City of Ghosts

by Larkabel

Homura cannot let go of the past. And her past will not let her forget. / Post-anime with Rebellion plot elements

A/N: Just a couple of things to note before reading the story:

Note 1: This story is written in "sets" or "scenes", hence the numbers. It was mainly a stylistic choice. They all take place in the same timeline (more or less).

Note 2: The dub of the anime (not that any of you have watched it, of course…) refers to demons as "wraiths" (which does make sense, considering Rebellion's terminology in the ending scenes), BUT I prefer to use "demons". It's sort of a personal preference thing, but I hope that this helps to avoid any confusion.

I.

Homura lives in a city of ghosts.

It begins five days after the End. First, she mistakes them for other people, other faces in the crowd. They come in the form of businessmen, lawyers, even street people. She doesn't acknowledge their presence, and they don't interfere with her. When she takes the subway to school, they are there. But they do not say a word. At first, they follow her silently, unnoticeable. But gradually, she begins to see the shimmer around their bodies, the trail of dust they leave when they walk.

Then she begins to feel eyes on her back. Eventually she notices that their heads follow her as she moves. In a crowd, their gazes make her feel strangely singled out, even as she tries to blend in.

They could be demons, she speculates at one point, but their behaviour is not typical of a normal demon. Demons do not simply exist. They are born from negativity and sustain themselves by feeding off of the emotions of their victims. A demon cannot remain stagnant. Then, perhaps even more importantly, demons rarely appear during the day. But not only do they hover in daylight, casting long muddy shadows behind them, they also have no effect on anyone around them. Their gazes are only for Homura.

Once she rules out that theory, she tries to reason with herself. They are probably curious civilians, wondering why a junior such as herself always travels alone. They are the ones who see things, who observe. It is strange for one as young as her to always be without a guardian. Perhaps they pity her.

But then she begins to see them at night. Between puddles of moonlight, their faces leer from the shadows. One blink and they are gone. Now and then, while turning corners as she travels through the streets to her apartment or Mami's, she catches the briefest glimpses of movement. Even when she cannot see them, she can still feel them watching her. That is perhaps the worst feeling of all.

A few weeks pass, and a cold feeling starts at the base of her neck and creeps its way down her back. It does not go away. When she walks through the streets by herself, she stops to cast glances over her shoulder. Homura cannot remember a time when she felt scared for herself – such moments are too buried in the past. She is also not paranoid, or at least not in a supernatural sense. Ghosts do not exist.

But nothing else can explain the figures who haunt her.

She wonders if she is finally slipping. She hardly sleeps or eats. By day, she is a student, a colleague, a comrade. By night (on the nights when she is alone), she is a shadow, desperately trying to cling to something worldly.

But it is difficult to cling to a world that is not her own.

They know who I am, she thinks one night as she closes her door and locks it, trying not to shiver. They know what I've done – what I did to get here.

She does not belong in this world. And one day, as she sits behind the school doing her homework all the while feeling them watch her from the fringes of the field, she wonders if they really are the ones out of place.

Maybe that's it.

They are watching her because she is the strange one.

She is the ghost.

II.

You are not alone.

Indeed she isn't. But she does not like the company.

Perhaps that is the point.

III.

The world is not real. At least not to Homura. Her reality is a world that is cold and dead. It ended long ago, and she is the one who killed it.

The new world is simply a dream. One that continues even after she opens her eyes.

In that sense, the days have begun to blur into a constant grogginess. Mami talks of a sudden increase of demon activity in the city. She is adamant about keeping the demon population culled, but also refuses to split up at night. As they patrol along rooftops, bunched uncomfortably close together, Homura can feel not only the exhaustion beginning to set in, but also the tension. She can see the fatigue is also getting to her companions, and they are worse at hiding it than she is.

Magical girls should not need sleep. Homura knows this, and Mami and Kyouko have probably already begun to guess. The only good thing about sleep is that it offers some mental regeneration and a brief respite from physical hardship constantly endured by their still somewhat fragile bodies.

But whereas Mami suffers from sleep deprivation, Homura thrives on it. It stimulates her to action in battle, as if her body realizes the dysfunction of her mind and overcompensates. She feels the rush of adrenaline, but to her everything moves sluggishly. It throws the world into a different light. It is the closest state Homura can achieve where she can almost convince herself that it really is all a dream, and that when she wakes up, she will no longer be alone in the wrong world, drifting without a purpose.

Her only purpose is to fight demons. But when she has done that, there is no place to go except back to her apartment. She has begun to dread the walk back and the time she spends lying in her bed, unmoving, unblinking, sleep the furthest thing from her mind. Her house feels watched, and her room has begun to feel like a cage – she, the freak being gawked at from within. The pressure of the phantom eyes on her is almost tangible. Haunting her also are all the memories that she has hidden in her room across iterations, and occasionally, in the darkest time of the night, apparitions of things that are still too near to her to be mistaken for her watchers.

