—

11: Eating Dead Birds

This pretty picture impressed before all else. Latin lacked a spark: Who had not pillaged the Romans? Anyone could create something ugly. Billions did.

"How do you feel? You had, um, standard memory alteration—on the Empress's behest. You may sense something uncanny."

"Who painted it?"

During day, Magical Girls looked different. Laila adjusted reading glasses and drummed the edge of her desk. "Her Munificence's portrait? That'd be the Handmaiden. Her magic works on more than clothes. You'll meet her. She'll give you the standard gold armor. You okay?" said Laila.

Clownmuffle squinted, squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them everything felt right again. She nodded and Laila exhaled.

"Okay. Great. You'll also need to meet the Physician for an examination. It's especially pertinent in your case due to the condition of your Soul Gem. Before that, I'll ask you some questions for our files. Alright?"

"Yes." She disliked how Laila spoke now. She had far less character. Nothing unique existed. She became anyone behind a desk. She performed a task. But it felt pleasant enough to stand in the presence of this painting.

"Question one. Your real name."

Clownmuffle waited for Laila to ask a question. But she stared at Clownmuffle silently. After several seconds, Clownmuffle turned to the painting, which had finer details upon scrutiny.

"Hello. Your name. What is your real name?"

"Miss Vizcarra."

"Spell it."

"M-I-S-S space V-I-Z-C-A-R-R-A."

Laila's fingers rummaged across her keyboard. She squinted at what she typed. "...Your first name isn't Miss."

"It's not."

Another stare. These stares, why bother? If someone wanted to converse, they ought to do so with clarity. But Laila interjected these elongating silences.

"So what is your real first name?"

"I forget."

"No you don't."

"Type Clownmuffle."

"I can't do that."

"You can."

"I have to put the real name."

"Clown space Muffle."

"Okay stop." Laila slapped her desk and made herself jolt but not Clownmuffle. Nonetheless she straightened her tie and puffed air. "If you act like this around anyone in the Empire except me, you will get hurt. Bad."

"I won't."

"They can hurt even you." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I want to help you. In St. Louis it was a situation you could beat and I couldn't, and you helped me. I'd have died otherwise. So let me help you in a situation I can beat and you can't. You have to moderate your behavior—are you listening."

Of course Clownmuffle listened. Sight and sound were separate senses, no? So while Laila prattled nothing prevented her to attend to both the voice and the portrait.

"Look at me," said Laila. "You have to moderate your behavior here. When someone asks you a question, answer it straight. Do what people tell you. Especially your superiors. You've lived in society to some extent before now. Right? How did you make money? What was your job?"

"Contract killer."

Laila typed it into her computer. "Aha. Got one. Didn't you have to act normal so nobody would catch you?" Unlike everyone else, Laila made a refreshing lack of hullaballoo over the occupation itself. "It's like that. The Empire is your new society. You have to observe certain customs or it'll reject you. Got it?"

Yes. Clownmuffle understood. The concept of societal obligation never confused her. Her eyes tilted again toward the portrait. That woman—the Empress. Even if Laila's blood turned turnip, the image frothed with passion. If the head displayed ingenuity enough to both commission and inspire such an image, then perhaps this society had a scrap of merit. She scratched her scalp and her eyelid.

"Charlie. Vizcarra."

"Thank you. Short for Charlene? Charlotte? Spelled with an I-E or E-Y?"

Clownmuffle shrugged.

"Good enough I guess." Laila typed. "Next question..."

When she contracted: Early 2008. Places she lived as a Magical Girl: West Covina, California for a month; San Bernardino, California for the rest. Description of her power: Magic.

"You. Have to be. More specific than magic."

"You saw," said Clownmuffle. "I do magic."

Laila groaned through clenched teeth. "Damaging card tricks and stage magic-based teleportation. These people want specifics, and in a practical capacity. Okay?"

"Magic works outside rationalism. If you quantify it, it diminishes."

"That's fake. You made that up. It's not real. I can describe my power fine. I have a staff that fires a pink laser. The laser heals humans and Magical Girls. It hurts wraiths. Simple, yeah?"

"Your power's weak."

Hands flew up. "Okay sure! Sure. But Centurion Cook's power: She can make walls of ice. I also think she can make water hot, which is how she melted—"

"Her power's weak."

"It wrecked you."

