. There is no saving her, not anymore. Perhaps there never was and never will be.
"Homura-chan!" Madoka says, panic filling her voice. "What are you doing?"
"Look at her soul gem," Homura says tersely. "She's beyond saving."
Sayaka barks out a hideous laugh. "Go ahead," she spits. "I know you just want to kill me." There's an ugly fire in her eyes, dark and malevolent. "I'm just in your way, aren't I? Fine! Go on, kill me! Kill me!"
Homura does not say anything in response. She simply lines the barrel of the gun up with Sayaka's corrupted soul gem.
"Homura-chan!" Madoka cries out, her fingers clutching at Homura's arm. "Homura-chan, no!"
Homura grits her teeth, shakes off Madoka's grasp, grips the gun in both hands to steady her aim--
"Homura-chan!" Madoka screams--
Homura pulls the trigger--
--bang
--and Sayaka's eyes go wide in horror, a fresh splatter of crimson across her face, as Madoka staggers and slumps to the ground--
No.
She rewinds.
March 16 is the second-best day of Homura's life, because it is the beginning of the rest of Madoka's life.
The day after Homura is discharged from the hospital, she goes to meet Madoka.
She plans it out meticulously. She knows Madoka's route home from school, knows where she's likely to detour with Sayaka and Hitomi, knows where she parts ways with her friends and walks the rest of the way home alone. Homura knows this all intimately well--has walked those streets with Madoka, in so many lives that never happened--and she picks her place accordingly.
So when Madoka rounds the corner, Homura is there.
Madoka is alone, in her school uniform, her school bag tucked under her arm. She walks with a bit of pep in her step, humming an aimless tune under her breath. Homura allows herself a moment to gaze at her. Just a moment. Just a fraction of a second to see with her own eyes that Madoka is alive, is here, is alive--
Just a moment. Then Homura rushes up to her, harried and flustered. Madoka draws up, clearly startled. Homura bows, short and quick, an apology and an introduction all at once. "Excuse me," she says, pitching her voice a bit high, injecting a tinge of confusion into her tone. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm lost. Can you tell me how to get to Mitakihara Middle School?"
She is the very picture of a very lost girl, and she knows Madoka will be drawn to help her, because that is who Madoka is. And as expected, Madoka's surprised expression is immediately overwritten by a smile, friendly and reassuring. "Of course!" she says cheerfully. "It's not that far, I can give you directions if you'd like!"
Homura lets out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank you so much!" she gushes, clasping her hands together in a show of earnestness. "I don't know how I got so turned around--I'm going to be transferring in next week, so I thought I'd go see the school before I started there, but I don't know this area too well yet, I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere--"
Madoka brightens further, if that's even possible. "You're going to be going to transferring into Mitakihara Middle School?" she asks. "That's actually my school!" She's bouncing a bit in excitement, and it's so adorable, so genuine, that Homura's heart twangs. "Why don't I walk you there? I can tell you about the school if you have any questions!"
Homura backpedals, already waving her hands in the air. "Oh, no, you don't have to do that!" she exclaims. It is an act; she knows Madoka will take the bait. "If you could just give me directions--I don't want to inconvenience you--"
"It's not an inconvenience!" Madoka insists. "It isn't that far. I'll walk you there. It's that way."
Madoka turns to head back to Mitakihara Middle School, and Homura falls into step beside her. The feeling of walking side-by-side with Madoka is painful in its nostalgia, a bittersweet tang that makes her heart clench. "Thank you so much," she says, and can only hope that the quaver in her voice does not betray her.
Madoka smiles at her. "It's not a problem!" she says. "I'm happy to help a new schoolmate. What year are you?"
"Second year," Homura replies.
Madoka claps her hands together. "Me, too!" she exclaims. Her eyes shine brightly. "Maybe we'll be in the same class! I'm Madoka, by the way. Kaname Madoka. But you can call me Madoka! What's your name?"
"Akemi Homura," Homura replies.
"Homura-chan," Madoka says, and she smiles that smile, the one that tips her head to the side and crinkles her eyes, and Homura loves all of Madoka's smiles, but this one--
Homura shakes her head to herself. She can't afford to get distracted, not now. More importantly, there's something she has to check.
"Madoka-chan," she says, "do you believe in magic?"
Homura is pretty sure she has her schedule right, pretty sure she knows the timing. Pretty sure that right now Madoka is only Madoka, not a magical girl. But she has to make sure.
Madoka doesn't seem surprised or put off by the abrupt question. Instead, she gazes skyward, pressing a finger to her chin as she ponders. "I'm not sure," she says, thoughtful. "But I want to believe it's real!"
She's so innocent, so pure-hearted, so good. Homura needs to protect that. Protect her.
If that means never letting her become a magical girl in the first place, so be it.