She eventually moves into the spare room next door. She lies as if in a sort of sickness, like one waiting for death, head turning from side to side, and her arms bunched behind her head to crush the tingling cold at the nape of her neck. If she does slip into sleep, it is fitful and lasts no more than a couple of hours.

The longer it persists, the more she begins to question, Why? Isn't this world supposed to be the solution, the best possible ending to all the tragedies she created?

Perhaps she is naïve for thinking that it's her happy ending. Or that it is a happy ending at all. Why should she believe in happy endings? She struggles to think of the answer, and all that comes to her is that name that she's been chanting like a prayer ever since she woke up from the End. The name that, the more she repeats it, begins to sound like nonsense. It was a dream, Mami and Kyouko tell her. A dream that had occurred as a result of the stress she suffered from the events leading up to Miki Sayaka's demise. A dream.

But she can't accept that. This world is the dream. Wherever she was before, she wasn't haunted, pursued like someone out of place.

This is the world that isn't real.

IV.

Homura's aim has always been true. For all the limiting factors that should have come as the result of her illness, firing a bullet or hurling a bomb was never problematic. Similarly, she has not struggled with the switch in weaponry. Whether bent by her magic or sent directly by the string, her arrows always find their targets, although she finds herself trusting them less than her previous arsenal.

Nevertheless, Homura never misses.

So it is understandable that Mami should start to worry when she does.

And not just miss either, but shoot unexpectedly in a direction opposite to the demons, even to the miasma.

Clearly, Mami and Kyouko do not see them. The figures that hover on the outskirts of the battle, closing in steadily as the three of them cut down the demons. Homura's ghosts.

Shooting them proves to be a challenge at first. Homura's depth perception betrays her as she takes aim – that, or the ghosts create some sort of constant illusion that affects how she interprets their positioning. But she comes to find, after the first few times, that shooting one banishes all. It only takes one arrow finding its mark, and all the figures erupt in an explosion of purple sparks. In their wake, a black substance appearing to have the consistency of water hangs in the air for less than a second before coiling to the ground and sinking out of sight.

Homura's attention in battle begins to waver more and more, one part focused on it and the other on the movement outside of it. Even Mami's and Kyouko's presences unnerve her. However much they try to deny it, their teamwork is abysmal. They are always in the way of each other, each having her own idea of how to quickly finish the fight. The "formations" that they take are nothing more than them trying to position so that they don't accidentally hit each other with their spells.

On one such occasion, as an arrow finds its mark in another drifting figure, Homura finally breaks the awkward formation with Mami and Kyouko, hastening to investigate the substance before it vanishes. Kneeling, she tries to catch it before it reaches the ground, but it simply goes through her fingers as if they aren't there. There is no sensation involved, not even the cold she was expecting. She blinks, trying to reconcile what she just saw with what she just felt – or didn't feel. In the back of her mind, something knocks at her consciousness, trying to remind her where she is.

The air crackles, raising the hairs on the back of her neck – the only warning she's given. But it's enough.

Without even turning around, Homura summons her wings. In the next moment, she feels the force of several fired beams strike them, accompanied by a loud boom that drowns out Mami's late cry. The impact is so great that, even despite her defence, Homura is thrown forwards. She would have been nothing more than cinders if she'd reacted any slower. The surprise of the moment weakens her hold on her magic, causing her wings to flicker and fade instead of reflecting the attacks back to their casters. Her fingers tingle with the absorbed energy, and she presses them against the ground, feeling it rumble briefly. Her forehead lowers to join them against the asphalt.

She remains in that position for only a couple seconds, appearing oblivious to the fight still raging behind her. When she looks up, she sees movement beyond the miasma – silhouettes of figures gliding in the darkness. Head still spinning, she wonders if she should have blocked the attack at all.

Perhaps they are gathering in hopes of witnessing her end. The end to the person who trapped them here, in this mock world. This pitiful excuse for a reality.

Kyouko is furious after the night's events, her careful demeanour finally giving way as she stalks up to Homura while the last of the miasma fades.

Homura, having not yet dropped her transformation, grips her bow at the sound of the footsteps. Then Kyouko's fingers hook her by the collar, dragging her around to face the angry red eyes.

"Just what the hell is your problem?" Kyouko growls. Mami is out of earshot, still gathering the spoils of their battle, and Kyouko takes care not to alert her to further trouble.

Homura meets Kyouko's eyes, and is startled to see how defined the bags are underneath. She herself still feels heavy with exhaustion. She doesn't have the energy to argue with Kyouko, and similarly, she can see the fire fading from the redhead the longer they remain still.

"I apologize," Homura says at last, keeping her voice even. She banishes her bow, but remains stiff. Although she is not willing to fight Kyouko, she will not submit either. "It won't happen again."

