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When Homura sleeps, rare as it is, she dreams of time. She dreams of a rainy night in ruins.
She sees her past in flashes too fast for a human to recollect. She sees pink hair, eyes, bloodied smile.
She hears the ticks and tocks of broken clocks whizzing around her. She hears pleading, a gunshot.
She smells ozone, lightning and fire and gun smoke. She smells dust, and rain, and blood.
She tastes copper, and magic, and sometimes she tastes despair. She tastes tears.
She touches oblivion, infinity in the palms of her hands. She feels a gun in her hand, hates the recoil.
Somewhere, behind her and in front of her and around her all at once, something shatters even more than it already was.
And then she wakes up.
The longer she stays in this false, disgusting world the more she hates herself. Hates it, and she doesn’t want to, she really doesn’t – it’s a world built on the bones of her best friend’s wish, made from the flesh of her desire, the marrow of her want. It’s a world in which no Magical Girl will ever suffer, in which Witches don’t exist and despair is countered with Hope. It’s a world in which everyone and everything can meet the Law of Cycles with a fulfilled life.
Every second that she lives in this world, Homura grows more bitter.
Every second that she lives in this world, Homura breaks a little more.
And it’s all my fault.
She hides the snarl as she kills the last Wraith of the night – just replacements for Witches, nothing better than replacements – and turns her attention to Mami and Kyouko.
Kyouko’s resting against a wall, apple in hand and munching away as though she hadn’t just helped slaughter four dozen Wraiths. The redhead spots Homura and sends her a wink, hand coming up a second later to shoot her a thumbs up.
Homura rolls her eyes and spots Mami.
The blonde in question about six months ago would have been winded, panting, scuffed and a mess as she fought to keep a false smile on her face. She would act as though nothing was wrong when even a blind man could see she was falling apart at the seams and holding on by a frayed, torn thread. So fragile, so weak.
Homura stamped that out, and the result is in front of her.
The blonde now stands with her hands on her hips, not even remotely winded, wide smile on her face – not to be reassuring to anyone that may see her, but relieved that she’d survived just one more night. She didn’t need to act as though nothing was wrong because nothing truly was wrong – she had two people at her side, a teacher that trained her and a veritable mountain of Grief Cubes to tide her over for a couple of months at least.
Homura had taught her that the world waits for no one, that life is cruel, and she shouldn’t pretend it’s anything but. She’d taught Mami that if no one would help her then she should help herself; if the world was an oyster in the sea, she was the pearl, and it was her choice as to whether she shined or was swallowed up by the ocean.
Homura had taught her a great many things, and only now did she come to appreciate just what lessons her temporary teacher was giving her; accuracy over firepower meant she could use less magic and last longer when summoning her guns. Speed over strength meant she could dodge more and take less damage, an especially important tactic seeing as Sayaka was no longer around to act as a healer. Logic over emotions, especially when in the heat of battle, to give her clear and concise thought processes on which to act.
She had every reason to stand tall and proud, wide smile on her face and gleeful laughter bubbling out. Kyouko joined in, their dual laugher spilling out into the empty streets of Mitakihara. It filled the silence that was once oppressive and replaced it with something softer, something lighter.
Homura watched on, nary a motion to her, still as a statue. Kyouko wrapped her arm around Mami and brought her into her side, ranting about something Homura couldn’t hear from the distance she was. Mami smiled and indulgently joined the conversation, both of their laughter petering down to giggles and snorted remarks a moment later; there was ribbing, there always was between these two, but if felt less forced and more relaxed. Friendlier in its application, instead of barbed and twisted to hurt.
Is this what you wanted, Madoka?
Mami’s face was flush with victory, Kyouko was heaving out laughs to some stupid pun, Homura was stood a good bit away watching on. Ever the third wheel. Ever the stranger. Ever the anomaly.
I hope you like it.
She sees the two walking off back to Mami’s house, Homura forgotten as she usually was. She made no inclination to follow. She’d filled her obligation, stayed for six months and trained up Mami Tomoe to be more than what she was. To be better. To be stable.
She’d trained up Mami Tomoe to be everything Homura, herself, was not. She’d taught her in everything she could think of and honed her existing skills to a razor’s edge. She’d taught her everything.
She caught Kyouko’s eye and turned slightly, the redhead diverting Mami’s attention with a poor joke that nonetheless got a few chuckles. Kyouko would pick up the pieces Homura's departure would leave behind, if there even were any.
Homura froze time and leapt away, mind focused on leaving Mitakihara. Nothing would stop her now, nothing would hold her back. Nothing would stop her form leaving this godforsaken city behind and rebuilding herself somewhere else. Somewhere without the memories of pink hair, golden eyes and a wide smile. Somewhere like Kazamino, maybe; she briefly wonders if Kyouko would mind Homura using the old church as a base.
This would be Mami’s last lesson.
Nothing lasts forever.