Preface

Fargo DX
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/83247491.

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Fandom:

Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Characters:

Kyubey (Madoka Magica), Akemi Homura, Kaname Madoka, Tomoe Mami, Sakura Kyouko, Miki Sayaka, Momoe Nagisa

Additional Tags:

Original Character(s), Revenge, Dark, Action/Adventure, Girls with Guns, Plot Twists, Magical Girls, Character Death, Yuri

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-16 Completed: 2026-05-27 Words: 275,884 Chapters: 43/43

Fargo DX

by Bavitz II (Bavitz)

Summary

In the frostbitten American Midwest, ragged Magical Girls vie for territory to survive the unforgiving landscape. One such girl is Sloan Redfearn, who wastes away in no man's land after being betrayed by her best friend. Only one goal keeps her alive: Revenge.

But with Sloan growing weaker every day, it seems impossible she'll ever be strong enough to get back at the girl who wronged her. That is, until Kyubey gives her a unique opportunity. Deep in the plains, hidden within a nightmarish miasma, is a wraith of unfathomable power. If a Magical Girl could kill it, all that power would be hers.

It's a suicide mission. But Sloan has nothing left to lose, and she's just desperate enough to try. Nor is she the only one.

Notes

Hello. From May 4, 2015, to April 16, 2016, I published Fargo on fanfiction.net. (The story has since been posted on AO3.) For Fargo's 10-year anniversary, I made a major revision in the hopes of creating a definitive edition of the story. This is that edit. I'll be keeping the original version of the story up unchanged, though I consider this version an overall improvement.

Whether you're a first-time reader or a long-time one, please comment to let me know what you think!

Inspired by Fargo by Bavitz

Chapter 1: Cherish the Merry-Go-Round

FIRST ARC: WILLISTON

A gaggle of amorphous shapes drifted behind the frost-coated front window of the convenience store. The door opened with a bell and the shapes coalesced into the form of a man, draped in rags and furs, blowing into his hands as he stomped his boots on the welcome mat.

"We close in five," said Sloan Redfearn behind the counter.

"Ayup," said the man. The parts of his face visible behind the beard and trucker cap were beet red. He wiped his nose and shambled into the aisles, fingering each individual item on the shelves. Sloan could do nothing but watch.

Ten minutes later he deposited an armful of snacks and a six-pack of beer onto the counter.

"Howzit, Sloan." The man motioned at the nametag on her apron. His beard parted into an irrepressible smile.

She swiped a bag of chips.

The man glanced over his shoulder, though they were and had always been alone. He leaned over the counter and lifted his eyebrow. "Lookin' for work?"

"I got work." Obviously.

"I mean real work. You in school?"

She swiped the last item and punched the numbers. "Twenty thirty-seven."

"Ach." The man patted his sides. He opened his patchwork coat and rifled through an interior pocket. His hand emerged with a billfold. "Reason I ask is, there's demand for girls like you. Out in uh, out in Williston. You know Williston, doll?"

He slapped down a ten, a five, five ones and started scavenging for change. She curled her hands around the edge of the counter and tapped her nails against the glass, her gaze fixed on his sausage fingers as they dipped in and out of the wallet.

"Point is." He found a dime. "There's oil in Williston, you betcha. Big oil. All em corporations are setting shop for the long haul. We're talking big oil, big big oil." He flapped his hands like a bird to demonstrate the bigness, launching coins from his open billfold. "And when there's oil, well, there's men. Men to drill the oil, men to truck the oil, men to watch the men drilling the oil. A whole lotta men and none too many girls, you fish my drift?"

Sloan's eyes narrowed as she fished his drift. "If you continue this line of conversation, mister, it won't be until the snow melts they find you again."

The man blinked, his smile hesitant but extant. Gauging whether to assert dominance or laugh it off and move on. He would choose the latter. Girls who talked like that weren't the girls he wanted.

"Ayup." The man crouched to retrieve his dropped coins. The conversation died.

