They found traffic. Dorchester navigated silently, her ashen face expressionless. For untold miles nobody noticed them. Whatever faerie curse they'd just escaped showed no signs of returning. Hollis barely understood how relieved she was.

A cop car zipped past them and continued on its way.

Onto Interstate 95, a bare concrete expanse upon which they mingled with bullet-driven masses among a gallery of lowborn swamp trees. Dorchester's whims increasingly oriented towards speed, slipping by semi-trailers in gulf stream swoops, stylish bullshit. Hollis rolled down the window and stuck her head in the airstream to suck in the drug. No figure on how long they'd been on the run, the count was in hours - but it was cool. From here on out, a cinch.

Hollis reclined into her seat. She had an idea. "Let's stop somewhere."

"No."

She got out a phone and scrolled until she found a dumb name, a nearby address, and ratings of middling affection. Hollis showed the screen, Dorchester wouldn't look. "Do you want us to crash, Hollis? Read it."

"It's just an inn. It's shitty, we can lay low there."

Dorchester set her jaw. But thirty minutes later, when the GPS said, they rumbled off the interstate.

It looked like it belonged in a motor. Flat and L-shaped with wire frame pseudo balconies that had the look of chrome without depth or substance. The few cars had a uniform tendency towards depressive age. If you wanted quality, drive further. For her part Hollis yearned for a flea-ridden, hepatitis-stained mattress. The fun cynical bent would enable her to take in this incomprehensible day with something approaching reflection. And there had to be alcohol. She was going to buy or pilfer the shittiest beer imaginable and drink it, in this place, as the most important statement of her life.

She glowed at Dorchester as they parked. "We made it."

Dorchester detransformed and stepped out, slamming the door. Ryatt stirred.

Hollis retrieved her Gem from the cubes box and transformed herself back to normal as well (the lifting of a burden, she could finally breathe), then extracted Ryatt. As they shuffled awkwardly over humped asphalt it came to her that afternoon was becoming night. The bruised edge of the world brought on a downdraft of cold air. Ryatt seemed to pull closer.

Dorchester had vanished but was easily found behind a metal door at the far end of the building labeled CHECK IN. She spoke with somebody, a guy at a homely salvage desk. He sighed drowsily as Hollis dragged Ryatt inside, the rolls of his fat head inflating. "With you?"

"No."

"So one room." He named a price.

Dorchester immediately slipped out the door. Hollis waited for about a minute before she caught on. She hustled out, "Forgot something," she told the guy, and found Dorchester halfway across the parking lot, glaring. Hollis conjured a wallet and handed it over. Dorchester rifled, picked the bills she wanted, and went inside. A few instants later she exited and headed for the stairs, followed by trembling Ryatt.

"So how'd it go," said Hollis.

Dorchester stuffed her hands in her pockets. She said nothing.

The dingy scaffold howled as they ascended. The door Dorchester stopped in front of had a huge dent in the middle, like someone hauled off with a fire extinguisher. She unlocked the door, groped inside, flicked a switch. The light dawned on...a shitty hotel room. One bed of middling size, drab colors. The carpet had blotches and the ceiling bowed in but otherwise it was fine.

Dorchester nodded, imperious, "We'll stay here tonight."

B-but where would they sleep? Not all on the bed surely? No, what? Hollis shook herself off and found a chair.

"Look and see what the news says," said Dorchester. Well, what better way to get in the mood. Hollis pored over her phone for information and soon uncovered a nice timeline with all the events. Two Magical Girls confirmed deceased with four others in serious condition, a policeman mauled in his car, another man in critical condition, and yet another picked up near the initial escape vehicle, saying that three girls had stolen his bright yellow Honda, license plate listed.

Nothing related to Yolanda, though. Huh…

Ryatt sat on the edge of the bed, pale. Dorchester stood in the middle of their cube, tall in her awful t-shirt, staring at the stone dead Barbie Mansion TV. Ryatt flattened out on the sheets like a dehydrated insect. Dorchester got on her knees and swept the floor for a remote.