"You shot me first. In the back of the head." A statement of fact. No reproach intended.

"I'm sorry," said Laila. "I wanted to protect you. You had no hope against Centurion Cook."

"Untrue."

"Okay okay. Whatever you want. I can cobble a description of your power based on what I saw. Next question, little personal—are you a virgin?"

Clownmuffle scratched in front of her ear.

"Yeah I know," said Laila. "Odd question. The Empress requires it. She believes in, ahem, 'upholding the purity of Puella Magi.'"

"A noble goal."

"So denizens of the Empire are expected to follow certain prohibitions: sex, drugs, swearing. I'll provide a full list shortly." She paused, pushed her fingertips under her glasses and kneaded the corners of her eyeballs. She sighed. "Anyway. Because many, ah, Puella Magi lose their virginal status prior to joining the Empire... Uck. This'll be awkward no matter how we slice it. Let's get a simple yes or no and go to the next awkward question."

Purity of "Puella Magi." Well yes. They ought to adhere to certain standards of behavior, as status set them apart and above the human gaggle. Scratch—scratch. But ah. But ah. What did this have to do with purity? It ah. It ah. Nothing. Or uh. An indescribable sense of filth... an ugliness of spirit? She wiped her forehead.

"I—I don't remember."

"Oh wow. I totally expected you would be a virgin. Guess I'll put down 'no'..."

"Stop. Stop. I did not say—That's not what I—"

Laila had already typed. "Don't worry, you won't be punished for behavior before you joined the Empire. The Empress believes in rectification and redemption. But no sex from now on, with men or women."

"Ah—wait—"

"Next question: Have you ever been employed as a sex worker? Meaning, a prostitute, exotic dancer, et cetera—"

"I don't remember."

"Meaning yes. We're moving along swimmingly now."

"Laila, please—"

"Anh! Not Laila." She leaned over her desk and tapped an embossed name plate: Hegewisch. "Titles only. Speaking of which, you have a new title. From now on, your name is Flossmoor."

"Hideous."

"Agreed. Sounds like an ad at the dentist. Take it as incentive to follow the rules and rise up the ranks, because you can get a better name upon promotion."

Flossmoor. She scratched her head.

"I'm also assigning you to the platoon of Centurion Joliet—Do you remember Centurion Joliet?"

The name. Nhhh... "No," she had to say. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"Good, you shouldn't. Anyway, her platoon's where most new recruits go—"

"Wait." It was as though Clownmuffle remembered something long forgotten. She leaned over Laila's desk. "My Soul Gem."

"Cracked, yes. That also went into my decision. The other three Centurions will depart on campaign soon, so although you're strong you might—"

"How many girls live here?"

"Minus Centurion DuPage, plus you and your witch friend—one hundred and eight."

"One of them can repair my soul."

"Unfortunately, no. Unless someone with classified powers has that ability. But anyone whose records I can access does not."

"Are there records on girls outside the Empire?" There had to be. Much like Denver. Those who form societies keep an outward eye on the other.

"My boss, the Senior Administrator, handles that information."

"Take me to her."

"No. But I will contact her on your behalf, as it's in the Empire's interest to keep its subjects healthy."

Clownmuffle closed her eyes.

Laila continued: "Next: a few more questions, then some regulations..."

When they finally finished, Clownmuffle glanced one more time at the portrait and exited Laila's office. Crosslegged on a chair outside waited Murrieta-Temecula. She glared at Clownmuffle but said nothing, and while Clownmuffle shuffled the instructional material Laila gave her about the Empire, she rose and entered Laila's office.

Clownmuffle's next destination, per Laila's directive, was the building adjacent Laila's named Medical. A Physician awaited her, or so she was told, because upon entry an unanimated secretary with white hair and blank red eyes told her to take a seat in the lobby. The lobby had a single light, above the secretary, so Clownmuffle sat in shadow and squinted to read the text of the pamphlets. One pamphlet described the chain of command. It discussed the Empress, mentioned the all-important Handmaiden, and described the Four Centurions: DuPage, Cook, Cicero, Joliet. Except someone crossed out DuPage's section in black marker and wrote Aurora.

The next pamphlet listed prohibited activity and contraband. Everything was prohibited. Everything was contraband.