He bid her good-night as he left with his bags.

Sloan waited until his truck rumbled away before closing shop. She locked the doors and stepped into the frigid bite of fall's last days, temperatures near zero. Filthy mounds of week-old slush moldered on the corners of the parking lot. A lone street lamp tilted overhead, blinking.

She shuffled into her long brown overcoat, her most precious possession. She had pilfered it before she left Minneapolis. Trailing down to her boots, the furred interior could stave off freezing even in dead winter. At night it was a blanket and in summer she hung it up and stored stuff in its innumerable pockets. It gave her a cylindrical, androgynous appearance that minimized unwanted attention. Oh, how she loved her jacket so.

It would still be a dismal night. The jacket could only appease the cold, not erase it entirely. And if recent weeks were any indication, wraiths would be few and far between, as if even they hated the weather. At least it wasn't snowing.

Fargo by night had a postapocalyptic vibe. Discarded husks of old trucks rusted beside dilapidated shacks. Everywhere lights flickered: streetlights, store lights, starlight. Nothing had any consistency. If all the lights turned off at once the city might vanish from existence. She wrapped a hand around the Soul Gem in her pocket and kept alert. In such a dark place, miasma might slip past a careless eye.

When Sloan reached Fargo's central business district, as transient as the rest of the city, she heard a guttural murmur from behind the decrepit line of storefronts. It might be anything, but the sound merited investigation nonetheless. She shuffled along a brick facade until she found a crevice alleyway and flattened herself sideways to pass through.

By the time she reached the end of the alley, she knew those ghoulish moans were definitely a wraith. She peeked out at a trash-strewn lot, the kind of place nobody went even during the day, enclosed by barbwire fence and NO TRESPASSING signs. Amid a grainy plume of shadow stood what could be taken as a tall gray man swaddled in a vaguely buddhist robe. The bald, shriveled head extending from the elongated torso had no real face. A frenzy of static and glitches swallowed its features.

Sloan sighed. A single lesser wraith, small potatoes. She lacked the luxury of complaint.

She unleashed the magic from her Soul Gem to transform into her Magical Girl attire, which meant little aesthetically because she continued to wear her big brown jacket over it. It was too cold to traipse in a miniskirt.

The plan: Eliminate the target while expending as little magic as possible. She wasted no time materializing her weapon, a large machine gun with a Gatling-style barrel. She held the heavy turret at her hip, although it tipped her off-balance. With magic she could lighten it or make it levitate by her side or something spectacular, but who gave a shit. She readied to fire as the wraith turned toward her.

Something leapt from the roof of the nearest building and somersaulted with superfluous acrobatic pizazz, emerging from self-indulgence at just the right moment to strike the wraith over the head with a curved scimitar. The wraith reared back as its assailant stuck the landing and readied a quick second strike that would surely finish its target.

Sloan rammed the other Magical Girl out of the way and hoisted her machine gun to bludgeon the wraith. But it had been a long time since she was so active in combat and she misjudged the weight of her own weapon, only raising it halfway before losing her balance and tottering forward helplessly.

The wounded wraith fled, oozing through the barbwire fence and into a sprawling snowfield beyond. While Sloan stumbled, the other Magical Girl took off in hot pursuit. She cleared the fence in a single bound and sprinted atop the snow. Sloan gritted her teeth and swung her turret around, hardly taking time to steady herself as she squeezed the trigger.

The machine gun churned and loosed thousands of luminescent bolts into the field, blasting the barbwire to smithereens and eviscerating the landscape. The ground spewed puffs of white powder as Sloan planted her back foot and sprayed round after round, indeterminate toward what she aimed for and what she hit.

A spasm of pain stung deep in her forehead. She cut off her magic at once and clutched her skull. Her gun stopped, although the turret continued to spin with a mechanical whirr.

Shit. She used too much.

Sloan discarded her gun and staggered into the tattered warzone. She must have hit the wraith. For as much magic as she used, if she didn't hit it...