Madoka glances over at her, curious. "Why do you ask, Homura-chan?"
Homura offers her a sheepish smile. "I was just thinking," she says. "Of all the people I could have run into, it was another student at the same school. What are the odds?" She laughs, a bit awkwardly. "I guess I just kind of felt like meeting you was magic."
Madoka laughs, as beautiful and clear as the peal of a bell. The sound alone makes Homura's heart swell, touches her deep in her soul, and she could live forever in this moment, she could--
And then, from the corner of her eye, she sees it.
It sits huddled beneath a bush on the side of the road, its head cocked quizzically to the side, its eyes dark and bloody. It meets her gaze squarely, and its ears twitch, ever so slightly. Its tail sways, peeking out from beneath the twigs and leaves.
It does not know her, not quite, but she knows it. She stares back at it with narrowed eyes, a silent challenge. Then, for a moment--just a moment--she allows herself a small, smug smile.
You can't have her, Incubator, she thinks. Not this time.
For a split second, Homura cannot believe her own eyes.
Madoka walks as though in a daze, her eyes distant and glazed over, her steps shuffling and uneven. She staggers to the left, then the right, wending a zigzag pattern down the sidewalk. Passersby dip and duck to avoid her, a young mother hauling her stroller out of the way, an elderly man drawing back his cane. There is something clearly wrong with her, and they react as though it is contagious, eyeing her askance as they skitter away from her.
But Homura can see the witch's strings manipulating her, see Madoka powerless to resist. She sees it, but the mere idea of a witch seizing control of Madoka like that is unthinkable--intolerable--unacceptable--and for a moment, just a moment, she cannot believe that this is happening.
That moment is her undoing.
Madoka's body lurches to the side, tripping over the edge of the sidewalk. The traffic is oncoming.
"Madoka!" Homura screams.
Madoka staggers into the street--
A car horn blares--
Time stops--
--time stops, but it is too late, too late--
No.
She rewinds.
March 16 is the second-best day of Homura's life, because it means she can still save Madoka.
Homura is not a shy, sweet, demure, retiring girl, not anymore. It's no longer a role she's comfortable playing, an ill-fitting suit she has long since cast off in order to achieve her one and only true wish.
She dons it anyway.
She wrings her hands nervously as Saotome-sensei introduces her to the class, bites her lip, keeps her eyes averted bashfully. "I'm Akemi Homura," she says, her voice soft and breathless. "It's--it's nice to meet everyone."
She bows deeply, the better to hide her face from her curiously peering classmates; when she straightens, she still keeps her head ducked, fidgeting slightly in a show of anxiety. Then Saotomo-sensei says, "You can take a seat next to Kaname-san!"
Homura raises her head. Madoka has raised her hand, and she looks at Homura with a warm, welcoming smile.
Madoka. Alive. Alive.
Homura sits down at the desk next to Madoka's, awkwardly rearranges her skirt, plucks at the hem, glances at Madoka from the corner of her eye. It's so hard, so hard not to stare at her, to warn her, to reach out for her--but Homura resists. She swallows. "Excuse me, Kaname-san," she whispers. Madoka's family name has an awful mouthfeel, so distant and formal, and it leaves a bitter aftertaste. Madoka, she thinks, but does not say. "May I ask you a favor?"
Madoka looks over. For a moment, her expression is slack with surprise, but then she beams, so bright and joyful that it makes Homura's heart ache. "What is it, Akemi-san?"
She's so sincere and kind that Homura can barely stand to look at her without weeping. But she must. She must. "Saotome-sensei told me that you're the nurse's aide for this class," Homura says, her voice as small and timid as she can make it. "Do you think you could take me there after homeroom? I need to take my medicine."
The brilliance of Madoka's smile does not dim or flicker, but it turns soft, understanding. "Of course," she says reassuringly. "You just got out of the hospital, didn't you? It must be hard, being back at school. If you need any help, let me know!"
I'm the one who's supposed to be helping you, Homura thinks. There is an undercurrent of desperation that simmers within her, an eternal flame of terror that she keeps only barely at bay. I will save you. I will save you. I will save you.
"Thank you, Kaname-san," she murmurs, and dredges up a shaky smile that does not betray any of the truth.
Madoka grins back at her; a sight Homura has seen countless times, a vision that overlaps with all the other Madokas she has failed. "You can call me Madoka, if you'd like," she says. "Can I call you Homura-chan?"
The sound of her name on Madoka's lips makes her heart flutter and flail. "Of course," she says, "Madoka-chan," and she knows what a blessing and honor it is to say that name.
Homura has done nothing to earn it, not yet. But she will. She will.
"Homura-chan," Madoka croaks. She struggles to rise to her feet, wobbles, slips in her own blood to sprawl on the filthy pastel tiles of the labyrinth. All around them, the witch's eerie, tinny laugh echoes, reverberating through the air like some unholy incantation.
