I have good reason for inviting her. You might say there has been something weighing on my mind, but then again, when isn't there?

If I'm to explain myself in full, I ask you follow me down one thread of time, which begins sometime in the previous year, in the hours after a mid-autumn dusk. There are six of us now: Tomoe has yet to depart for high school, and Nagisa (whose first name I feel comfortable using by virtue of being one of the few people I've ever met to do me no wrong) follows wherever she leads. We are poised atop a tower, side by side, each of us silently estimating how many wraiths silently march the streets below us. Only I know the exact number, but this is not exactly useful information. As long as the number exceeds zero, my intentions are the same.

For her seniority, it has become typical that Tomoe would speak first in times like this. "Well, then." She looks at each of us in turn, and takes a heavy breath in. "Shall we begin?"

Miki dives from the roof first, but out of some manner of pettiness I outpace her in bursts of frozen time. I don't doubt the other four are far behind, but I take no time to check. I pivot my weight onto my elbow, and land with the round of my shield (now more golden than its prior electrum sheen - I presume from what we've read together that this is common amongst demons) halfway through the skull of a common wraith. From beneath it, I draw a Remington and pierce the hearts of two more. Kyoko catches another on my flank before I notice it, for which I am thankful. I'd like my friends to think I'm as mortal as they are.

Friends...?

Yes, that feels right. Why would I so thoroughly clear their memories of the way I used to be if I didn't want to gain their trust?

High above, Tomoe trades blows with a far more powerful Shugen Wraith. She seems to have the upper hand, which certainly isn't all that remarkable on its own, but the elegance with which she does so is awestriking. It's also irksome, and I can't stand a show-off. But when I produce a RPG-7 from within my shield and finish the beast off in one blow, that's not showing off. That's just being thorough.

Tomoe lands and informs me that both Miki and Madoka have headed for the train station, in pursuit of what they believe to be a Satori Wraith. I so terribly wish that were the case, but you might say that at this point, I have something of a knack for chronology. And in Madoka's world, I remember the night Sayaka Miki dies.

I make for the train station myself, running in stopped time - I've no reason to, mind, because already having been and survived being a witch comes with the perk of not needing to worry about my energy depleting, but old habits die hard - and occasionally firing off whatever strikes my fancy at any wraiths in the way. There was a wraith, once, that had mutated and come to fight side by side with me. If we might keep this secret between us, I wonder with each wraith I kill if it's her.

Were you around for that? I don't recall.

I remind myself that I'm not in any particular hurry. I take your metaphorical hand, spread my wings and take to the night sky. We elevate, first above the street, then the neighbourhood, then even the highest of the high rise the city has to offer. I pray you forgive the detour and take a moment to bask in the sweeping vista of city lights beneath us. There are fifteen million people down there, going about their part in the electric ballet. Fifteen million lives, each with a story whose full scope takes decades, almost a century to unfold on average. Can you picture the scale of that?

I brought you up here because I can. If it were but a single momentary, fragile electric field of a single tiny, insignificant photon, then my mind is occupied by the immensity of the star in which that photon is born.

I won't ask you to forgive everything I've done. But I'd at least hope you try to understand it.

The tale resumes over at the first platform at the central train station, as its most dreadful tragedies tend. Madoka fells each wraith with ease, but nocking and loosing an arrow is hardly the fastest way to fight. Similarly, Miki puts up a valiant fight, but she supposes her own abilities are far in excess of the reality of the situation. Her regeneration of each wound as it comes can keep her in the fight, but only so long as she doesn't cave to emotional fatigue. And she always has, across a hundred different lives. To make matters an order of magitude worse, the signature chill through the platform of the Moksha Wraith that slew her in the last world fills the air.

But this world belongs to me, and an order of magnitude worse than one-trigintillionth is still only ten one-trigintillionths. I make my arrival as apparent as possible with the unleashing of two handmade explosives, ample support on their own, but a smokescreen to the real slaughter.