She placed the pamphlets on her lap and leaned back while the automaton secretary typed to stop silence. Her soul had ached ever since she transformed in St. Louis. A constant dullness imbued her body that upon random intervals flared to the extent of buckling her. The prior night, which she spent in "Temporary Housing"—a square—her nose bled and so did something else. Her brittle fingernails yellowed. They flaked when she nibbled them. So did her skin. Strands of hair came out whenever she scratched her scalp.

The physicality of her existence unnerved her.

The secretary, without looking up, told her to enter the door and meet the Physician. The door led to a diploma-lined hallway as dim-lit as the lobby and at the end another closed door wore a plaque that read: DR. SI YU CHO.

Dr. Si Yu Cho opened the door before Clownmuffle had a chance to knock. Her aesthetic chafed against everyone Clownmuffle had seen in the Empire. While some vestige of a white suit remained, most of her form disappeared beneath an oilcloth smock and matching heavy-duty gloves, both smeared with white paste. A liquid red-white crescent dribbled from one cheek and the stringy dark hair that cascaded around her face had several strands clumped together by the same uncertain mixture. The low light provided an extremity of paleness in her features, like her skin glowed in the dark. She wiped her gloves on her stomach.

"Oh hello." Her accent equal parts Chinese and British. "My name is Dr. Cho, you must be Miss... Flossmoor?"

"Clownmuffle."

"Hohoho. Hohoho. Come in, come in. Undress. Your examination shall begin shortly."

She indicated a medical examination table awash in a large room stuffed with wayward machinery and overflowing cabinets. A medical gown hung from a coatrack. A second examination table, not parallel to the first, bore a drained corpse cut open. It had white hair and red eyes like the secretary. Dr. Cho bothered around the body. A rack beside it contained several power tools and sharp implements and behind it hung another portrait of the Empress, massive enough to cover the wall from floor to ceiling. Its existence cut a quadrant from the room's accumulated junk; not one tool or device touched even the gilded frame.

A small arc of red matter had landed on the Empress's knee.

Dr. Cho hefted a buzzsaw from her table and attached it to a hook on the rack. She twisted back her head and said: "Oh, I said undress."

"No," said Clownmuffle.

Another courtly chuckle. "Can I examine you with your clothes on? I think not."

"Blood's on your painting."

The doctor's head snapped toward it and she surveyed it crown toward toe until she discovered the spot. She whipped out a rag pinched between two boxes of various-sized wrenches and drew the blood away from the knee, although she had to stand on tiptoe to reach it, larger than life as the Empress loomed. Several of the room's few lights were turned toward the painting so it stood out far more than the vague murk of objects or even the doctor herself. Light did little to define her, even as she swept into the beams.

"Astute, astute. Hohoho. Dedication to Imperial dogma already? I've seen those who live to please. Fear not, love. Magic made this image, it's easy enough to clean." Sure enough, one pass of the rag removed all matter with no smear. "Now undress."

"No."

Head tilted and frowned sad. "Why not? It's for your health. I won't saw you open, hohoho. I do this often. Even the Centurions have regular examinations. Besides, I hear your Soul Gem's cracked. Your health ought to be your chief concern."

"You can examine my Soul Gem." She removed the ring from her finger and transformed it into the egg shape. It hurt but she withheld her wince.

Dr. Cho slinked closer. Away from the light, her dark hair melded with the dark room. She became patchwork squares of floating Cheshire Cat until she reemerged at Clownmuffle's side and plucked the gem daintily between two gloved fingers. "You poor love. Does it hurt? Don't answer, I can measure that. Now undress."

"You have the soul. My body doesn't matter."

"Hohoho. That's the mistake most Puella Magi make. Body and soul, mind and spirit, all these things interlink." She thatched her fingers together, the Soul Gem balanced on the tip of her thumb. "Undress."

Undress! Undress! Undress! Again and again did she fail to receive the message? Everything itched and Clownmuffle's denuded fingernails tore all across her skin. Who are these sick freaks! How did she get here? Why did she not already run away? She twisted toward the exit but remembered the gem in Dr. Cho's hands but by the time she reached for it Dr. Cho flicked it over her shoulder and the albino split open on the next table sat up and caught it.

"I've seen and touched countless specimens of the female anatomy," said Dr. Cho. "I promise to work efficiently."

"No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No."

"If not for me, at least for her?"