"Madoka," Homura gasps. She drops to her knees beside Madoka, ignores the hot wetness of blood seeping through her tights, gathers up Madoka in her arms. "Madoka, no--"
Madoka's eyes, shining with tears and terror, reflect the kaleidoscope of color all around them. A shadow of the witch passes over, darkening her face. Her fingers are weak, barely twitching as they struggle to clutch at Homura's arms. Every breath rattles damply in her chest. "Homura-chan," she whispers. There is blood in her throat, in her voice; it trickles from the corner of her mouth. "Homura-chan, run."
"I can't leave you," Homura chokes out. "I won't leave you, I won't!" She presses her hands desperately against Madoka's abdomen, against ribboned flesh and shredded organs, trying to stanch the bleeding, but the blood keeps coming, and coming, and coming--
Until,
eventually,
it stops.
No.
She rewinds.
Homura wakes up staring at the familiar ceiling of her hospital room, her eyes blurry with tears.
For a long time, she simply lies there, unmoving, weakened, weak. She doesn't have the strength to rise, to fight, to persevere.
Madoka, she thinks.
Somehow, she rolls her head over to the side and looks at the calendar pinned to the too-white wall. The days are crossed out, one by one, until today. March 16.
March 16 is the second-best day of Homura's life. This, she believes. She must believe it.
Homura strides across the classroom with her head held high and her expression stone. She turns with military precision to face the rest of the class, and she stares stoically at the back wall, sparing not so much as a glance for any of her new classmates.
"This is our new student, Akemi Homura-san!" Saotome-sensei says with unfeigned enthusiasm. "Everyone, please make sure to welcome her!" She bends over slightly to look at Homura. "Do you have anything to say to the class, Akemi-san?"
Homura bows, stiff and proper. "I'm Akemi Homura," she says. Her voice is at absolute zero; she cannot muster the willpower to pretend. Even merely standing here is nearly more than she can bear. She is too fragile, too worn-down, too battle-weary. When she straightens, she returns her gaze to the wall and says nothing else.
She does not look at Madoka, because she knows that if she does, she will break.
Saotome-sensei falters. "Well," she says, then pauses, as though at a loss. "Well, Akemi-san, you can take a seat next to Kaname-san. She's the nurse's aide for this class, so she can help you if you need to go to the nurse."
Homura walks down the aisle, ignoring the flurry of whispers in her wake. She takes her seat and ducks her head just enough for her hair to veil her face. She can feel the curious gazes, but she has no desire to meet them.
To her side, a faint rustle of movement. She doesn't try to look, doesn't try to sneak even a glimpse. But nevertheless, from the corner of her eye, she can see Madoka lean forward, trying to catch her attention.
Madoka. Warm, breathing, alive. Alive.
In Homura's dreams, Madoka is dead.
There are so many ways she dies. She dies as a magical girl, beaten or bloodstained or beheaded, eyes gouged out, disemboweled, eviscerated; she dies in despair, her soul gem flickering and swallowed up by shadows, clutching at Homura with powerless fingers, her expression crumpled in desperation, in fear, in dawning acknowledgment of the horrific fate facing her and all the people she will make suffer. She dies as a normal girl, ignorant and innocent, caught up in a witch's maze, lured by a darkness she does not understand and cannot resist to walk off the edge of a building or into the blade of a knife, caught in the crossfire of a war that rages somewhere beyond her ken. She dies lying sprawled at Kyubey's feet, her blood staining its maw, its eyes glittering as he looks up at Homura and grins. She dies, and she dies, and she dies.
She dies, and Homura wakes up, breathlessly staring at the ceiling of her hospital room, thinking of a multitude of futures that no longer exist. That Homura will not let exist.
No matter how many times Madoka dies, Homura will ensure that she lives. But even if Madoka does not remember, Homura does. She remembers every single time.
(If she is the one turning back time to save Madoka's life, does that mean it is her fault that Madoka dies and dies and dies?)
Madoka.
Madoka is alive. Right now, she's here, not even a meter away, within arm's reach. She is alive.
But she will die.
The weight of this knowledge strikes Homura suddenly, with a chilling, stunning certainty.
Madoka is alive. But Homura will let her die.
The bell rings, and the entire class surges into motion, a commotion of chairs scraping against the floor and voices raised in freedom. A cluster of girls forms quickly around Homura; they coo and pester, asking about her previous school, her hospital stay, what shampoo does she use? The inanity and futility of it all sickens her; their voices, high-pitched and giggly, are like icepicks driving into her temples. She wants peace and quiet. She wants to be away from here. She wants to spirit Madoka away, far from these pathetic little girls and boys who can't even begin to appreciate what Madoka has suffered for all their sakes, sweep Madoka off her feet and carry her far, far away from this cursed town and its witches and its Incubator and--
"Akemi-san?"