"To hell with a flimsy excuse like that!" Kyouko snaps. "It ain't like this is the first time you've been distracted, but you nearly shot me in the back tonight. Would you apologize then?" Kyouko shakes Homura as she speaks, causing Homura's teeth to clatter.

Homura looks away. Kyouko had been sidelined earlier by a beam she failed to block and, while lurching around in a daze, she had taken on an uncanny likeness to the ghosts. Homura won't deny that it confused her for a heartbeat. Accompanied by her fatigue and the paranoia she had been developing over the last couple weeks, Homura had come dangerously close to mistaking Kyouko for another target.

Kyouko shakes her again, breaking her reverie. "You coulda killed me! That ain't just an honest mistake. In case you didn't notice, I look nothing like those bastards. There's something going on, isn't there?"

Homura studies Kyouko for a moment. She always forgets that Kyouko is a lot more perceptive than she appears to be. At last, she relents some. "You're right."

"What is it, then?"

"That's my business."

Kyouko mouth twists into a scowl. "Oh, really? Then, can we trust you?"

"You have trusted me up until now," Homura points out.

"Yeah, and it nearly got me killed," Kyouko says.

Homura wants to point out that the two are not related, but doesn't know how without raising more questions. Instead, she says, "I regret my actions tonight, Sakura Kyouko. If you no longer trust me, I can accept that. Perhaps that is the best option, as I can't give you an explanation that will satisfy you."

Kyouko looks like she wants to say more, but instead shoves Homura roughly away from herself as Mami comes into view.

"What's going on?" the blonde asks, her eyes glinting under the plaza lamps.

For reasons of their own, neither Kyouko nor Homura respond.

V.

Homura walks back to her apartment alone, parting with the other two shortly before arriving at Mami's apartment. She could see worry in Mami's eyes and suspicion in Kyouko's when she mentioned that she was feeling ill and didn't want to stay for tea. Normally, she stays as a courtesy, but tonight, she needs to be alone.

Rather, she does not want Mami and Kyouko to see this.

She takes the quiet route back, through back alleyways and the streets whose inhabitants maintain a strict curfew for their own sakes. Any normal person would avoid these places, but Homura figures these are the best places for her not to attract the wrong sort of attention. And she is not intimidated by the human threats.

As she goes, she tries to disassociate herself from the growing tension in her body, the reaction it displays to what she has now accepted as inevitable company. The clamminess of her hands, the dryness in her throat, and her pounding heart all point towards the pinnacle of human survival instincts: fear. But she is not afraid, she tells herself. She is not afraid, even as she begins to see the shadows on either side of her moving, the stares pelting her back. And for the first time, she feels not only scrutinized, but also threatened. The stares feel menacing, cornering her.

She begins to walk faster, despite knowing by now that there is nowhere she can go to escape. The shadows swirl around her in increasing numbers, detaching from the darkness of the street. More than she has ever seen before, all them faceless, part of a whole, but clearly separate entities, adapting in size to accommodate the size of the alley. They surge past her ears, making them ring, and she stops moving, the street suddenly swaying before her. Some of them come so close that they would have touched her had they been able to. Some with enough force to knock her over, the wind they leave behind almost enough in itself.

Homura freezes. Or as much as her body will allow. She cannot deny that the sudden aggression in her watchers has shaken her, and her shoulders tremble from the effort of keeping still, even as they close in on her.

Then, just as quickly as they appeared, the shadows suddenly still once more. Everything goes silent, and the street comes back into focus, the light of the lone streetlamp casting long, but natural shadows across the sidewalk. A single car passes by, speeding in the cover of night, racking Homura with the wind it leaves in its wake. Still, nothing else moves.

Now she knows. They are not simply observers, meant to oversee her actions in this world. They are there to intimidate her, to drive her away.

But she will not give in without a fight. After all, this world was meant for her too. If she doesn't believe that, she is lost.

She does not know yet if they can hurt her. Perhaps if driven to it. But at this point, she is willing to take the risk.

She flexes her fingers, feeling the index finger of her right hand twitch in anticipation. She is not a warrior; bloodlust does not come easily to her. But time and experience have given her a similar awareness of an impending battle, and the ruthlessness to prepare for it accordingly.

A swish of air brushes her cheek, the faintest sign of something moving in the darkness of the street behind her. It's all she needs. She spins around, silver threads engulfing her body as she does. Before the transformation has even finished, her bow is in her hands, and she has notched the first arrow to the string. Her eyes scan back and forth.

As if responding to an unseen cue, the shadows begin to coalesce again, spinning into a dark vortex in front of her. There's movement within, and Homura can barely make out figures, this time familiar ones. People she would pass by everyday on the street without a second glance. Faces in the crowd.

She must destroy every last one, somehow.