The gloved finger pointed. Across the room, past the bloodless albino, to the portrait. The stream of no in Clownmuffle's mind abated and a sudden flood of stuffiness leaked out her brain and down her throat and into her shoes. For... her. The Empress. Or the portrait of the Empress. Or the woman who painted the Empress—Handmaiden.

A patch of dried skin on her throat bled when she scratched it. The painting had a certain allure. She failed to place it but it attracted. The sensation she felt when she encountered a 10 out of 10 costume, although the ermine trim the Empress wore did not titillate, yet something of the composition or expression compelled Clownmuffle to...

No. No! No. No, no. No. She refused. The moment her trembling fingers reached to unknot the tie around her neck she forced them down. Her eyes tilted to avoid the stare of the portrait. Dr. Cho placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Do what she wants, yes love?"

Face still downturned, whole body thrumming, she reached again for her necktie and this time untied it.

After the examination, in which Dr. Cho prodded and kneaded many things and took meticulous notes and murmured to herself and said almost nothing beyond instructions for how she wanted Clownmuffle to position herself, and which also involved an assessment portion in which Clownmuffle had to run on a treadmill and grip a handlebar and jump above a bar and innumerable other things, she was allowed to dress herself. A seething, burning sensation lingered under her face as she sat with her hands in her lap and waited for Dr. Cho to prod and knead her Soul Gem as she had her body. Every touch stung Clownmuffle with pain, but she clenched her teeth and refused to make a sound or shuffle.

"That's all! Not so bad?" Dr. Cho handed the gem back to Clownmuffle. "Impressive physicals. Shame about your Soul Gem. I predict your body will continue to deteriorate the longer you use magic. So abstain and you'll hold together."

That was all she said and Clownmuffle decided not to ask questions. She left as fast as she could.

According to Laila, she had to meet one more person before she checked into her platoon. That person was the Handmaiden, who would enchant her costume to match the golden armor of everyone else. Already Clownmuffle did not want to do this. As she exited the Medical building she wondered what force made her allow Dr. Cho to handle her in such a way. In fact she wondered why she had not fled the moment she was alone. Someone—she forgot who—said if she tried to flee, they could track and recapture her. The tracking, likely true. But the recapturing, heh.

No. Wait. She knew why she stayed. The Empire's records. Someone they knew about must have the power to repair her Soul Gem. Laila would query on her behalf. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Something stuffy filled her brain. She thought about the image of the portrait and decided: the Empire's records.

Not so different from Denver. Play their game, win their prizes.

She supposed a similar reason drove everyone else to live in society.

But to change her costume. The essence of herself as a Magical Girl. Emblem of her individuality. Even if only temporarily—to some extent, one had to uphold a sense of self. If one bent to the world's whims—perhaps they never snapped—but did they have much within them anyway? She stood between the Medical and Administration buildings. A sidewalk wound between them down a short slope to concrete dock beside which bobbed a gargantuan yacht on a gargantuan lake. The Handmaiden supposedly awaited within it.

She shuffled the brochures and pamphlets, read the title of the foremost, and proceeded down the walkway. In her current condition she could not transform anyway. What a lie—what a weak excuse. A true Magical Girl demonstrated integrity even when nobody saw. Was that not the definitive element of magic? No matter how many humans Clownmuffle saved, nobody knew she did it. Nobody knew they were even endangered. By the logic she now employed, nothing mattered, her behavior did not matter...

Her gem throbbed.

She thought of the portrait. She scratched her scalp. Things mattered. But this exceptional circumstance—rare even by Kyubey's admission—Bah. She passed a pair of guards who cleared her with a nod and ascended the gangplank onto the yacht.

One other thing spurred her onward. The Handmaiden. She wanted to meet the Handmaiden. She wanted to know her face.

Laila's directions led her belowdecks. Any sense of anticipation or built tension dispersed at the premature manifestation of the Handmaiden in the corridor at the base of the stairs, no door knocked or bell rang to summon her, she simply stood straight and when Clownmuffle descended the final step said: "Hello. I am the Handmaiden to Her Munificence the Empress of Greater Chicago and Its Territorial Holdings."

"I'm Clown—"

A force slapped her. It felt like a hand but no hand approached. Her face tingled.

"The Junior Administrator and the Physician have been lax in rectifying your audacious ways. In two words you have committed two grievous errors. First, you failed to salute your superior. Second, you did not refer to yourself by your proper name, Flossmoor."