Four small black cubes sat in the snow, a malevolent aura quickly dissipating around them. Sloan fell to her knees and scooped them up with a fistful of snow. For so weak a wraith, it was a decent drop.

The tip of something sharp settled on her shoulder. "I suggest you fork over what I'm due."

Sloan struggled to her feet and faced the other Magical Girl. She was a ragged thing, a valkyrie from a dying empire. Vestiges of a typical Magical Girl costume clung to her, threads frayed at the edges and handmade stitchwork on the collar. Her gaunt, worn face expelled breath in a pasty cloud.

"You aren't due a thing," said Sloan.

"I landed the first strike. And I'd've finished it myself if not for you." She wiped her nose with the back of a dainty glove.

"Look kid. I dunno who you are or where you come from, but Fargo's my territory."

The kid moved the tip of her sword from Sloan's shoulder to her throat. "I ain't fucking around. The cubes, please. You can keep the city, like I'd want this dungheap."

Sloan rehearsed the actions it would take to disarm her. Knock the sword away with one hand and blast her in the face with the other. The kid was an obvious novice. In a fair fight Sloan won every time. But the pain in her skull lingered and a desperate fatigue swept her. Her magic was low. Dangerously low.

With a grudging sigh Sloan opened her hand, all four cubes perched on the upturned palm. The kid ogled them a moment and then carefully picked out two.

"Take them all," said Sloan. "You idiot. Take all four."

"This is fair. You got the finishing shot, after all." The kid backed away, pointing her sword with one hand and clutching the cubes to her chest with the other. "Don't worry about seeing me again. I'm moving up in the world. A landfill like this is no place for me."

She turned and ran into the darkness.

Sloan sagged to her knees and let her Soul Gem roll onto the ground, awash in a putrid splotch of brown. She placed the two cubes beside it and let them do their work. That stupid kid. If she didn't learn, she wouldn't last.

Corruption streamed from her Soul Gem and osmosed into the cubes. Only a few seconds and the cubes refused to cleanse any more. Her Soul Gem remained mud brown.

Closing her eyes, she cupped her hands around the Soul Gem and leaned her head close. "It's okay," she said. "You're alive." She spoke as if to the gem rather than herself. Although the gem was herself, if you got metaphysical about it. "You had a bad night but tomorrow will be better. You survived worse than this, so you'll survive this too. It's okay."

She kissed her Soul Gem and opened her eyes. It looked slightly less brown, she was sure of it. She tried not to think how frequent her pep talks were getting.

When she recovered enough to look up, she found herself staring into two emotionless red eyes attached to a sickeningly cute cat-thing that blended perfectly into the snow. Its tail flicked back and forth.

The girl who escaped has far less potential than you, said Kyubey, Mephistopheles of adolescent girls the world round. He spoke via telepathy; his face never moved. I'm surprised you were unable to control the situation.

"I was tired." Sloan pushed herself upright. She kicked the spent cubes at him and he ate them with the weird alien mouth on his back. After sliding her Soul Gem into a pocket, she wrapped her coat tighter around herself and headed the way she came.

Kyubey trotted alongside her. How unfortunate that such a promising Magical Girl has resolved herself to this fate. At full capacity, your prowess and expertise would allow you to reliably fight wraiths in even a large city.

She climbed through the broken fence. "You have your cubes. Why are you still talking to me?" Her discarded machine gun vanished with a wave of her hand.

It's important I keep an eye on the mental health of promising contractees. It would be inefficient if I let a useful prospect disappear before extracting as much as possible from her.

"You already have a pretty good grasp on my mental health. Gonna ask about Minneapolis next?"

I didn't plan to bring it up if you didn't first, said Kyubey. But you may find it of interest that your replacement, Miss Ibsen, is managing the city adequately.

Sloan stopped in front of the alley back to the main street and sighed. "You're not even trying to be subtle, are you?"

