Four times
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The world is very cruel, and thus predictable in its cruelty. An offer too perfect and generous and a thousand other wonderful things is a lie. There's a barbed hook attached to this bait, but she can't see exactly where.
One wish, and the only limit was her imagination. From a new pair of shoes to the world under her thumb. In return, a destiny of battle. It sounded purposefully vague. She was to fight unseen creatures known as witches, which were born of curses, and thus defend humanity. A soldier, with something slightly more tangible than glory as her reward.
Give and take was the nature of this cruel world, but to take as much as possible and give equally little. A wish for her life, as long as she fought. Soldiers were soldiers after all and no general took kindly to deserters.
She presses further.
In the instant her wish was granted through unseen mechanisms, her soul gem would be formed. This was what set her apart. The gem granted her the weapons needed to combat witches and marked her as a puella magi.
It was all too easy to rationalize. Soldiers were given guns. Soul gem-given magic was hers and her pay was a wish. Give and take, too little and too much. So she seals her lips and turns her back on the unworldly creature.
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For days and weeks she wonders, and her suspicion grows. Nothing is so freely given and least of all a gift as wondrous as a wish, so he seems far too eager to make the offer. A salesman pushing snake oil with false promises of beauty and youth. She wonders how bad a witch can be and hates herself for it.
The next time they meet, it is she who approaches him. There are many things she covets and he can give her any of them. Tell me more about magic, she says. Well, when it's used, it darkens your soul gem. You must purify your soul gem using a grief seed, which is dropped by a witch when you defeat it.
Clever. Magic always comes with a price, or so every fantasy book she's ever read claims, and the soul gem's is a vicious cycle of fight-purify-fight. The answer only raises more questions: the glaringly obvious loophole of being content with your wish and letting the soul gem become nothing more than a pretty bauble. To desert the ongoing war with witches and be a puella magi in name only.
Of course you can do that, he responds, and she knows. There's more than ignorance of their options keeping puella magi from doing all that she has described. You can of course choose that course, she thinks, in the same way you can jog down a trail ending in a steep cliff. She's got one question left. She really should stay and inquire further, but instead she turns away. His wide-eyed honesty-his shamelessness-disgusts her for reasons she can't quite name. She turns her back on him for the second time.
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The third time they meet her vision is painted with blood and it's only his alien voice in her head that allows her recognition. She's doing her best not to panic, because then her heart will only pump faster and she'll bleed out sooner. Deep breath. Deep breath.
Five minutes to live. It's a wild guess but it's better than worrying about which exact breath will be her last. Answers come first. She racks her brain for what she intended to ask. The mechanics of the contract. The wish's limitations. Check and check. Witches. Why puella magi were needed to fight them. And magic. Her vision darkens momentarily and five minutes is hastily amended to three.
He's waiting for her wish to live. Those half-baked plans for the perfect wish are snapped like twigs because she would die before seeing any of them. What good does all the knowledge in the world do when you're bleeding out? Her life, but a soldier's life. Hardly a fair trade but-
The pain turns sharp. One minute. Less. No time to agonize over the precise wording. Her lips move almost without permission, and her world fades to white. Inwardly, she curses herself.
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The nearly-gray violet light has dimmed. Black encroaches on the faceted corners of her jewel. What was forgotten in the midst of panic came laughably easily after the fact, when her soul gem-her soul-was clasped in her hands and she was wonderfully alive.
What happens when a soul gem turns completely black?
It formed a grief seed, and she would be reborn into a witch. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, she shot question after question at him. Soul gems were aptly named: literal souls, in a form safer than a human body. The darkness both paradoxically induced and was caused by negative feelings: hatred, grief, and above all despair. She's living on borrowed time. A few moments, just enough to tempt her and make her want more. Within a week, she estimates, her soul gem will be completely dark. She's not even touching her magic, but she swears she can feel a little more strain, a touch more fatigue with every breath she takes.
If she always would have died that day, even a day more of life is better than nothing, isn't it? It was only the natural choice; she had nothing to lose and everything to gain. It's simple logic. Her one mistake was not making a better wish, and she shouldn't fault herself for that. There was no way she could have remembered.
The light dims a little more.
She doesn't need to look up to know that he's there. Now that she's safely in his grasp, he seems laxer. Maybe it's just her, but he seems more predictable: your soul gem will need purifying soon. Aren't you going to look for grief seeds?
She jerks her head once. He tries again-she's so very efficient, she'll perform wonderfully battling witches. She wished to live, but to stay that way she has to go get a grief seed. She knows what will happen, isn't she going to do anything?
She turns her head away. It's childish, but she's dying. Let her indulge herself.
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It has been six days since she wished to live. Well, she was only off by one. Her soul gem is as dark as a moonless, starless night. The faintest glimmer of lavender dances on the edge, and it will soon go out.
She won't be a witch. She's given up caring about pettiness. She doesn't understand the first thing about thermodynamics or entropy despite her teachers' efforts, but she's beyond caring about that too. Let the universe die or stop or whatever; she won't be around to see it! She won't be a pawn for the incubators.
She lifts the stolen gun, and her hands begin to shake. At this distance, she can't miss. Her breathing becomes frantic. She knows she's hyperventilating.
Just do it. With every second that she delays she risks crossing the event horizon.
She refuses to live as a witch. No countdowns, no more mental preparation, just shoot-!
Three things happen at once. The gun fires, recoil slamming into the heel of her hand. The light is swallowed by the ugly shadows of her fear.
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(The third thing that happens is that deja vu strikes like lightning. Deafened by the gunshot and too shocked to speak, she can only watch as an angel bursts into being. She's not religious by any means, but how else can she describe such a being? The blackened gem is scooped up with gloved hands. She wants to warn her-don't touch it, leave before I-but the shadows shrink at the angel's touch and she feels more peaceful than she has in years. For a moment, the lavender light shines as brightly as the moment it was formed, then dissolves with the gem itself until nothing but an empty lattice rests on the desk.
Wide eyes meet golden ones. She's beyond lost, and maybe she's leaping from the frying pan into the fire, but she'll be burnt either way. She takes the offered hand.)
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this was surprisingly satisfying to write. I originally was aiming for something completely different but this worked out quite well. The 4+1 just popped up and I went with it. yeah, the title's absolutely awful but i couldn't think of anything else.
if you got the ref at the beginning, you're awesome.