Normally one deadened pain. The Soul Gem allowed that. But Clownmuffle failed to deaden the sting of the slap, either from its exorbitant force or her system's breakdown. That mattered none. How did the Handmaiden strike her without raising her hand? Telekinesis? No. Her power changed the way things looked. Costumes, paintings. Theoretically could she extend her power to her own hand so it appeared at her side but actually—

A second slap.

"Salute your superior."

Play their game, win their prizes. Nonetheless, she said: "No."

She raised her arm to block the third slap but it struck her other cheek instead and this time with enough force to slam her into the wall. When she attempted to recover with a ducked roll, a foot crashed into her thigh and swept her legs from under her. Another foot—maybe the same—pressed against her chest. Pinned in half a second.

Garbage.

The Handmaiden stood over her. She appeared to stand rigid and straight. "Salute your superior."

The insistence on the point made Clownmuffle less disposed to do it. But the moment her hand twitched to lunge for the unseen foot, the second foot kicked her in the head.

"So many Puella Magi enter Chicago under the belief that they are special." Kick. "Those who are special do not need to follow rules." Kick. "The best way to force someone to submit is to teach them they are not special."

Kick, kick... kick.

Clownmuffle timed the kicks and caught the next by the ankle. Except she did not, because the kick came from a different direction.

"Maybe you can set a record for longest to last before you break," said the Handmaiden. "I suppose that might qualify as special."

A thick flare heated Clownmuffle's head, not purely from the pain. But as she calculated her next strike, the heat fizzled, crisp blackness remained. After several seconds of nonresistance, the Handmaiden ceased.

"Salute your superior."

Clownmuffle performed the salute Laila had demonstrated.

"Rise."

Clownmuffle rose.

"So you're not as unreasonable as the Junior Administrator warned. I was prepared to pummel you all afternoon." Her posture remained the same straightforward stolidity, but Clownmuffle suspected she was prepared as ever to strike. Clownmuffle no longer intended to provoke her, however. Something came to her, a thought that framed everything.

"You are special."

"Incorrect. I'm a servant like any other."

"Your painting is beautiful."

"It is beautiful because of the subject it captures, our immortal Empress. Furthermore, address me as milady."

Clownmuffle said nothing until the Handmaiden struck her again. The word "milady" ranked among the ugliest words in the lexicon, but Clownmuffle compelled herself to say it anyway. This Handmaiden... Was she a rival or an outright villain? Someone who painted a portrait so beautiful, so doused in emotion, so unique and individual—Clownmuffle could not reconcile that portrait with the preprogrammed animatronic who stood before her. Like Laila, whose vocabulary shifted when she sat behind her desk, this Handmaiden must have a hidden life within her, a spark of singular soul. And yet Dr. Cho maintained her sense of self even in the context of this "Empire." So how much agency could Clownmuffle pluck from the Handmaiden? She scratched her scalp. Several strands of hair came off between her fingers.

"Oh. You're falling apart," said the Handmaiden. "You may in fact be less than special. Now transform so I can enchant your uniform."

"I can't—" Slap.

"Don't lie to me. The Junior Administrator's field report indicates you can transform for a short period of time before you experience negative effects. I can apply my enchantment in instants. Transform."

Transform. Undress. Transform. Undress. Transform. Undress.

She transformed. The pain knocked her to her knees. She coughed blood immediately and liquid ran down her skin. The Handmaiden touched her and a flash of light transformed her...

"That is all," said the Handmaiden.

Clownmuffle ceased her magic and passed out.

—

And so that was this Empire. Indeterminate time passed. Eventually Clownmuffle awoke in a cot in a room with three other cots. Those cots were empty, the room was empty. An oblong window near the ceiling gave only gray light. From outside the ajar door indistinct voices muttered.

She remained silent and still and closed her eyes until the sense of self returned as did her memory. As did her pain.

Simplicity streamlined everything. Her physical condition deteriorated despite her efforts so her mentality must remain firm. As it always had. Doubt and moral quandary must be quashed. As it always had. Yet the portrait, which hung also in her new room, and the eyes of which she felt upon her nape, softened her resolve—she had to solidify. As it always had.