She shoots down the first figure with ease, a middle-aged businessman. He evaporates into the watery substance, but she's already primed for a new target. This one is an older lady wearing a shawl. But none of them, not the elderly nor the children, can draw out any hesitation from Homura. It is as if the tension that has been building within her for weeks is finally pouring out. She has been waiting for this. Eventually, as more and more of them emerge, she abandons her arrows, finding that method of combat too methodical, and simply aims beams of magic at the oncoming figures. She recalls that in one of her iterations, Mami had spoken about being able to manipulate magic into a form that used less energy. Mami's guns were one such form and, if Homura had cared enough to practice, she might have figured out how to do the same in order to replicate the real guns she had come to know so well. But she does not care, not about that nor about the depleting light in her Soul Gem. She fires bolt after bolt, causing the entire street to become illuminated in a dark purple.

As more and more figures fall, she finds herself becoming breathless, a pain growing in her abdomen like a stitch in her side. The unthinkable occurs to her: that she may not have the resources to put down all of her watchers. That this may be a game for them, the endgame for her. Toying with her until she finally falls.

She refuses to linger on that thought longer than the time it takes to cross her mind. She also refuses to run. She is tired of running.

The street blurs in front of her. It's an effort to raise her arm, so she directs her shots telepathically instead. This proves to be somewhat less reliable, with many vanishing into the dark, but she's beyond caring. The shadows grow, curling up the walls of the silent apartments on either side of her, like smoke. The figures cease to appear, although Homura shoots a few last beams into the slowly widening void.

A wind picks up, growing until it becomes strong enough to unbalance her. Somehow, she manages to stay on her feet as the shadows detach from the alley walls and snake around her for the second time. This time, though, she is certain they are not holding back, intent on trapping her inside a dark cocoon until she loses all strength to continue resisting them.

This is it, then. This is how she will die. They are waiting for her to crumble, for her last remaining strength to give way. Then they will land the final blow.

Homura staggers, everything in her screaming to just lie down and let it end. Her legs are burning with the effort of supporting her weight, and her eyes are closing of their own volition, further disorienting her.

She expected to feel despair at this moment. The inevitable despair felt by the countless generations of magical girls before her who have suffered this fate. But instead, she feels nothing. She simply whispers, "I'm sorry," although she does not know anymore who she is apologizing to nor why it matters.

There are barriers of blackness on every side now, roiling and waving almost like water. They drown out all other sound, causing Homura's ears to strangely ring in a silence so absolute that it almost feels like noise.

She's gone numb as well. Perhaps she grew so accustomed to the cold that it finally feels normal.

It's not so bad – absolute despair, she thinks briefly. She closes her eyes, prepared to sink into the darkness–

Voices.

Her eyes snap open, head whipping around as her body tingles with newfound energy. Disbelievingly, she glances at her Soul Gem and sees that it is still stained black, the tiniest area of purple still shining amongst the persistent taint. It shouldn't be possible.

Voices. She can hear them in the dark, and at the same time, she realizes that it hasn't taken her yet. It is reared on all sides of her, stretching as high as the sky, but not touching her.

Trapping her.

"Didn't," the voices cry. "Didn't save her. You didn't."

Homura backs up, trying to find a direction she can take that will lessen the increasing volume of the voices, trying to find the direction that leads away. A hiss from the dark barrier behind her freezes her in place.

"Searching," it says. "Searching for the answer. You didn't."

She jumps back. Her throat is clogged, tight from fear. This time, she acknowledges it. She's afraid. But she's also helpless. Whatever comes next is unpreventable.

"You didn't, you didn't, you didn't." The chorus is rising, becoming more frantic and disjointed, like each voice is speaking only half a word, the rest being filled in messily by the others.

There's a loud hiss, followed by a rushing sound, and slowly, like a fountain being deprived of water, the giant shadowy mass begins to lower until Homura can see rooftops again. Gradually, she sees the topmost apartments come into view, their windows still dark and shutters still drawn. The voices dim to low murmurs – audible, but only just.

Homura's breath is caught in her throat. The only sound that comes out sounds like wheezing. She senses it isn't over; it can't be over.

She's right. Just as the swirling blackness reaches eye level, it stops sinking. It hovers before her, the voices clearly emanating from somewhere deep within it. She squints, trying to find a source or see some sign of the figures.

Her heart nearly stops when she sees eyes staring back at her, solidifying out of the dark mist. Unlike the faded, black pits of eyes that have haunted her for so long, there is something distinctly… human about these ones. Gaunt, desperate, but unyielding. The pupils a colour unfit for such a madness.

Deep purple.

Her eyes.

It's a reflection. It has to be. But darkness doesn't reflect; it consumes. As she stares, her body throbbing with adrenalin, the eyes blink, purple blending back into black. There's a pause, longer than it takes for normal people to blink. Then the eyes – her eyes – reappear.

Accompanied by at least a dozen others.

She feels the sharp exhale of a gasp tunnelling up her throat and swallows it back. But she cannot escape the fear. Not this time. Despair, nihilism, anything would be better than what she feels now. She thought she was lost to the darkness, but it is still playing with her.