Homura jolts, her head snapping up. Her vision swims, but still she can see, with dizzying clarity, as Madoka stands beside her desk, gazing down at her with a concerned expression.
"Akemi-san, you don't look very well," Madoka says, her voice soft. "I know you've only just gotten out of the hospital. Should I take you to the nurse?"
Homura swallows. She's fixated on Madoka; she can't tear her eyes away. That sweet face, the stray strand of hair that managed to escape its pigtail. The way she clasps her hands behind her back, so disarming and innocent. That sympathetic, beautiful smile.
She is a dead girl walking.
Homura slowly rises to her feet. It's a struggle; everything is a struggle. "Thank you," she says, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I--yes, I think I should go to the nurse."
Madoka reaches out and takes her arm, gently. Even feather-light, her touch makes Homura's skin burn with self-recrimination. "Do you need help? You can lean on me if you'd like."
Homura wants to lean on her. She wants to feel Madoka's weight, her warmth, her slender body, the strength in her core. She wants to let Madoka hold her up, because she doesn't have the strength to hold herself up anymore.
But she must have the strength, because if she does not, all will be lost.
"I'm Madoka, by the way," Madoka says. "Kaname Madoka. But you can call me Madoka."
"Madoka," Homura whispers.
The worried furrow in Madoka's brow smooths out, just a little. "Can I call you Homura-chan?"
Madoka beaming, taking Homura's hand in excitement. "Homura-chan!"
Madoka gasping in delight, "Wait, Homura-chan, you're a magical girl too?"
Madoka gritting her teeth, her face contorted in desperation. "I have one more grief seed, Homura-chan. Use it."
Madoka reaching out a hand, reaching for Homura, reaching, her voice cracking as she begs, "Please, Homura-chan, I--"
Homura gazes desperately into Madoka's eyes. "Madoka," she whispers.
I can't.
I can't.
I can't make her die again.
Homura's knees buckle, and everything is blackness.
They send her back to the hospital.
The doctors can find nothing wrong with her. Of course they can't; she isn't ill, not anymore, hasn't been in a long time. But she gasps for air and staggers anyway, and they hospitalize her for more tests, more medication, more surveillance.
There's no medical reason for her to be in the hospital. But it's either that or go back to Mitakihara Middle School, go back to being a magical girl--go back to Madoka--and Homura can't. She can't. Not when she knows where that path ends.
She should have seen it long ago. Should have realized what kind of curse she was. Yes, a curse--she is a curse, a dark omen, a plague on Kaname Madoka's life. Madoka had been happy, carefree, alive, only for Homura to barge in on her life and bring tragedy raining down on her.
Homura has tried so many ways to make amends, repair her mistakes, save Madoka. Maybe she should have realized earlier who Madoka needed to be saved from.
Homura spends long days lying in her hospital bed, staring blankly at the wall. One of the nurses has taken to crossing off the days on her calendar, square by square; the others whisper pityingly outside her hospital door, careless of how their words echo through the hall. "Poor thing," they murmur. Their voices are sibilant, lingering in the air like the stench of antiseptic. "Just when we'd thought she'd recovered enough to go back to school. Poor thing, poor thing, poor thing."
Homura rolls over in her bed to stare at the other wall. Doctors come and go, their shoes thudding softly on the tile. She submits quietly to blood tests, MRIs, cardiograms, CT scans. They cluster together, poring over printouts and squinting at screens, mumbling their discontent. "Something's still wrong with her," they agree in hushed voices. "Something's wrong with her. But what? But what? But what?"
Homura squeezes her eyes shut and shuts out the world. She curls up on herself, her back hunched, her hair a tangled and frizzy mess, her arms trembling as she wraps them around her knees. She buries herself beneath the blankets and wishes she could bury herself alive. Madoka, she thinks bleakly. Madoka. Madoka. Madoka.
But she can't help Madoka. She is useless, helpless, hopeless. There is no point to her being here; there is no point to her continued existence as the warp in space-time. She cannot save Madoka.
All she can do is pray that Madoka can save herself.
At last, the hospital shrugs in defeat and discharges her.
Homura steps outside of the hospital and spends too long simply gazing at the sky, wondering how it could possibly be so blue. All around her, cars whiz past and people stride by, the hustle and bustle of a city that cannot begin to comprehend the guillotine hovering over it. The sound is a roar in Homura's ears; she cannot hear anything else, not even her own heartbeat.
At last, at loss for anything else to do, she begins walking.