1. Restore her Soul Gem.

2. Usurp the Empire.

Simplicity. Even if the Empire fashioned art worth more than most individuals, she must not forget its overarching design of conformity and assimilation. She had to forget the portrait. She felt its eyes but had to forget it. She turned over in her cot and had to forget it. As it always had.

She threw the blanket off her and stepped out. Someone had dressed her in a plain white nightgown. At the foot of her cot, a fresh set of white suit and tie was folded. She could not reach for it without glancing upon the portrait, but she dressed with her back turned.

Bury it all. Such gravity ill fit her. Her injury weighted her beneath the surface she much rather inhabited. It became harder to ignore certain things when she no longer had the physical dominance to stand above it.

In the hallway a pair of girls confronted her. "The Physician prescribed you a day's rest."

"Go back to bed."

"I'm well," said Clownmuffle.

The girls conferred. "She looks well."

"Lieutenant Bolingbrook disliked the Physician's pronouncement anyway."

"Let's let the lieutenant decide."

They led her down a hallway lined with rooms of similar structure to the one she woke in, each with its own portrait to catch her eye before she stepped past. Through occasional windows Clownmuffle glimpsed the city of Chicago, tall tenements that blotted the sky and no sense of space beyond the jumble of geometry. Not the same lakeside spot as the Administration and Medical buildings, no yacht or water body.

Downstairs, Clownmuffle met Lieutenant Bolingbrook, introduced as "The Lieutenant to the Third Centurion, Joliet." Bolingbrook, located in a gymnasium along with about twenty other girls, most of whom exercised coordinated drills such as running in a line or marching in step, immediately became the most disappointing of the endless parade of quasi-eccentric characters Clownmuffle had met in Chicago, one who made Clownmuffle realize how fortunate she had been to experience the relatively refreshing originality of Dr. Cho or the Handmaiden. On MagNet, Clownmuffle had often seen Magical Girls with uninspired costumes, generic outfits that strictly adhered to common tropes: witch, ranger, knight, et cetera. And while a girl's costume came from her soul, her spirit, her self, not even the most uninspired costume came attached to someone so threadbare as this so-called "Lieutenant Bolingbrook," who herself was an archetype, or else had long since devolved herself to be one. She essentially copied the Handmaiden's personality wholesale minus the layer of complexity added by the Handmaiden's artistic merits, and in doing so became nothing but a traditional staff sergeant (regardless of her actual rank) who belted the same orders, the same demand for respect, the same belittling remarks.

Indeed, the first thing Bolingbrook said as Clownmuffle entered the room? "Salute your superior." Followed by a strike when Clownmuffle abjectly refused to stoop before such a pathetic specimen of mass production. The Handmaiden at least had a shred of something significant so that Clownmuffle could stomach feigned subservience. Boringbrook lacked even power.

"Now," she said after Clownmuffle allowed her to hit again, "salute your superior."

In the crowd performing drills, the face of Murrieta-Temecula bubbled above the shoulders of taller girls. The portrait of the Empress hung from the wall behind her.

Clownmuffle supposed if she confounded Bolingbrook's attempts at discipline they would eventually send her back to the Handmaiden and start the stupid cycle over again. So she saluted, not Bolingbrook, but the portrait. Bolingbrook took it for what she wanted.

"Acceptable, Flossmoor. The Junior Administrator warned about your unruly nature. Trust that no disrespect shall be tolerated."

"Yes, milady." Eyes focused on the eyes of the Empress.

"I suppose you're not so unreasonable after all."

Dear fucking hell. Bolingbrook spoke only in words the Handmaiden spoke.

Bolingbrook continued: "The Physician coddles people like you too much. A day's rest exceeds my patience and you are clearly fine. Everyone, greet our other new recruit, Flossmoor."

"Hello, Flossmoor," the girls in the gymnasium intoned together.

"You can introduce yourselves during your own time. We're already behind on drills, so no more waste. Flossmoor, fall in line. Come on, I want twenty-five more laps around the gym—faster. Faster!"

Running around a gym at least allowed her the opportunity to not think. The rafters hummed with ventilation. Shoes squeaked as about twenty girls in white suits bobbled behind her. That was one good idea the Empire had: make everyone exercise in suits. The most important skill for a Magical Girl was to exert herself in a fancy outfit while retaining her grace. On some precept Clownmuffle could rely and with it she blotted the ills. Nonetheless, she hoped Laila found a girl who could repair her Soul Gem soon.