Nope. Hollis decided. The point had been reached. She dropped the phone on the floor and walked out. Deep night had already occurred somehow, pressing on her as she edged along the railing and went down into the parking lot. Their burgundy car looked expensive beside the rest of the worn beasts, crouched among weed-widened cracks.

She poked her head into the office. "Is there anywhere I can buy some beer?"

"What," said the manager, like a startled cow. "Who are you girl?"

Hollis stepped back and let the door close. She sat on the bottom of the staircase and rubbed her eyes deeply. Darkling mosquitos hummed and pecked her rash resistant skin. A cat ambled through the cars, skittering away at the sight of her. Unseeing cars rushed along the road.

Miss Ames, said Kyubey, who had appeared on the step directly above her.

"I know."

Untrue. If you had any conception of the gravity of your actions you could not be so cavalier.

"Haha, yeah."

To be clear, I cannot in good conscience recommend that you go without punishment. Consider yourself fortunate that termination is no longer on the table. I may be forced to aid in your capture.

He wasn't even wrong. Hollis truly did not care.

Only as it becomes necessary, though. Recent erraticism aside, I remain willing to assist. The USMF always has openings. If you become sensible I'll have reason to influence the odds in your favor.

"Thanks a lot ratboy, I'll be sure to do that."

I hope so. He hopped down and into the parking lot. Be aware that Miss Bedlowe is still alive, and has expressed a desire to reunite. You may wish to hurry.

Hollis sat up but he was already out of sight.

She relaxed. No problem really. What chance did she have of getting here with no trail or track? Let Yolanda plague someone else, it was basically fine.

She poked her head into their room, where Dorchester and Ryatt remained in more or less the same positions. "I'm getting some drink," she said, "Do you want any?"

Dorchester nodded. "Whiskey will be fine."

Oh? Hokay.

Down the road Hollis discovered a glowing gas station. She mimicked the sparse clientele, head down, shoulders up as she perused walls of beer, dirt wine, 'moonshine', liquor in many neon colors. The teller alone had the ability to discern her. She looked on as Hollis deposited a six pack, assorted whiskey flavors, and a beautiful handle of good vodka.

"This isn't going to work," said the teller.

Hollis flipped several hundred dollars in twenties onto the counter. She looked around expressively at the nobody-who-cared. The teller swept the bills off the counter and commenced bagging the goods.

Hollis strolled over the platform, no point in maintaining the slouch, she started back down. Precisely then a tortured white station wagon lurched from around the building. Hollis stepped onto the shoulder as it idled up the road and stopped beside her, the window sliding down on some kid, an acne mound in a tieless dress shirt.

She flattened her face. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk. How about get in and I drive you."

Hollis squinted for a resemblance, nothing stood out. "Who are you exactly?"

A car screamed up behind the station wagon, braked hard, and swerved around in a blueshifted horn blast. The kid looked irritably over his shoulder. "I know who you are."

Uh? "Okay."

Another car came, brakes honk swerve. He cursed, glanced at her, "I'll be there," and goosed down the road.

He was in the parking lot when she got there. She bent at the open window.

"You're a Magical Girl."

"Yeah?"

"You have something to do with a girl named Ryatt who's also a Magical Girl.

"Mhm?"

"I want you to let her go."

Hollis eyed him. He was gangly but had stupid fat cheeks. "You're aware she's wanted? She's in. No take backsies. What you could do is slide out before you get your spine bent backwards, and she doesn't get it on her conscience."

"I'm telling you let her go."

"I'm telling you fuck you. Hot shit gonna track down some Magical Girls." She started to turn. "Don't bother me again. Bye."

"Wait." He stuffed his hand into his pocket, rooting, and pulled out a small, limp pistol.

Hollis placed the bags on the ground. "No."

He pointed the gun.

"No." Hollis descended through the window to bear above him. Before he could move she seized his wrist. "Give."

He struggled a little but then kind of just gave way and transferred it to her and slid away like a trapped animal.

"Is this loaded," said Hollis, and she checked. "I've never been so scandalized in my life. You fucking boy."

He squirmed and wouldn't look at her.