With one deft movement she grabbed Kyubey and drop-kicked him. His ragdoll body soared skyward in a series of midair contortions, the expressionless red eyes betraying no surprise or discomposure as he disappeared over the roof of a building. Sloan clapped her hands and laughed. That felt good. He was normally so surreptitious she forgot the catharsis of obliterating his adorable body.

She headed home.

Her apartment overlooked a liquor store and a video rental joint, both with neon signs that pierced her curtains and drove her crazy when she tried to sleep. She closed the door behind her and tromped her boots dry, flopping onto her mattress and pulling them off one after another. She kept her coat on. Heat wasn't cheap.

She shook her cereal boxes to find one that wasn't empty. Corn flakes. It would do. Shoveling handfuls into her mouth, she pored over the nutrition facts on the side of the box.

Kyubey tapped her window. May I come in?

"Are you a vampire, you can only come in if I let you? Would explain a lot."

The rat pushed open the window and slithered inside. It's merely a formality based on human ideas of etiquette. Speaking of which, it was rude of you to kick me.

"Boo hoo." Sloan's corn flakes went extinct and she tossed the box aside to save the crumbs for later. She knew she hadn't seen the last of Kyubey. If he wanted to talk, he wanted to talk. And since he had opened their conversation with every obvious way to butter/rile her up, he probably wanted something from her. "Let's cut to the chase. I could use some shuteye."

Kyubey stared at her from the center of the room. I have an opportunity for you, Sloan.

"Not interested. That was easy."

It's in your best interest to listen to what I have to tell you.

"Yes Kyubey, you sure know what's in my best interest. You made a compelling case for yourself with that whole contract bit."

His face remained ever fixed. Are you unhappy with being a Magical Girl, Miss Redfearn? Or are you unhappy that you were ousted from Minneapolis?

She counted cracks on the ceiling. "Hurry and tell me this opportunity of yours."

Of course. I am offering you the opportunity to reclaim your territory of Minneapolis.

Wham. If the satanic hamster wanted her attention, he should have opened with that.

Tell him no. It's Kyubey. You can't trust him. She opened her mouth to form the word and closed it without saying a thing. He already had her soul, what more could he steal? What was there to steal worth more than a chance to return to Minneapolis and smash Clair Ibsen in her smug face? Was that not the dream that sustained her through so many frigid Fargo nights?

No, she couldn't trust Kyubey. How could she, he was the one thing in the universe that screwed her worse than Clair. But was that even true? His previous question resonated: Which made her more unhappy? Being a Magical Girl, or eking a miserable existence in godforsaken Fargo?

"You claimed Clair was managing the city fine. Why would you want her terminated?"

I have no particular interest who controls the territory of Minneapolis, Clair Ibsen or Sloan Redfearn. You are both competent Magical Girls suited for a task of that magnitude.

Sloan closed her eyes. "You're being roundabout. I don't like it. What do you want me to do?"

There is a town west of here where your species has discovered a primitive energy source. This discovery has caused a rapid population explosion as workers migrate in search of financial gain.

A town to the west. Maybe the same the man at the convenience store mentioned. "More people means more wraiths."

Not simply more people. Boom towns are rare but remarkable phenomena in human history. They are locations of lawlessness, corruption, and sin. The unrealistic hopes of the migrants, once confronted by the stark realities of the situation, create immense quantities of despair. In effect, a perfect storm of wraith production.

"You must have loved the gold rush." Sloan peeled herself off the mattress and shuffled to her closet-sized bathroom.

No. Historically, these events cannot be properly harvested. Boom regions have low populations of young human females, and thus low supplies of contractees relative to demand. Furthermore, established Magical Girls can rarely be persuaded to abandon their territories for distant prospects. As such, the immense energy potential of these events usually goes to waste.

Sloan ran her toothbrush under the faucet. Her roll of paste was coiled to the cap. "But this time, you happen to have a competent Magical Girl in the neighborhood. A girl with little attachment to her current territory and who you perceive has nothing to lose from embarking on such a venture."