I pick out as many wraiths as I could see the explosions feasibly killing without raising too many questions. I approach the first, and merely press a single finger to its chest. In a matter of milliseconds, it ages weeks, starves, decays, crumbles to dust. I do the same to the second. The result is identical, only this time, it's torn apart by the desynchronization of particles in its body. I repeat about a dozen slight variations on this process before resuming my place (and time) between the others.

You seem surprised by the fact that I've allowed Madoka as much inhumanity as the rest of us. Did you expect me to keep her completely powerless? Did you anticipate my desires would be less modest, less innocent? How miserably cliché. You disappoint and insult me. Such things are of no interest to me; it is for her courage and her kindness that I harbor my feelings. Thus, my choice was to allow her to become a magical girl once more, or to assure her longevity, at the cost of what it is I love about her. Hardly a choice at all, when only one outcome would ever make her happy.

"Homura...?" she yelps. "When did you-?"

"Miki, stand down. I'll cover for you."

The Moksha Wraith decides now is the opportune time for its broad, inhuman form to glide with all the grace of a plummeting brick from the depths of the miasma.

"Now of all times? What, so you can steal my thunder?" chortles Miki.

"You're going to seriously hurt yourself if you don't pull back and recover your lost energy."

Nothing I'd say if I genuinely intended to convince her of anything, but perfectly acceptable to pretend I do. I pull time to a halt and call upon one of the dolls to attend me - the first of their number, Pride, answers the call. I order that she hand over her needle rapier, and silently give thanks for the fact that Miki is not a naturally gifted fighter.

I expect you understand by now the ability a magical girl has to survive without a body. Even her brain can be damaged, and though she would be reduced to mere instinct, she would remain standing. Battle, of course, is not Miki's instinct. She had learned it over countless hours of training and hunting. I raise the tip of the needle to just beneath her jaw, and with my other hand to hold me steady, forcefully disrupt her recall of those hours. Once satisfied with my handiwork, I return the needle to its owner, whom I dismiss, heal the punctured flesh of Miki's chin, and deposit a few grief cubes in her pocket for good measure.

Time resumes. She glares at me (I'm perversely pleased to see this much hasn't changed), but of course, speaking is out of her faculties for the time being. She retreats to heal.

I extend my hand to Madoka. "Shall we?"

"It would be my pleasure." She giggles and takes it, but she seems embarrassed by the affair. I imagine I must look completely red in the face at this point, but I can get over myself.

We manifest the conjunction of our bows, equal parts ebon and rose gold. Together, we nock an arrow. Together, we loose it.

And then...

It pierces clean through the center of the wraith's mass in a single blow. Its body dissolves into a few handfuls of grief cubes, and the miasma follows suit. Each of us lets out a deep breath we'd been keeping.

Calm is restored just in time to hear Kyoko climb the last of the stairs to this platform. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Madoka and I both look down to find ourselves still holding hands. We let go immediately, and try to explain ourselves over the sound of one another's voices.

"Heh! Methinks they doth protest too much!"

Cut.

"So why did you want me here in the first place?" Kyoko asks, in what I, in a particularly jovial mood, might laughably call 'the present'.

I hesitate to answer the question, but answer it I must. "An intimate matter. A matter of love, in fact."

She stops tossing her apple from hand to hand and looks over at me, dumbfounded. "Wow. I hate to break it to you, but you are absolutely not my type."

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm only asking after your wisdom, and your confidence."

"Jeez! You can't take a joke, can you?" She bites into the fruit. I withhold from answering such a question. When she decides that she must be the one to continue the conversation, she manages between chews: "Whatever. So... who's the lucky girl, then?"

I'm overcome at this moment with the compulsion to sigh. "You know who this is about. You're not even going to pretend it's about a boy."

"Well, excuse me for asking a simple question. Or are you so ~helplessly smitten~ you can't even say her name?"

I whisper it to myself. It almost hurts.

