A/N: Okay, I love Puella Magi Madoka Magica, but it's not mine, so please do not sue me. :D Also, this is more of an exploration-of-the-world work than a FANFICOMGYAY work, but you never know :) anyway, constructive crit please? Love? A Homura-Chan? :3

-WFF-

Bright pink eyes, a flash of two adorable pigtails… the world's cutest laugh. A soft, squishy and gentle face, a tiny button nose, a cutely plump body…

With a gasp, Akemi Homura awakes, shivering in the cold of the hospital room. For some reason, the memories of the end of the last timeline (her own screams, the stink of blood and sweat and the explosion, fire and cuts, burning and Madoka's screams—Madoka's broken, tearful screams…) aren't as clear as all the others, this time, and instead, simply the gentle, calming image of Madoka comes fully-formed in her mind.

"Madoka…" the dark-haired girl mouths, indigo eyes sparkling with tears—tears that she hasn't cried in what feels like years—that she quickly blinks away. Sadness morphs into determination as the veteran magical girl springs from her hospital bed, clutching her soul gem as tightly as she can without giving into unforgivable, terrible pain.

Healing her eyes, the dark-haired girl considers, now seeing clearly the broken girl staring at her in the mirror. She'd fixed her heart, she'd fixed her eyes, but she couldn't fix herself. It was something that often attacked her on the quiet nights lying in the dark, unable to sleep, unable to move. What would she be when it was all over? Madoka could make her melt, but not even someone as truly amazing as Madoka could fix someone as broken as her… but that was okay. As long as Madoka was okay… it would be fine. It would be.

Homura is not one to mix things up—she has a linear. Well, she used to. It's still the way she is, deep down in the twisted ironworks of her mind. Now she changes subtle things each time—like when she gets the weapons. Now, this timeline, she's stealing guns first, instead of setting up her camp.

"Hey!" Time starts a fraction earlier than she imagined. This makes a world of difference. For Homura, one of synchronism and rhythm, this sudden change of tempo throws her surprisingly off. Some mobster twists her arm, and before she can fight back, her shield's rolling away.

"Shit!" She lets slip; sudden desperate fear spreading through her, and her instincts kick in. She leaps into a graceful somersault, one of her fists landing in the restraining mobster's face. His grip slackens in surprise, and though it's still tight, the loosening is enough for Homura to pull free. Then she's like a monster, tearing through the place. She grabs a gun from a confused man's hands, and empties it into three of her attackers. She then runs for her shield, she stops time and shoots the other four for good measure, though she doesn't really believe that anyone would believe 'the little girl with long black hair killed them'.

Maybe she's just sadistic.

Hello. This meeting is always the same, though the circumstances always differ.

"Hello, Incubator," Homura is always curt but polite, and the creature always nods in a kind of understanding; to her, he's not 'Kyubey' but 'Incubator'—she's some sort of threat, but it doesn't go on the defensive.

I don't remember contracting you. You're an anomaly. The creature's red eyes are lifeless, that little mouth unmoving. Why have a face if the expression doesn't change? The girl ponders this as she leans back into her uncomfortable brown shoes, her own expression as stone as her adversary's.

"Am I supposed to understand that?" Homura asks, playing a little on the ignorance card, and mentally noting that she shouldn't do it that much.

Hm… I see. Well, I'll be watching. What's your name? That damn face still doesn't change.

"Akemi Homura." She answers on instinct, though she's sure it doesn't mean a thing to it.

Oh. Okay, thanks, Akemi Homura. I'll see you! It takes a leap through the jagged fences, paws skittering on the concrete, and Homura rests against the brick-wall in the alleyway, up to her ankles in trash. A smile finds its way onto the pale face, at the possibility of a success.

"Madoka…"