The fear clots in the back of her mouth, cutting off her breath, leaving her dizzy. The only thing keeping her on her feet is the adrenalin, but this time it is no friend to her. Rather than blurring the world and acting as her primary driving force, it is now attuning her even more closely to what is happening.

And the pain in her chest. It reminds her of the pain she used to bear everyday, culminating in that one gym class where she had collapsed in front of the class. The day that had led to everything. Her transfer to a quieter town, the encounter that changed her.

She shakes her head, reaching up to press her knuckles into her temples. Why is she remembering now?

The eyes all blink again in unison. Then there are more. Voices chant, sounding eerily like they're inside her head.

"Failed. Again, again. Killed so many. Didn't save her."

As if growing out of the lump in her throat, up into her head, she feels an ache take root in the base of her skull. The pain taps in her head, the feeling as tangible as several fingers prodding her at once. And she can almost hear a count accompanying each painful tap, the voices backing it up.

"One."

"Save her…"

"Two."

"Again."

"Three."

"Warn her."

"Four."

"Too late."

"Five."

"So weak…"

"Six."

"Didn't. Again."

She could still be standing or perhaps her legs finally gave out. But nothing else matters or is demanding as much attention.

"Again, again, AGAIN."

No. They aren't just voices. They're her voice, layered atop itself countless times.

The world is blurring, a small mercy for her. But what's left of her vision is lit by purple from every side, the wind feeling like breaths on her neck. And for the first time since the torment began, she feels something other than rooted in place. A tingling in her fingers and toes reminds her of the tension still held there, the potential for action.

Nothing that has happened so far has given her any reason to believe that the shadows can physically interact with her. If she shoots them with magic, they will dissipate for the briefest moment of respite. Perhaps shooting one eye will take down the rest and she can breathe normally for a few seconds.

But why would she want to?

She can feel her strength starting to whither again, weakness flooding through her.

She has less than a second to make a decision.

She does the unthinkable.

She runs.

VI.

She meets no resistance from the wall of shadow, but she doesn't stop to dwell on it. She runs without knowing where she's going or caring. Even as she goes, she regrets it. Perhaps she keeps going because regret no longer means anything to her. She regrets running, just as she regrets every other damn thing she's ever done that led her here.

"You didn't," the voices rasp.

She hasn't left them behind. Good. At least now they might drown out her own thoughts. But they go silent after that, as if in mockery.

Homura's chest is a mass of pain, the rest of her body not far behind. Every upwards motion and inhale sends daggers through her lungs and every time her feet strike the pavement, she feels a searing in her feet that is quickly traveling up her legs. When they finally give out, it is hardly surprising, and for once, Homura surrenders herself to the weaknesses of her own body. She is barely five blocks away from her apartment, but she only has enough strength to crawl to the nearest wall, huddling against it for support.

It takes a while for the sound of approaching footsteps to register in her mind, and by then, it's too late to run.

"And what do we have here?"

Hearing Kyouko's voice always seems to have a different effect on Homura. This time, though, she can't place it. Maybe her mind is still trying to catch up with the situation, maybe it's because she doesn't feel anything.

"Oh my goodness, Akemi-san!"

Homura winces. Kyouko alone could possibly understand something like this, but certainly not Mami.

The first set of footsteps stops. It occurs to Homura that she should rise to meet her companions, but the thought doesn't stay for very long. She's long since given up her pride. Mami and Kyouko may, for the first time, see her for what she really is. Or, like usual, they will look past it and see what they want – or need – to see.

"Is it really you?" Judging by her voice, Kyouko has stopped a few feet away in the middle of the street. Strangely, there's no irony or sarcasm in it, but apprehension.

Mami stops by Kyouko, only so she can exclaim, "Oh, good, you're okay." Then she continues until she's crouched next to Homura. Uncomfortably close. But then again, Mami never considers whether or not her concern is warranted. "What happened?"

Homura can already feel the magic tingling in Mami's hands, and feels her own power stir. She's not sure if she can bear to be healed, to be woken up from this groggy state of mind.

"Wh– what are you doing here?" she manages to say, her mouth feeling almost too thick to form the words.

Mami and Kyouko glance at each other.

"Kyubey told us you were in trouble," Mami says. Her voice leaves an unpleasant ringing sensation in Homura's ears.

Suppressing a groan, Homura tries to drag herself to her feet, most of her weight still supported by the wall. Barely halfway up, however, her legs suddenly lose all their strength again, sending her back down to an uncomfortable crouch. "Liar," she hisses through her teeth.

Mami pauses, her arms frozen in an outstretched position as she'd reached to help Homura. "I'm not lying–" she begins.

Homura waves off her attempts. "Not you. It." Of course. Neither of them would come to find her by themselves.