"Well, talking to me ain't gonna help you any. Why don't you just man up and ask her out? I don't know about you, but I can see a won't-make-the-first-move kinda girl a mile off, and believe me, she isn't even gonna try." She swallows, and with another bite of the apple, repeats the process.

The apple, I think, is my favorite fruit by default. Often, the forbidden fruit in Eden is depicted as one - this stems from the Latin "malum", meaning "evil" or "catastrophe" being mistranslated as "apple". Obviously, being misunderstood as something evil makes apples the most relatable fruit.

"And if she's disinterested?"

"Yeah? And if she's disinterested, so what?"

So life will no longer be worth living. Of course, I don't say that.

"Homura. My gal. My amigo. It really breaks my gay little heart to watch you flounder about so helplessly. Seriously! Go talk to her! What are you so afraid she'll do?"

"You don't think she might resent my... proclivities?"

"What? Hold on. Hooold on." A grin crosses her face, enough to bare her fangs. I feel my patience wearing thin, but unless you break your silence and come forward with some manner of profound advice, this is all I have. "You think she's straight?"

"I would presume-"

"You think Madoka likes boys, and not girls."

"All I'm saying-"

"You think our friend, Madoka Kaname, is a heterosexual woman."

"You seem sure she isn't."

"Well of course she's gay! She's, like... okay, I don't know how to put it nicely. Whatever. I'm sure the two of you would be cute together, and if you're gonna have to tell her you like women to get anywhere with your little nervous wreck girlcrush, she's really not the kind of person in any position to judge."

"You're right," I admit.

"So you agree?"

"You really don't know how to put that nicely."

She perks up. "You're dodging the point! If you won't tell her how you really feel, when will you? If you're gonna wait for the right time, how long is that gonna be?!"

"I presumed I'd know when the time is right."

"Life isn't some teenage romance story. It doesn't work like that. It's cute that you think it does, but it doesn't."

"Then, when I'm ready."

"Ha! I get it now. You just wanted me here to kick you into doing it so that you don't have to put this whole thing on your own shoulders. Forget it. You've gotta sail this ship alone." She rises to leave. "Now if it's all the same to you, I've gotta-"

Cut. Take two.

"-ke that. It's cute that you think it does, but it doesn't."

"So what do you propose? That I call and confess to her now?"

"Over the phone? You're crazy, man."

"So there is a right time after all."

"No, but there's plenty of wrong times. Just... whenever it feels natural!"

"That's the exact opposite to what you just told me."

"Ugh, I knowww. Why do you have to make this so hard?"

I rest my chin upon a fist. "I think you're just explaining it poorly."

"You think so? Alright, nerd. Practical exam. Let's do a little roleplay." Before I can protest, she's already untying her ponytail and tying her hair up in two places. "Pretend I'm her. What do you say to me?"

"First of all, if you were her, I wouldn't have the problem of a crush in the first place. And this entire exercise is demeaning. To us, and to her."

"Do you have a better idea?"

I permit myself a deep breath out, then in.

"Madoka."

She looks panicked for a moment, before taking to herself a sense of order. "Y-yes, Homura?"

"Don't do the voice. That's not what she sounds like."

"Dude, that is exactly what she sounds like!"

"Just don't do the voice. It's that simple. The hair, too. In fact, we should switch roles."

"So you... won't be you."

"That's correct."

"So you think you know what she'll say better than you know what you'll say."

"Let's suppose for the moment that I do."

She looks astonished, certainly, but she doesn't complain. I take the opportunity to thumb through other possibilities. One in a very similar timeline, a mere three days prior. Madoka and I sit alone upon the school roof (our usual compatriots preoccupied with... something, I'm sure. Certainly no business of mine). The air is light and humid, although not unpleasantly so, not least of all because it masks the sweat of nerves I find myself experiencing in that moment. It is so scarce that I am afforded moments of freedom from watching over the bigger picture that in these rare times I notice just how close we're sitting. Against my better judgement I steal a glance at her, only to catch her doing the same at the same time. We both look away.