Exactly.

"How convenient. What's this got to do with Minneapolis?"

The cubes dropped by wraiths are mutually beneficial as an energy source for us both. Your power is limited immensely by your sullied Soul Gem. The sparse drops in Fargo have done nothing to alleviate the despair you've struggled against since your duel with Miss Ibsen in Minneapolis. When was that? Seven months ago?

She finished brushing and spat into the sink. "Something like that."

But if you were to acquire a significant quantity of cubes at once, you could restore your Soul Gem to peak condition and then some. You would then be able to contest Miss Ibsen to reclaim control of your home city. You would enjoy that, would you not? I believe that chance is a more than suitable reward for your services in Williston.

Her reflection peered from behind a dirty mirror. She ran a hand through her hair, the fingers snagging on knot after knot. "It's a sour deal. I risk my life to help you, and in return you merely let me try to do something I might possibly want to do. You're not actually giving me anything."

I didn't say it was a trade. I said it was an opportunity.

"A shitty one."

You need to purify your Soul Gem to have any hope of defeating Clair Ibsen in combat. If that isn't your goal, why are you even still alive?

For a time she said nothing and when she finally left the bathroom Kyubey was gone. She didn't trust him, of course. No doubt he kept cards off the table and his abrupt departure was a tactical move to prevent her from asking too many questions. At least he had been straightforward enough to admit his aim was nothing more than to use her.

A nest of wraiths in a remote locale. She wondered if at her current strength she could even handle them. Not that things would improve if she stayed in Fargo. Maybe Kyubey's deception was that he had no expectation of her survival. Maybe all he wanted was to squeeze as much energy out of her as possible before her long-awaited and ignominious end. Maybe he should have framed his so-called opportunity as a choice between a slow death in Fargo and a quick one in, what was the name, Williston.

Maybe maybe maybe. She hit the switch and climbed onto her mattress, unbuttoning her coat and draping it over her body like a blanket, folding her knees to keep her toes from poking out. Trying to uncoil the mysteries of Kyubey's freakish multitudinous mind would lead nowhere. She had to reframe his terms in her own language and decide independently of his theoretical posturing.

She slid her Soul Gem out her coat and placed it on the floor beside her. It swallowed the dim light from outside into its filthy core. Kyubey knew his business. He did not appear exactly when he did by chance. Everything about this "opportunity" reeked of his trademark manipulation and half-truths. It wasn't a question of deceiving her. It was a question of whether she were desperate enough to have no choice.

The next morning Sloan found a roadmap and looked up Williston. It was about as far as you could get from Fargo and still be in North Dakota. She would have to hitchhike.

Leaving Fargo for even a week meant abandoning her job, her apartment, her territory. Some kid like the girl from yesterday would swoop in before she even crossed the county line. Well, whoever it was, they probably deserved it.

Sloan finished off her cereal and left the boxes and the mattress for her landlord to deal with. One way or another, she would never return to this town. At least she had that certainty to nourish a little hope.

Westbound on I-94 she extended an arm and stuck up a thumb, applying her best girlish smile to attract the lampreys. They must have had some instinctual notion of her, because it took thirty-seven passing vehicles in trickle-down traffic before one stopped.

"Where ya headed, miss?" said the featureless man behind the wheel of a no-brand pickup. He tipped his cap and manifested a smile from his doughy face.

"Williston," Sloan said.

"I can take you far as Bismarck. That alright?"

"Fine."

The truck smelled of ash. She stared out the window at the same damn field and the same damn barbwire fence that spanned the entire state and probably several other states as well. One perfect flat horizon over which hovered a gray sky. The occasional pumpjack loomed distant like a discarded brachiosaur.

The driver tried to spark smalltalk but months behind a cash register made her decent enough at dodging it. What's her name? Sloan. Where she from? Minneapolis. She old enough to be on her own? Yep. Could be dangerous, a girl like her out here. Yep.