"The whole deal," Hollis waved the pistol evocatively, "the whole fucking scoop on Magical Girls is we're durable. Peons understand this. You probably don't even fucking get what I'm saying? Watch." She pressed the pistol to her kneecap and pulled the trigger POP. "I don't care. I can heal it. With MAGIC."

He was only sitting there all drawn up so she reached in and grabbed him by the shoulder to get a look at him. "Shit, who are you anyway? What's the interest in Ryatt?"

"I'm a friend," he mumbled.

"You're a fucking creep. I don't want you around Ryatt, weirdass." Hollis laughed and let him go. "Name."

"P-Pembrook."

"Peter. Could have killed your ass. I might still if you don't get fucking lost. Capiche?"

He nodded.

She tossed the gun and he fumbled it in floppy hands. "Don't get ideas about ratting because I'll find you and Ryatt will be the one to suffer anyway, they kill girls like her, they'll tell you otherwise but think on whether they'd let a chump in on that kind of shit. Go." She slapped the door, stepped haltingly back. Her kneecap detached and dangled. As he stared she did expansive semaphore into the parking lot, repeating it until he backed the station wagon out and drove away.

When he disappeared she punched the air! No irreversible harm at all. A girl like Hollis. Shit, and she could have put him through the floorboard. By all rights.

She dragged her bad leg to the sedan and sat inside with a handful of cubes on her Gem until the kneecap stuck. When done she shuffled out of the car and up, overtaking the stairs with a repeated leaping motion. As she shouldered into the apartment and found somewhere to sit Dorchester looked her over. "Gunshot."

"I fixed it."

"Okay." She returned to the dead TV, remoteless.

They worked out arrangements. Ryatt (dubiously alive) took up the bed so the options became two chairs and the floor. Hollis grabbed one and dragged it to the other side of the room. Dorchester set up in front of the TV. The little lamp next to the bed snuffed out. Hollis held her knee to keep it stuck. Her neck and brain pulsed.

Oh. Damndest thing, she'd forgotten the fun. But she was already asleep.

The room was unchanged when she woke but had developed desolation, as though parched by a mummy curse. Ryatt sat up in the bed fisheyed and Dorchester was watching the nonfunctional TV. Everything seemed to be missing its essential core.

For the first minute of wakefulness Hollis had little idea of anything. When it came back to her she cringed. Some fucko bum was having a fun time right now.

She got up to move past it. Her knee felt fine now, maybe a little squeaky, but okay. She cracked her joints and breathed in the mildew air. To think that any moment she could have escaped. Nothing stopped her even now. Better to move if she wanted to be free - but Hollis was forced to concede on that front. Some kind of transformation had occurred. Dorchester and Ryatt were tolerable now, even allies. Unity was possible.

Anyway, things would probably just disband. Dorchester looked twenty years older and had the pall of a dementia patient, no way she lasted as leader. And Ryatt, hell, she wasn't anything, all she did was suffer. Good. That was growth. Confronted with pain, she would have no choice but to recognize her weakness and improve her dumb, bad life. Tactics, application - and with someone experienced to provide knowledge…

"Where's the alcohol," said Dorchester.

"Outside."

"Okay."

Maybe it wasn't still there but Hollis could totally get more. In fact, fuck it. "I'm gonna go out," she said, nodding to Dorchester, nodding to Ryatt. Go and get 'em.

Right as she reached the door she stopped. The peephole was stone black.

She felt the smoothness of the doorknob. She looked over her shoulder. Both of them watched. She shuffled and opened the door.

Yolanda, healthy and complete, raised in one hand a bouquet of plastic bags. "You're welcome."

Note: This chapter represents a significant change in my writing process. In brief, before I posted the first chapter of this story I had completed a full draft, the second half of which was written substantially faster than the first. My intention was to rewrite that latter portion, but for personal reasons I haven't been able to do so. This, then, is the original second half. The chapters to come won't be nearly as short as this, but they'll have the same general feel. Now that writing time isn't a factor I'll be able to post a chapter every week - I hope that the remainder comes off well, despite being less polished than I would prefer.