"He can't lie," Mami says plainly. "You are in trouble, aren't you? Akemi-san–" Irritatingly, she makes to grasp Homura's arm again, her fingers brushing her elbow.

Homura jerks away from the contact, lowering her face so that Mami can't see her expression. The expression she was never supposed to let anyone see.

The voices reverberate through her inner ears. 'Killed so many…' She can't face Mami right now.

"Are you…" Kyouko cut in, squinting down at Homura. "I can't believe it. Are you drunk?"

"Sakura-san, don't say that," Mami says. "Akemi-san–" She lets out an exasperated sigh as Homura continues to rebuff her. "Akemi-san, let us help. What happened?"

"Nothing." Homura's voice is strained to her own ears, too high-pitched to brush off as normal.

'So weak…' the voices whisper.

Mami continues to stare. There's a faint rushing sound which Homura mistakes for the approach of more figures until she chances a glance upwards and sees it's just Kyouko rubbing her fingers together, something she occasionally does in thought. But her expression reads the same as Mami's.

"Demons," Homura finally says, after running through as many possible answers and endings to this already disastrous night that she can think of and finally deciding it no longer matters. "There were demons."

"Huh?" Kyouko starts, clear skeptisicm in her tone.

She's cut off by Mami. "Oh my goodness," she says, trying for a third time to reach out and this time succeeding purely because Homura has no more strength left to resist. "We should have come back with you to your apartment. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. They're gone now, just caught me off-guard," Homura says, trying to force as much bravado into her voice as possible. Although, on second thought, that might be a cause for more suspicion. "Don't listen to it," she adds as an afterthought. There is only one reason why Kyubey would alert Mami and Kyouko to her situation. It's getting something out of it. What exactly it is is something Homura may or may not worry about later.

"Are you sure?" Mami says. She is tugging gently on Homura's arm, an encouragement. She can't know that it is taking all of Homura's strength just to remain upright in a crouch.

But if she doesn't move soon, she'll have to really explain herself. And Mami could ask to see her Soul Gem. So she gathers every last ounce of strength and pulls herself up, opting to rely more on the wall again than on Mami. Mami keeps on hand on her arm, the other wrapping around to support her lower back. She reigns in her surprise. She only has very distant memories of coming in direct contact with Mami, and the feeling makes her uneasy. Maybe it is because a small part of her expected for Mami's hands to go right through her as if she isn't there. That would validate one of her theories, at least.

As soon as she is standing, she turns around agonizingly slowly to face Mami, the blonde's hand slipping away from her back as she does.

"Please don't worry, Tomoe Mami," she says as smoothly as she can. Pulling her arm gently, but pointedly from Mami's grip while tightening her hold on the bricks behind her, she adds haltingly, "…Thank you."

Before Mami can respond, Kyouko steps forward. She's still a good distance away, but she's close enough, poised so that she could leap to action at any second. "Hold up for one second. We hunted tonight. We walked up and down every street within five miles of our goddamn school. That includes your street." She jabs a thumb at Homura. "Now, I ain't saying our plans are perfect or anything. They are actually pretty damn awful. Let's just say there were demons still hangin' about and we missed 'em. Dont'cha think we woulda at least sensed something was off? I mean, you didn't exactly get far."

Again. The perceptiveness that always threw Homura off. It is why Kyouko had always been her best ally or her worst enemy. Kyouko always caught on first.

'She's in our way,' the voices murmur.

"Sakura Kyouko," she says, the name sounding blurred and alien to her own ears. "I can only tell you the truth about what happened." There are tremors in her voice – tremors that betray the lie. But this isn't about her lying. She wants to meet Kyouko's eyes, face her challenge head-on as she has always done. But instead, she sags backwards. Looking up disorients her, so she focuses on the sidewalk, watching it pulse.

"Please, Sakura-san." The voice comes from Mami, who has put herself clearly between Kyouko and Homura. Her voice is low, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to exclude Homura, forgetting she's closer to her than she is to Kyouko. "Not tonight." Then, flustered, she steps back. "Akemi-san, let us take you home. We all need a good sleep. We'll talk about this… oversight some other time, okay?"

Mami's last comments barely register to Homura. They sound far away, like she's listening from underwater. The voices that whisper not from inside her mind but just outside her ears have taken precedence over any others. If she squints, she can just make out the silhouettes of figures in the gloom behind Mami and Kyouko, figures that are all identical with her body. She blinks and they are gone. Just like before. Except now she knows they haven't really disappeared. They will be back before long.

Fortunately, Mami takes this as a sign of weariness. However, this also means that she once again decides that she is needed. Unfortunately, Homura cannot deny this is, to an extent, true.

A few minutes later, the three of them are trudging through the streets under the hazy light of the street lamps, Homura in the middle being supported by Mami and a very reluctant Kyouko. A sight probably more than just a little bizarre for the early hours of the morning.