Yep.

Yep.

When the humans went quiet, the radio said: "Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry against it; for their wickedness is come up before me."

Three hours later they reached Bismarck, the state capital. She thanked the man and stepped into a city of even more marginal squalor than Fargo. She wondered if any Magical Girl bothered to come here. Surely someone. Those with nowhere else to go.

A sign downtown advertised bus service to Minot, Dickinson, and Williston. A large group of men gathered around the sign, all in the same plaid shirt with the same faded baseball cap, wearing the same pensive expression with their arms folded the same way as they chewed the same tobacco or the same toothpick or the same cigarette. She dawdled behind them as they migrated en masse to the address on the sign.

At the bus station, three buses that looked made out of aluminum were bunched under an awning. Into one filed a line of plaid-shirted men, heads stooped as one by one they vanished through the folding door. An immense crowd had formed around the ticket booth, manned by a sole secretary who pantomimed prices from behind her plate glass.

Sloan gravitated toward the booth, lingering at the crowd's boundary. It would cost less to hitchhike but given how long it took to get a ride the first time she didn't trust her odds. If she failed to reach Williston by sundown it would be a damn cold night.

The plaid and denim refused to part for her so she bumped against it listlessly, muttering excuse me and pardon me every so often only to go unheard by the faceless mob. She was circumnavigating the crowd in search of an entryway when she noticed someone who did not fit in.

Young girl, teenage. Short, dark-haired, mousey, a conservative little-house-on-the-prairie outfit buttoned up her neck. Anxious pupils flickering behind round glasses. She stood at the periphery, cowering in the shadow of the awning like a refugee from a bygone century. Sloan scanned the girl's hands.

A plain metal ring on the middle finger: the telltale sign of a Magical Girl.

So Sloan wasn't the only one Kyubey had finagled into his get rich quick scheme. He should know by now she didn't play well with others.

Quiet and inconspicuous, Sloan approached. She weaved between the men with her hands in her pockets, although she didn't wear her own Soul Gem as a ring since jewelry tended to inspire robberies. The dark-haired girl didn't notice her, didn't seem to notice much at all as she stared at a Great Beyond, her mouth slightly agape and murmuring.

Sloan slinked into striking distance and lashed out her hand, seizing the other girl's and shaking it voraciously. "Hey kid you look a little lost where you from?"

The girl gasped. Mortification spread over her face. She reared back, banging into a metal buttress and jerking her hand away. Sloan was at least a head taller than her and if she made an impression she might scare her off without resorting to fisticuffs.

"You from here? Bismarck?" said Sloan. "What's your name?"

The girl disappeared. Sloan blinked. She looked around but there was no sign of the girl anywhere.

Well shit. That complicated matters somewhat.

It cost more than she expected for a ticket but she had already wasted too much time so she succumbed to sunk-cost fallacy and coughed up her savings. It was mid-afternoon by the time she filed into the bus. The sole female in a line of stooped-shouldered men, she flashed her ticket at the driver, who ushered her onward with an ambivalent nod.

Everything in the bus was metal and glass, no cushions, no carpet. Those who entered before her sat with eyes fixed between feet, iron titans in exodus from the city of the iron chancellor.

In the very back seat was the dark-haired girl, her forehead pressed against the window. Sloan didn't hesitate. She clomped forward and slid into the seat next to her.

The girl saw her coming and disappeared like before, but Sloan was prepared. She leaned aggressively at the girl's seat and planted a hand against the window, sealing her into the corner. Yes, she was still there. Invisible but still there, Sloan felt the tiny heartbeat quicken.

Sloan spoke telepathically. Nice houdini trick, kid. Where'd you learn it?

No response.

Aw, don't be shy. I won't bite. Now come on and reappear so I don't look like an asshole, yeah?

The line of men sluiced in behind her, taking seats around them. They did not seem to notice Sloan's odd position around the empty space.