At first, she roams aimlessly, turning random corners, wandering through the countless narrow streets that litter the residential neighborhoods, drifting through business districts beneath the shadows of looming skyscrapers. She passes a science museum whose main building is dwarfed by the enormous silver orb of its planetarium, an old Inari shrine with a path to an altar that is lined by bright vermillion torii gates, a middle school campus dominated by a glittering, hyper-modern building of glass and steel and technology where even now, boys in cream-colored gakuran and girls with ribbons at their throats walk out through the main gate--
Homura pulls up short. For a long, long moment, she simply stands there, frozen. Then, so slowly she can almost hear her muscles creak, she turns to look at the school campus that is so very familiar to her.
She had not intend to return to Mitakihara Middle School. She had never intended to set foot here again. And yet, here she is.
She stares at the school's familiar gate, her heart in her throat, a quivering deep in her gut. Her feet are cemented to the sidewalk; her body is stone, incapable of movement. She can't leave. She can't walk away.
And then, from the corner of her eye, a flicker of rose pink.
Homura's eyes go wide. Walking down the pathway, her steps shuffling and her head bowed, is Madoka.
Even from this distance, even at a glance, Homura can tell that something is amiss. It's apparent in every line of Madoka's body--the slump of her shoulders, the downward cast of her eyes, the way her fingers are curled only limply around the straps of her bag. Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.
(Homura does not know what is wrong, but she knows she can only make it worse.)
(Homura cannot stay here and make it worse.)
Homura stumbles back, wrenches around, flees. She pelts down the sidewalk, barges through a gaggle of students laughing and minding their own business, nearly knocks over a boy who lets out an undignified yelp. She doesn't stop, doesn't apologize, doesn't look back. Panting for air, her mind a fog of panic, her eyes burning, she runs.
Somewhere, in the chaos left in her wake, she thinks she hears a too-familiar voice say a too-familiar name. But it's gone in a breath of wind and the thunder of her own terrified heartbeat, and she doesn't turn back to see.
She runs until she has to jog, and jogs until she can do no more than walk, and then she walks, without aim, without purpose.
Night falls slowly, and then all at once. The sky goes hazy, then dark, and the street lamps and neon signs flicker to life. The hours tick by, until it's far too late for any girl her age to be out alone, and still she walks, the cityscape passing her by. A convenience store, staffed by a yawning young man who leans tiredly on the counter. A post office, shuttered, posters in the windows announcing banking services and warning about scams. A vending machine, its light-up display glowing eerily in the darkness as it advertises its hot canned coffee. A police box, a sign posted in front.
Homura pauses. She recognizes the face in the sign. She hesitates, then approaches, her footsteps slow and dragging, for a closer look.
MIKI SAYAKA, the sign reads, the kanji large and blocky. Below it is Sayaka's school photo, her smile just a bit cheeky. MISSING.
Homura looks at the poster dispassionately. She feels herself cold, heartless, but she has to be. There was no saving Sayaka; there never was and never will be. Homura already knew this. She cannot afford to mourn Sayaka, not in any timeline, but particularly not in this one, when Homura has given up on being the one to save Madoka--
Her train of thought hitches, stalls, doubles back. Madoka. Madoka.
She thinks of that glimpse she caught of Madoka at school. Madoka with her head hanging low, her shoulders slumped, downcast and distraught. Not the bright, bubbly girl she used to be, once; not even the steadfast, determined, optimistic girl who had made Homura believe, once upon a time, that there was something worthwhile in being a magical girl. No, this was Madoka in sorrow, in mourning. She was mourning Sayaka.
Even without Homura's toxicity dragging her down, Madoka's life continues to unspool, unravel, unwind at the seams.
The door of the police box slides open with a clatter. Startled, Homura turns to look at the police officer. He's an older man, going gray at the temples, with a bit of paunch. He looks her up and down, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he frowns at her, concern writ large across his face. "Excuse me, young lady," he says. He has the raspy voice of a heavy smoker. "Do you need help? Should I call your parents?"
Homura jerks back. "No," she says, shaking her head. Her voice is taut, betraying her. She swallows, steadies herself, gathers her composure about her like a mantle. "I was just on my way home."
The policeman's frown only barely eases. "It's no time of night for a young girl like you to be out," he says, half scolding, half coaxing. "You'd best hurry home."
Home. Home. What is home, anymore? Her world has for so long revolved around Madoka. What other home can she possibly have?
"I will," Homura lies, and she turns from Sayaka's photograph and walks away.
The rising sun finds Homura in a place she swore she'd never go back to again.
Madoka's neighborhood is quiet in the greyish predawn dim. A crow pecks futilely at the top of a covered trash bin; otherwise, the street is empty and still. Huddled in the shadow of the last house on the block, Homura gazes at Madoka's house, her heart a turbulent storm.
She should leave. But she needs to make sure. But her presence here is a threat. But she needs to see with her own eyes. But--
Madoka.
The minutes crawl by. At last, the door of Madoka's home swings open. Homura presses her back against the wall and peeks out from around the corner, keeping her ears sharp.