None of them say a word, which in itself feels like a sentence. But as they walk, for the first time, Homura doesn't feel like she's running away.

Instead, she feels like she's getting closer and closer to… something. An resolution, a revelation. A final solution.

They turn the corner to her street, and she can already anticipate what she'll see: the figures hovering by her door. With that, she suddenly knows. She should've known the whole time what she has to do. The answer that she's been evading.

'Searching…'

Mami finally lets go of her when they reach her door, and she feels strangely relieved. As she turns to say goodnight, she knows this is the part where she should reminisce to Mami and Kyouko, burst out something about what they'd always meant to her. At the very least, she should think about everything they've all been through. But she can't. Can't tell Mami and Kyouko that she values them because too many times over, she hasn't. She sees their faces and all she can think is that they're damned. They're all damned. Sooner or later, by one method or another, they will all meet their end.

So all she does is say a simple good night and thank them once again for bringing her home.

Without knowing it, they've brought her to her death.

VII.

For the first time in weeks, Homura enters her own bedroom. But instead of going to bed, she limps to the seat beside it and sits down. She struggles to sit up straight, to keep up appearance for one last time.

A cold trickles down her spine and she openly shivers. She swears she can hear footsteps echoing down her hallway.

They are still playing with her, taking their time. They know there is no way out now.

She is only a memory.

She nearly laughs at the clarity of the moment.

That is her only purpose. To act as an anchor, a relic of things long past. A mock reminder to the world of its beginning.

History it is better off forgetting.

The shadows sweep across her room, still unable to touch her. But they know how close they are, as does she. It is only a matter of time.

Yes. Yes. She almost had it before. She is the ghost and they are the watchers. Not only watchers, but enforcers. They have scouted her out, marked her as a threat. They are there to ensure that this world outlives her, stretches beyond the destruction she may bring.

And even though she has accepted her eventual demise, either to them or to the increasing masses of demons, she still has her pride.

She won't let herself be hunted down.

She was never in control. That was a delusion, a comfort for her. All along, she was flailing, grabbing for some semblance of command over events that always somehow righted themselves onto a definite path despite her efforts. From the beginning, it was all inevitable. And now she is here, in a world that won't even pretend to bow to her.

She doesn't need it to. She plans to leave this world, but not like this. In this, at least, she will have the final say. She will choose her own way out.

She holds up her hand and, just as if it's always been there, her Beretta materializes. It is far from perfect in form, shaped from what her memories have left her with. And it will not fire any bullets. But she would rather use it than anything else she has at her disposal.

Homura has always favoured the guns – the mundane weapons – not because of Miki Sayaka's advice lifetimes ago, but because of the way they feel. Human. Perhaps if she used weapons of the non-magical world, it would change something. It would break through the mystical threads of karmic destiny or fate, reality crashing through. The reality of the past, where people had made monumental differences with their own hands.

But none of them had cheated time.

She used guns to cover up her biggest magical tie. One she could never give up.

The one that destroyed her.

And now here she is, gun in hand, nothing to help her if she should make another mistake.

Nothing is needed; she is preventing herself from making another mistake.

The shadows are closer, edging in on all sides. The windows, walls, or door hardly serve as her defence. But there is no more fear for her because now she is in control. The shadows are playing along with her game. In the end, she is the ultimate decider.

They're close. So close that she can hear their breathing, each exhale whirring in a pitch similar to hers.

They know she has no way out. She knows differently. There will be no standstill, only an endpoint.

"Didn't," the voices cry.

You're right, Homura thinks. I didn't. Didn't end this when I had the chance. But now I will.

This world isn't real.

She toys with the gun, flipping that thought over and over in her mind as she flicks off the safety catch. If the world isn't real – if it is a dream – maybe she can wake up. Maybe when she opens her eyes, she will see the truth, the Law of Cycles, her own reality. Salvation.

That's one thought that rests well with her.

So she puts the gun to her head and–

She expected to hear a sound, but there is no sound. Instead, there's a sharp pain at the back of her neck, which causes her body to go numb. The gun falls from her senseless fingers and she goes with it.

The last thing she sees before she loses consciousness is a row of eyes mounted upon the black, not purple but red.

VIII.

She stands trial in front of the entire universe. Stars and the distant eddies of galaxies watch on silently, but somewhere out there, she knows there must be judgement waiting.

This is the second time now that she has been taken here, removed from Earth and put outside to watch the next events unfold.

But this time, there's nothing to watch. Rather, she is the spectacle here, Earth nowhere to be seen. She wouldn't be surprised if it is somehow watching her.

But something feels wrong about it all. It's too calm.

Then, as if in answer to her speculation, the universe melts away, disintegrating into blackness. The gloom that she's used to, and has been expecting. Even in this strange oblivion, she didn't escape it.

She hears, or rather senses someone approaching. Everything remains silent, but she turns instinctively as a figure appears out of the darkness. As they come closer, their features get clearer and clearer as if they're walking out of water. But she already knows who it is before they come into full view.