"Can I wear your headband?" Kyoko snickers. "You know, if I'm gonna-"

I remove it and throw it right in her face. She protests through a crescendo of laughter, but dons it nonetheless.

"Spare me the nonsense. What would you say to her in my place?"

"Well, first of all, I'd wait until me and her were alone. Doing something together already, to sort of ease her into it. That's the thing. You can't just drop it out of nowhere, and you can't just do it in the middle of something else important, either."

"And then?"

"Something like... Hey. Madoka. I've been thinking."

I echo these words to her in the other world. She looks up at me, stops chewing, and swallows. "Is everything alright?"

There's a reckless part of me which finds a sort of pleasure in repeating her question back to Kyoko. Does that make sense? Perhaps not.

"Oh, it's nothing bad! I just wanted to say, It's really nice that we can spend time together like this. Ya know?"

I rephrase the sentiment so that it's not immediately obvious who I'm taking cues from. Despite what I would assume to be a perfectly innocuous thing to say, she can't seem to meet my eye. "I- I'm glad! Me too..."

Kyoko guffaws. "What? Are you off in magical fantasy happy land or something? She's way too cool to talk like that."

"You've never heard her talk that way before?"

"For real?! Dude! If she's talking to you like that she's totally got the hots for you!"

"Are you sure?"

"Either that, or she thinks you're a total creep, and she's trying to let you down easy."

"I think this is the single least useful binary of possibilities you could present to me right now."

"Yeah, yeah! I get it! But either way, it sounds like my advice isn't gonna help you any. Either you've got this, or you've got nothing."

Hm. So we're nowhere past square one, then.

I must apologize. I didn't intend for our little reunion to cut to such a personal matter so quickly, nor it to unfold so upsettingly. Let me make it up to you next time, and cordially invite you along to the next time my friends and I go shopping. You could do with your own attire, I think.

For now, though, I clap my hands once. Kyoko finds herself at the supermarket with no memory of this conversation ever occurring. I myself retire to my private quarters, to brood over machinations beyond mortal comprehension. If you'd like to take the opportunity to read some of my notes on the nature of dark energy as it pertains to the Narrator's worldbuilding, be my guest.

Left to sit in the room with nothing else to do, you accept the opportunity.

"Notes on dark energy
1. Responsible for the expansion of space and, by extension, the decreasing energy density of the universe
2. Began accelerating in growth around the time the Incubator arrived on Earth
3. Possible connection to the Abyss/Knight/Light
3.1. If this is the case, these forces must predate magical girls, and are therefore not gods and demons
3.2. Unless something else brought magical girls into being prior?
3.2.1. In that case, why is it only after the Incubator begins to create them that the dark energy quantity accelerates?
3.3. Potential "first magical girl"/creation myth origin, to correspond to the time frame
4. Whitman alludes to Macquarie's beliefs being old superstition, so it may in fact originate from something less fantastical
4.1. Fearnley said the same of the Knight's existence, so this hypothesis seems a little shaky"

Meanwhile, a handful of the dolls are attending me in my room.

Slander, the sixth, sneers: "Does the Good-For-Nothing believe love might be enough to save it? What a riot!"

Number two, Pessimism, chimes in. "Not even all the forces of Heaven and Earth could end your existential travesty."

"None of you could ever understand. You're all idiots."

That shuts them up. I continue, "I care not for whether or not her affection would repair or redeem me. And yet, I can't help but covet it. Why? Not because I think so highly of myself to believe I've earned it, but because I believe my duty to her is eternal, and I would be all the better for it if I was by her side."

"What a pathetic excuse for your own self-indulgence. We all know that's the real reason you want her."

"Are you so stupid," I snap, "that you believe I'm incapable of having more than one reason for something? Are you all so pathetically narrow-minded?"

They back off and glare and cower and snicker, but only one - the tenth, Vanity - is willing to speak her mind in retort.