Madoka emerges from her home and calls out, "I'm off!" before shutting the front door behind her. But she does not immediately rush to school; instead, she stops on the sidewalk and heaves an enormous sigh, tilting her head back to gaze up at the sky.
Homura watches her, unable to tear her eyes away. Madoka's posture is one of weakness, of defeat. Her arms are limp at her sides, and she blinks rapidly, her expression lost and piteous.
"Sayaka-chan," she whispers, and even from the distance, Homura can see her eyes well with tears. "Sayaka-chan, we were supposed to fight witches together and help people together. How am I supposed to do it without you and Mami-san?"
Homura closes her eyes, feeling herself cave beneath the weight of defeat. Madoka has contracted. Madoka is a magical girl. Madoka is losing her allies and friends, one by one. Just like before. Just like every single time Homura has desperately tried and miserably failed to save her.
Is she doomed? No matter what Homura does, is Madoka doomed?
Eventually, the sound of Madoka's footsteps on concrete fades away into the distance.
For a long time, Homura remains where she stands, her head whirling and her heart in tumult. Eventually she begins walking, but she is without goal, without destination. She walks for hours.
In the end, she isn't sure who finds who.
She spots it at a gazebo at the park. It's a beautiful little park, really--the gazebo is small and rustic, all old, weathered wood, and it sits right on the edge of a small pond that teems with water striders, their spindly legs sending tiny ripples across the surface. But there are no people here enjoying the lovely gazebo or the dirt pathways that meander through the park, and the quietness is almost oppressive.
It sits on a bench beneath the gazebo, the tip of its tail flicking back and forth, its eyes gleaming like giant rubies.
Homura halts mid-step, staring at it, and it meets her gaze with its usual blank, expressionless smile. She pauses, debating her options. Then, slowly, she approaches. She steps up onto the dais and stops beneath the gazebo arch. Her back is straight, her chin lifted. She says nothing.
From the other side of the gazebo, it peers at her curiously across the emptiness. "Akemi Homura," it calls out to her. "The irregular."
She is calm, unaffected. "Incubator," she says by way of response.
Kyubey's head tilts to the side, ever so slightly. "I don't recall telling you that," it says, sounding only slightly surprised. "What exactly are you, Akemi Homura?"
"Nothing for you to concern yourself with," Homura replies. "Why are you here?"
"I could ask the same of you," Kyubey says. "But I think I know the answer. You were watching her, weren't you?"
A bird flutters by. A whisper of a breeze ruffles Homura's hair. She remains silent; she refuses to be the one to break first.
At last, Kyubey's head tilts to the other side. Its tail continues to sway. "Kaname Madoka," it says. "You're very interested in her, aren't you?"
"No," Homura replies. Her tone is cool and indifferent; inside, she is screaming. "As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing special about her."
Kyubey doesn't laugh; Homura doesn't think it's capable of laughter. But if it could laugh, she knows it would be laughing at her, because it knows she is lying.
"Kaname Madoka is unique," Kyubey says, leaping off the bench onto the floor of the gazebo. It approaches her, step by prancing step, and sits down in front of her, gazing up at her ingenuously. "I've never seen a magical girl with such incredible power and potential. But how did you know that, Akemi Homura?"
Homura grits her teeth. Her hands clench into trembling fists, her nails digging into her palms. The wave of fury that strikes her is almost overwhelming. It would be so easy to kill Kyubey, to stop time and shoot it or stab it or burn it or tear it to pieces with her own bare hands--but that would change nothing.
Homura can change nothing.
"I know Madoka is special," she admits at last, speaking through clenched teeth.
Kyubey blinks. Its smile is unchanged. "How do you know that?" it asks.
Rage and sorrow and desperation form a knot in Homura's throat and a hole in the pit of her stomach. "I know Madoka," she says, her voice wretched and wrought. "I know her better than anyone--better than you, Incubator. I have watched her for far, far longer than you have. I have watched her for months--for years--I live for her, I have come back for her again and again, all for her, always for her--"
Kyubey's big, round eyes widen even further. "Akemi Homura," it says, a breath, an exhalation. "What are you?"
It is but the work of an instant to transform, to shed her silly schoolgirl's clothes for the uniform of a magical girl. The ruffles of her skirt ripple as she twirls; she can feel her soul gem glowing, feel her blood singing in her veins. It's the first time she's shown herself as a magical girl in this cycle, and the nostalgia is bittersweet and terrifying in its vastness. She feels untouchable. She feels cursed.
In the end, this is all she is and all she will ever be.
Homura is unprepared; she has no guns, no grenades, no weapons or tools of any kind tucked away with her shield, nothing but the power of time itself. But time is enough for her to stride up to Kyubey, lift her foot, and stomp down and pierce its skull beneath her heel.
