A/N: Sorry for the wait everybody. Schoolwork caught up with me after I recovered from illness, and then I had to go back to work and soccer training… So yeah, I been busy. I'll try and keep updating weekly now, but knowing me I'll probably miss a week here and there. Don't worry though; I intend to leave this story with a complete status before I drop it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Madoka Magica, I just watch it a lot.

Warnings: The same depressing mental stuff

Pairings: XP U get nothing but ship teases until I decide otherwise

Homura fidgeted in her cell. It had been a few hours since Madoka had left her, with assurances of getting her into a normal room, and she remembered reassurances that it wouldn't take long at all.

"Calm down Homura, she's just having a hard time convincing the director… or something… there's nothing to worry about."

Homura shook herself slightly. Why was she worried again? The atmosphere of insanity in her quiet padded cell must really be starting to get to her.

She stood up, and began to pace. She absently swung her arms around. They were still sore from their days of imprisonment, but she was slowly regaining use over time. She could even flex her fingers again, a fact that she wasn't reluctant to exploit.

The door to her cell suddenly cracked open, and she was over in front of it awaiting attention dutifully. As she had expected… well, hoped... Madoka was the one who stepped through the door. She looked somewhat irate.

"Old fool. Nearly a decade I've worked for him and the best he can offer is 'I'll think about it?' I'll show him."

"You look stressed."

Madoka looked up, and smiled in spite of herself. "How on earth could you tell?"

"Did something happen?"

"Well, I asked the director about arranging a move for you, but he's taking his time deciding."

Homura nodded, and looked down.

"Anyway, it's pretty late now. I just came to say goodnight before I leave."

Homura nodded again.

"We'll start work in the morning then."

Another nod, and Madoka frowned.

"You know, this is only gonna work if you're willing to communicate."

"Right."

Madok sighed exhasperatedly. "You're hopeless. Anyway, goodnight Homura-chan."

"Goodnight."

Madoka smiled as she left Homura's cell, pulling the door shut behind her. Homura heard the door click, and fell back on her bed.

"How am I going to do this?" Her mind was a mess. She couldnt escape the persistent itch at the back of her brain that she was missing part of the story. "The mall, that's where it happened, I remember arriving there… But what next?! What is it I'm missing?"

Her thoughts started to wander, and before long she found herself thinking about Madoka.

"Why does she have to be so damn kind? I know she doesn't really care about me, who would?"

But the image of Madoka's smile kept on infiltrating her thoughts. It wasn't forced, she could tell that easily. It was a genuine, kind and loving smile.

"So what if she does care? It's her job isn't it? I shouldn't be reading any deeper into this than that. She's just being kind because she has to be."

Homura's head started to ache. All of the confusion was taking its toll on the ravenette. She stood up, and walked over to the door. She raised one of her arms, noting that it almost felt normal again, and knocked on the small window. But there was nobody around to hear it. The nurses on the night shift probably didn't start their rounds for a while.

Unfortunately for her, Homura's knock had apparently triggered the other inmates. The same chorus of screams from the morning resounded throughout the corridor, and Homura's headache gradually worsened.

"I'd kill for a glass of water," she thought dejectedly, as she made her way back over to her small bed. "May as well try and get some sleep. Although I don't see that happen with this lot…"

Homura laid her head down on the single pillow that she had been given, and closed her eyes. The screams started to blend in with her own thoughts, and eventually she managed to get to sleep.

"I don't believe that we should be lenient just because the institute says she is unstable."

The director of the MICI set down his coffee cup, and looked sternly at the lawyer sitting opposite him. "So, you believe that it is justifiable to sentence a person to death because of an act they committed when they had no sense of control or self-awareness."

"Not at all, I am merely saying that when the girl recovers she should be treated in a court of law as any other murderer should."

"There are two problems with your argument. One, there is no guarantee that the girl will ever recover from whatever condition she is afflicted with, and two, how can you consider this a murder case. I was under the impression you legal folk had a special name for cases like this."

"I believe you are trying to infer that we should treat this as a case of manslaughter."

"Precisely!"