It's her. It's definitely her this time, not just some distant figure or a pair of eyes.

The doppelgänger doesn't say anything, but simply stares ahead with blank eyes. She doesn't even acknowledge Homura.

But then another figure appears to her right, another to her left. They step up, flanking her. She is sure there must be one behind her as well from the eyes she can feel digging into her back. More begin to appear, all silent in their approach, all simply staring.

Homura turns back to the first. Surely this must be death. Her body is numb, incapable of displaying what she is feeling or thinking. She can barely move, let alone run. She thought she had found her own way out, but all she has done is force herself even deeper into the curse of her own existence. This is who she is. Surrounded by herself, too many versions of her to even fathom.

Then one of them speaks, the first one. Still staring straight ahead, not making eye contact. "She's gone."

Homura feels her breath catch in her throat. If she still had control, she knows she would have run at that moment. That's what it all led up to, what everything led up to. Her trials, her misery, her failure.

"Gone, gone, gone," the others chant. As they do, something changes about their eyes. The vacancy clears just a little. They go from blank to perceiving. To seeing.

And somehow, being the centre of their stares, Homura feels accused. She knows what's coming next. It plays so often in her mind that it doesn't even draw tears anymore, and that is possibly the worst part about the memory.

I had to, she tries to say, but can't get out the words. She mouths them instead, but not even a breath can be heard leaving her. She has no defence, no excuse.

"We had to," they echo, just a little bit louder than before. "Again, again, again, again."

Yes, she says, again with no sound. There was no future without her.

"No future," they say. "Now she is the past."

"You're wrong," Homura says, and this time, she can hear herself. The faintest of whispers that barely penetrate the countless eyes staring at her. "She is the future. I am the past."

"You didn't," they say.

She resigns herself. "I know."

"So many… So many…" As they murmur the words, they began to disappear one by one, starting with first figure. The chanting quiets with each departure until there is only one left. A girl who looks exactly like Homura, but with braids and glasses balancing awkwardly on her nose. "So many…" And then she is gone too.

It dawns on Homura exactly what her situation is. These aren't just her own curses lashing back at her, haunting her for what she's become. It is truly her haunting herself. Here, at the end of everything, she is still alone with the one person who really mattered all along. The one person who she had to prove everything to, and in the end, lost everything to.

How many timelines have you gone through? How many more will you go through?

That voice isn't hers.

She remains alone, but the voices return. The countdown begins a second time.

Have you seen what you desire in the dark paths through which you have walked? You, who continues to escape to different paths.

She was right all along.

As the countdown continues, Homura notices a change in her surroundings. The black is seeping away to reveal colour, although her eyes can't quite focus on anything yet. She sees heads, the unmistakeable purple glint of eyes, although she can't tell how many there are or if they're looking at her.

"I couldn't change it," she protests, not so much for the others, but more for herself. "I couldn't. Shouldn't."

"Didn't," they all echo.

Then, as Homura's vision is flooded with light, rising above it all, a voice says firmly, "I will."

IX.

She is a ghost now, standing amongst the ranks of hundreds, another faceless soldier. She knows she will eventually fade away. This new world is meant to last forever, and there is no room for interference. She is a bad memory and, like the rest, she must be purged.

Nameless, goalless, darkened eyes staring out from sunken sockets surrounded by dry flesh. She is fading – no, expiring. Time is ticking down for her, slowly. She can almost hear it – the pulsing beats of the last seconds of her existence.

Then she realizes. It is not the ticking of a clock that she hears. It is words – one word, repeated over and over – and although it is soft, it carries power. An offering to the one who will save them all. The one who will fulfill their purpose and allow them long-awaited rest. The sound stirs a feeling in her chest – one she didn't even know she could feel anymore. She nearly cries with relief. Soon, finally, it will be over. No longer is she haunted. None of the other dead eyes turn in her direction; she is no longer the focal point. They simply wait, line after line. And, like a wave beginning to rise above the others, she can hear the voices growing louder and stronger.

Something urges her to join in, and though she feels she wants to, she can't bring herself to yet. For all her likeness to the others, she is still not one of them yet. There is something in her that continues to resist.

Then something springs to life within her. She hears a whirring from deep within, feels the gears begin to turn. If she could still understand irony, this would be akin to it. She is winding up for one last march into oblivion.

As she begins to move, something like regret rests uneasily on her shoulders. But it, like her noncompliance, is beginning to fade. The will to stop herself has all but vanished, and she puts one foot in front of the other mechanically, listening to the pulsing thrum of hundreds of other footsteps.

For a moment, she thinks about what would happen if she stopped now. If she turned and looked herself right in the eye and asked, "Why?"

But instead, she raises her head, eyes fixed on salvation, and takes up the chant:

"Noi, noi, noi."