The wet crunch of brains and bone is sickeningly satisfying; the splatter of blood is sickeningly warm. She stares coolly down at Kyubey, at its eyelids sinking down over dulling eyes and its spasmodically twitching tail. Then she steps back, steps away.
Her heart beats, slow and steady. For a long time, it is the only thing she can hear.
Then, at last, from across the tiny pond, a rustling of underbrush. Kyubey's head pops out from beneath a shrub, untouched, unharmed. It trots up to her. "I'm hurt," it says, a mild reproach. "Was that necessary?"
"Don't lie," Homura retorts. Her voice is harsh, full of ice and shards of glass. "You feel nothing. You are heartless. You have no idea what it is to hurt."
Kyubey lowers its head to begin devouring the corpse of its former self. "Time magic," it muses, as though she had said nothing at all. The noise of its teeth chewing and rending its own flesh is an abomination. "I see. You are certainly an irregular, Akemi Homura." It lifts its head for a moment to look at her appraisingly with guileless, alien eyes. Its smile is bloodstained and hideous. "Was that your wish? To turn back time for her sake?"
Homura swallows and hangs her head in defeat. "It was," she says. Her voice emerges flat, dull. "But I can't save her. I've given up. I give up."
Her proclamation is met by silence. Kyubey studies her, its tail slowly swaying, its eerie eyes unblinking. "You give up," it says at last, speaking slowly.
"I can't save her," Homura says listlessly. "I've tried. I've tried so many times. But I can't do it. No matter what I do, I can't save her." She squeezes her eyes shut. "I can't. I give up."
Kyubey blinks once, slowly. "Akemi Homura," it says. "How much do you know?"
"Everything," Homura replies. "I know everything."
"Fascinating," Kyubey says. "Then let me tell you this, Akemi Homura. I believe you are mistaken about one thing."
Homura glances up sharply, fixing the thing with narrowed eyes. "What is that?" she asks, her voice flat, venom crawling up her throat.
"You said you'd given up," Kyubey replies. "But that's not true. If you truly know everything, then you know what happens when a magical girl gives up. If you truly had surrendered to despair, your soul gem would have turned into a grief seed. You would have become a witch. But instead you're here."
Homura's eyes go wide.
"You can't give up, Akemi Homura," Kyubey says. It is not encouragement or reassurance; it is a mere statement of fact. "The fact that you're still here is proof that you can't bring yourself to give up on Kaname Madoka."
Homura rocks back, stricken.
With a slurp, Kyubey wolfs down the last hunk of flesh from its previous body. It turns away, but pauses to look back at her over its shoulder. Its eyes are blood-red and without compassion, without humanity--as blank as marbles, and equally without soul. "You can't give up on her," it says, its grin unflinching. "Not yet. But one day, you will. One day, your spirit will break. The question is, will you save her before then?" It cocks its head to the side. "I look forward to finding out."
Homura spends the rest of the day in a daze, her thoughts spinning and tumbling over each other. She walks the streets of Mitakihara, passing like a ghost through the crowds of people who live their lives as though sleepwalking. That night, she lies sprawled on the grass of a small neighborhood park, gazing up at the smattering of stars faintly visible through the light pollution of the city. Dawn comes in the blink of an eye, the milky sunlight burning away the night. The next day passes much the same way, and the next; the hours slip into days, one after another. Her thoughts continue chasing endless circles through her mind, but in the end, she returns to the same thing.
Madoka.
She cradles her soul gem in the palms of her hands, gazing upon it. There's a sparkle deep in its core; its lavender hue barely flickers. She squeezes her eyes shut against the sight. I can't, she thinks helplessly, clutching her soul gem to her chest. I can't save her. But all the same, her soul gem pulses warmly, its light steady.
Then, one morning, the sun does not rise.
When Walpurgis Night arrives, Homura cannot pretend not to see it.
The witch hovers over the city, darkening the skies with its very presence, its voice shrill and piercing and horrific. Homura stares up at it helplessly, torn. I can't, she thinks. I can't save her.
And then, like a declaration of resistance, a single bolt of rosen lightning arcs through the sky.
Madoka. Madoka. Madoka. Even alone, in the face of such overwhelming, malevolent power and insurmountable odds, Madoka stands as a bulwark against the darkness, and Homura--
Homura has always been drawn to that light.
Kaname Madoka, Homura thinks, dizzy with terror. It all comes back to you. It always comes back to you. You are the linchpin, the center, the star around which I orbit.
The witch lets out a cackle that echoes through the town and reverberates deep in her bones, and Homura grits her teeth, wavers, and surrenders.
In the eye of the witch's hurricane, Madoka stands alone.
Her skirt is ripped and shredded; one of her ribbons has torn away. The pink of her clothing is speckled and stained with crimson, and her face is smeared with dust and dirt and blood. But the glint of determination in her eyes is undeniable, and though her arms shake with effort and exhaustion, she draws the string of her bow again and again, launching arrow after arrow into the sky.