"I'm sure you are mistaken sir, you see, even if her mind was not fully aware of her actions, her body most certainly acted in such a way that makes the attack seem premeditated. And as to the dilemma of how long it will take for her to recover. Well, justice will not wait indefinitely. If she is still suffering from whatever affliction she presently has when her trial comes around, then I am sure the court could be persuaded to be lenient. But as it stands, your patient is, from an official standpoint, a murderer."

"And what of the victim?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Well, in the incident report it was noted that the man who was killed in fact intended to commit murder that same day."

"The intent of the victim is irrelevant. And even aside from that fact, we must not forget that she wounded eleven others. It is absurd to suggest that she should be excused for that."

The director rubbed his temples, trying to force down the dull ache tht was beginning there. "Fine then, this meeting is over."

"I understand sir. Do have a pleasant evening."

The director grunted a response, and returned to his paperwork.

"What are we going to do about that girl? We have no idea what condition prompted the attack whatsoever. And of course, my best therapist had to take a liking to her on the first day."

He leaned back in his chair, and sighed. This whole situation was more trouble than it was worth, and the director hoped sincerely that he would be able to put it all behind him very soon.

He checked his watch. Eleven-forty. "Ah well, nothing more to be done. I may as well go home."

Silently, he packed his briefcase, and departed the small office.

Tap… Tap… Tap…

Homura rolled over, and opened her eyes. The tapping noise was coming from her door. Was it morning already?

Homura stood silently, and walked over to the door. She ignored the renewed throbbing in her head, and peeked out the window. It was still dark outside, so it took her eyes a moment to adjust. There was a woman standing outside her window, grinning at her. Homura recoiled, and nearly fell over.

As she watched, the woman walked away from the door. Homura saw that she was wearing a shredded strait jacket.

"How in hell did she manage that?"

She was ab out ten feet away from the door, when she stopped. Turning back to Homura, she drew a kitchen knife from behind her back.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

The woman raised the knife, and Homura saw what she was about to do.

"No, WAIT!"

But her words did nothing, and the woman drove the knife into her stomach. Blood sprayed out onto the floor, and the woman removed the knife and walked closer to Homura's cell. She dropped the knife, and fell to her knees. With her hands, she started to paint symbols on the floor with that same maniacal grin on her face.

Homura stepped back, unable to tear her eyes away from the woman.

It took a little under a minute for her to bleed out, but she had finished writing her message. The symbols couldn't be considered human, but somehow Homura understood them perfectly. There on the floor, spelled out in the blood of the now dead woman, was her name.

Homura.

Unable to repress it any longer, she screamed. But her cry was not met by a chorus of screams this time. She was all alone.

The director rounded another corner uncomfortably. He hated walking through this part of the institute alone. All of the worst psychopaths in Japan were housed in this wing, and it was not reassuring to think that all of them were capable of all sorts of unspeakable things.

Silently, he sped up, rounding another three corners, before almost toppling to the floor. He had slipped on something. Water? No, it was too thick to be water. So, what?

He looked down, and in the dim light, he saw that he had stepped in blood. He whipped his cell phone out, and walked several more feet, before stopping dead. He saw the body of a woman in a ripped strait jacket, and a knife lying on the floor beside her, and an illegible message spelled out in blood. But the most striking feature of the whole scene was its location. The woman was slumped over, dead, right outside the cell of their new inmate.

"Oh fuck," the director muttered under his breath.

Madoka exited the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel, bathrobe wrapped around her lean figure.

"I think I'm already starting to get somewhere with her," she thought cheerfully, wondering how Homura was doing. The phone in the kitchen rang. Madoka slipped on her pink slippers, and padded out to answer it.

"Hello-" Madoka was cut off by the sound of the director's voice. He sounded frantic.

"Calm down sir, what happened." Madoka listened while the director explained the situation. Slowly, her face darkened.

"I'll be right there."

A/N: DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNN! And this story finally earns its M rating, go team! I knew I had to do something about Homura handling the situation so well eventually. After all, she can't be allowed to remain mentally stable. R&R as always, and until next time, peace out!