"Don't snap, Good-For-Nothing, it's not a good look." She guides my eye to the mirror, and I see my illusion of good health is coming undone. "And what kind of tan lines do you even get in that dress of yours? How ghastly to even think."

"That's not relev-"

Actually, that's a good question. What kind of tan lines would I get?

Slander butts into that train of thought. "If she's so willing to waste her tremendous power on such lowly romance, let's examine her dream life, shall we?"

I look again in the mirror, and now, beyond it.

I see myself at fifteen, perhaps mere weeks from now. I'm standing in the vestibule of Madoka's house. My hand grips her own desperately. For a moment, her grip is just as tense, but she takes a deep breath, and eases up.

"Mom," she pipes up. Her voice cracks just a little. She clears her throat. "This is... this is Homura. My girlfriend."

She smiles at me for just a moment before returning her attention to her mother. Mrs. Kaname nods to me and offers a smile of her own, as if to ease my nerves. It does work, somewhat.

"You must be that Akemi girl I've heard so much about, right?" She laughs.

"Oh! She's told you about me already?" This catches me a little off guard, I'll admit.

She waves me off. "Nothing but the good things! She seems really happy to be with someone like you."

Madoka, my absolute darling, scratches the back of her head and giggles nervously.

I see myself at twenty, sitting cross-legged before my love on what is, at that point, still her bed.

"It's not fair of me," she sighs. "I shouldn't expect you to be able to fulfill all my..." she bites her lip and avoids my gaze.

"...Desires," she whimpers after a moment's thought. I take her hand in both of mine. She gasps, and our eyes meet.

"Look," I begin, although finding the words is difficult. "Just because I don't feel that kind of attraction doesn't..." I pause.

Close my eyes.

Deep breath.

"If there's anything I can do to make you happy, I would be overjoyed to do it." My hand moves now to cup her cheek. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met, and... I'm sorry, I'm not good with words right now."

A smile creeps upon her lips. I feel at once as if I have no need for words, no need for any comfort beyond presence. I am here, and I am with her, and that, I think, is all that matters. She drapes her arms over my shoulders. Leans in. Kisses me. I unfasten the ribbons from her hair and lean into it.

I see myself at twenty-five, staring out from the crest of the hill that overlooks the city. The sunset looms behind us, and for a moment, we say nothing. What is there to say?

I suppose there is one thing. I lay back in the grass. Madoka joins me. "You know, it's been ten years since we first came up here together," I explain.

"Ten years is quite a long time," she concurs, smiles sheepishly.

"I was thinking the same thing. That's why I feel compelled to ask you..."

I sigh, get up onto one knee, and fish around in my pocket for a small, blue velvet box. "Madoka," I force, with every ounce of strength in my soul, "will you-"

And when I look up at her I see she's done the exact same.

Neither of us know what to say for a second, but we can only maintain our composure for so long before we laugh and we cry and she embraces me, squealing, "yes! Of course, yes!"

I see myself at thirty. I am sitting at the bus stop on Third Street. My wife's head is leaning on my shoulder. Her fingers are interlaced with mine.

"What time did you say the bus would be here?" She asks.

"Any moment now."

Both of us are unspeakably excited, but I can tell she's more than slightly nervous too.

"It's too late for us to second-guess ourselves now," I point out. "Besides, you're going to be a wonderful mother."

She sits up and adjusts her glasses. "I hope so..."

"I know you will. I'm sure of it."

She looks down. I see her put on her brave face. For me. For us.

A bus pulls up seconds later. Out steps a middle-aged woman dressed in a sharp-looking suit, and holding her hand is an excitable young girl who beams from ear to ear when she sees us.

I see myself at thirty-five-

"BOOORING," Pride huffs. "You'd waste your omnipotence on this?"

"The Good-For-Nothing writes such cheap romance!" Vanity concurs. "Not even a daytime soap opera would buy a script like this!"

The others express similar opinions. Under my breath, I give my own.

"I'll kill you all."