"Madoka," Homura whispers, and in a breath, a heartbeat, a blink of an eye, she is running.
Now, as always, she is running to Madoka.
Madoka looses her bow again, and an arrow of energy leaps into the air and flies toward the witch. But the next time she tries to draw, her fingers fumble on the bowstring. She wavers, swaying where she stands. Her face is frightfully pale, and her grip is weak, the bow threatening to slip from her lax fingers. One of her knees buckles, and she collapses into a crouch, barely holding herself up.
"Madoka," Homura gasps. "Madoka!"
Madoka looks up, her expression slack with shock. Her gaze lands on Homura, and her eyes go wide in recognition. "You," she whispers. "Akemi-san?"
"Madoka!" Homura cries out, and she drops to her knees at Madoka's side.
Touching Madoka feels like coming home.
Madoka trembles; her skin is too cold and bloodless. Homura wraps an arm around her shoulders to help prop her up. Madoka's weight is heavy, but even so, Homura feels like she is the one being grounded.
"Akemi-san," Madoka says. Her eyes scan over Homura's body, wide in disbelief. "You're a magical girl?" she whispers, audibly stunned.
"I am," Homura says. Her voice is unsteady. "I--"
What can she say? She cannot apologize for not being there; she cannot promise that everything will be all right. There is nothing she can say.
"Akemi-san," Madoka says. "You--"
"Homura," Homura interrupts. She swallows down her sorrow and regret. "Call me Homura."
Madoka blinks in surprise, but then her face breaks into a smile, tentative and quivering but so very genuine that it breaks Homura's heart. "Homura-chan," she says. "Are--are you here to fight the witch?"
Homura squeezes her eyes shut. "I can't," she says, the confession torn out of her. "I can't fight it. I can't beat it." She bites her lip and ducks her head. "I can't save you."
She looks down at Madoka and knows it is true. The witch has landed more than a few blows; Madoka is bruised, battered, beaten down, bloodstained and weak. She's dying. She's dying.
Again. Homura has failed again.
"I can't save you," Homura repeats, her voice thick and full of tears. "I'm sorry, Madoka, I'm so sorry--"
"No," Madoka says. "No, Homura-chan." She lifts a hand and grasps Homura's fingers, squeezing with uncommon strength. "It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you. Please. You can save them. You're a magical girl, aren't you? You can save everyone. Please, Homura-chan."
"I can't!" Homura cries out. "I can't save anyone! I can't save you! I can't save you, Madoka!"
Madoka reaches up. Her hands trembles, but she manages to presses her palm to Homura's cheek. Homura leans into her touch, sobbing.
"You can, Homura-chan," Madoka says. "You came all the way here to try to protect me, didn't you? To protect everyone." Her thumb rubs Homura's cheek. "I believe in you, Homura-chan. I know you can save everyone, if you try."
Homura shakes her head violently. "I can't," she chokes out. "I can't."
Madoka's hand slips. Homura clutches it to her cheek. Madoka's face is so pale. Her hand is so cold in Homura's.
"Please, Homura-chan," Madoka says, her voice tiny and frail. And then, somehow, she forces a smile. "For me?"
I can't, Homura thinks, denies, screams in the silence of her own mind. I can't, I can't do this anymore, I can't--
But then, from some place inside her even deeper than her soul, a voice rises from the darkness and whispers, I can't give up on Madoka.
"I promise," Homura says. Her voice comes pouring out of her, her tears come pouring out. Her soul. "I promise, Madoka, I promise...!"
Something shifts in Madoka's expression--the dislodging of some tension, the assuaging of some fear. Her lips curl up, ever so slightly, and she gazes up at Homura as though seeing something indescribably precious. Then her eyes go distant and hazy, as though seeing something far, far in the distance, and her breath hitches--
--and time stops.
I can't, Homura thinks, with crystal-clear surrender. I can't.
I can't give up on her.
She collapses.
She weeps.
And then,
at last,
she rewinds.
Homura wakes up in her hospital room, her eyes full of tears.
For a long, long moment, she simply lies there, staring at the ceiling. But then she takes a deep breath, blinks the tears away, looks over to the side.
It is a familiar room; it is a familiar day. It is her hospital room, and the calendar on the wall reads March 16--the second-best day of Homura's life.
Someday, she will save Madoka. Someday, they will emerge on the other side of Walpurgis Night, perhaps not entirely unscathed but safe and happy and alive, and that--that will be the best day of Homura's life.
But until then, Homura only has today, March 16. And March 16 is the second-best day of Homura's life, because it is the first day of the rest of Madoka's life.
This time, Homura vows, her eyes hard and her soul steel, and she rises from her hospital bed.
