Have you not heard of that madwoman who stepped into the meeting of several Puella Magi, raised her glittering Soul Gem, and cried incessantly: "I seek the Incubators! I seek the Incubators!"
As many of those who were not in the know were standing around, she provoked much laughter. "Have they gotten lost?" asked one. "Have they gotten a case of the flu?" asked another. "Or are they hiding?" "Are they afraid of Witches?" "Or of us?" "Maybe they have run away in fright?" – Thus they yelled and laughed, save for those who knew and eyed the pearly white drone resting on a nearby windowsill.
The madwoman let her Soul Gem shine with the intensity of a newborn star and pierced one of the Puella Magi with her eyes. "Where are the Incubators? I will tell you. We have killed them – you and I. All of us are their murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Where are we moving now? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging into the abyss? Backward, sideward, forward all the same, ripping apart? Is there still a way out without an up or down? Are we not straying, through the infinite nothing? Do we not feel the depth of decaying space? Has the sun not yet become colder? Is not the eternal night closing in on us? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of gloating, clawing, all-consuming entropy which is just now swallowing the remains of distant lands? Do we smell nothing as yet of the universal decomposition? The universe, too, decomposes. The Incubators are dead. The Incubators remain dead. And we have killed them.
"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was most fundamental and most unchanging of all that our world has been plagued with has bled to death under our weapons: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What techniques of profound despair, what sacred contracts shall we have to create in their stead? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become Incubators simply to repay our debt to the universe? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us - for the sake of this deed they will belong to a higher history than all history before."
Here the madwoman fell silent and looked again at her listeners and the lifeless drone. They, too, were silent and stared at her in astonishment. At last her Soul Gem ceased to shine, and it began to blacken and dim. "I have again come too early," she said then, "my time has not yet been. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of the Puella Magi. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from you than most distant stars – and yet you have been the only witnesses."
It has been related further that on the same day she forced her way into several schools, hospitals, and train stations. Led out and called to account, she retorted with: "What are all these abandoned hunting grounds now if not tombs and sepulchers of the Incubators?"
Finally, her struggle ceased and her Witch reset time, a knowing smile on its lips.