Come on kid, gimme something. A name at least?

O, Omaha. Even via telepathy it came out as a stammered whisper.

Omaha, eh? Well, I'm Fargo. Nice to meet you. Now let's get friendly because it's gonna be a long ride.

She held her hand to shake. The girl called Omaha said nothing and did not reappear. Sloan's hand hung idly.

Something clamped down between the thumb and pointer. Sloan's flesh ripped open as a ring of shark teeth tore through the skin, causing a bloody red mark to manifest as if by demonic possession. Sloan gritted her teeth to stop from shouting the immense fuck building on her tongue and pulled back to break the bite.

The teeth left her skin. An instant later the bus window flew open. Sloan swept her good hand only to swat harmlessly against a leg as the invisible Omaha clambered out the window, plopped onto the tarmac, and clip-clopped away. Small footprints emerged from the dust in her wake.

Sloan pressed her bleeding hand into her coat. Where the fuck even was Omaha? Nebraska? That really was a long way away, but of course Kyubey probably had to search far and wide to scrounge up a loony of such premium caliber.

Speaking of the devil. As she lost sight of Omaha's footprints exiting stage left, she glimpsed the rat bastard himself watching her from a bench, as motionless as a statue.

Fuck you, she said with matching hand gesture. The bus pulled out the station.

Chapter 2: Dappled Things

A caravan progressed toward the town, station wagons and pickups and semitrailers and sedans riding one by one into the waiting maw of Williston. Sloan could tell even from afar and even in the waning sun it was a wraith pandaemonium, the miasma so thick it swallowed the town's entire outward existence. Beyond vague edges and obscure corners the only thing left uneaten was a clock tower that jutted above the black canopy.

Sloan sat upright and fingered the Soul Gem in her coat. Kyubey told her it was bad, but this transcended bad. Try cataclysmic.

Her bus lumbered undeterred into the miasma. Its sterile steel interior became instantly coated in a dark grime. Sloan stood and sidled past the hunchbacked man beside her into the aisle. As she pulled her way to the front, the bus driver turned her head. "Please sit down, we will arrive shortly."

"I need off now," said Sloan.

"Please sit down, we will arrive shortly. Please sit down, we will arrive shortly. Please sit down..."

The driver's eyes were glazed and unresponsive.

The confines of the bus offered no mobility, no escape. In the windows emerged faces of lesser wraiths, hundreds clustered together, fighting for a look at the fresh blood. Their moans reverberated as their faces began to phase through the glass.

Sloan unleashed her magic. Her Magical Girl uniform manifested beneath her brown overcoat. Her machine gun materialized in her hands, forcing her to lean to keep it from clattering against the seats or the slumped riders with foreheads nearly between their knees.

Monstrous claws groped through the walls. She slung the machine gun around, lifting it high over seats with partially-magical effort. She blasted the back window of the bus in a single ripple of pale light, sprinted down the aisle, somersaulted through the shattered glass, and landed on her feet in the middle of the road.

The glut of wraiths oozed after her, bunched up the exact way she liked it. Judging from the night before, she didn't have much magic to spare, so she needed to make it count. She hoisted the machine gun at her hip, took aim, and—

And a car crashed into her from behind. Her gun hurtled out her hands. The back of her skull cracked something hard before she bounced off and hit the ground, rolling aside to escape being flattened as the car continued like the driver had not noticed he hit something. She ended on all fours, dazed and disoriented, scanning for her gun and locating it not far from her.

She reached but space seemed to distort around her arm, expanding the distance to the gun exponentially. A hideous cackle pierced her ears as the wraiths unhinged their jaws in unison to mock her.

"Fuck you all," she said. Focusing her energy, she lifted her hand. Her machine gun trembled and rose, levitating by invisible puppet string. The pain in her skull stirred and she braced for a lot worse as she pointed at the wraiths to guide the gun's sights.

The gun fired. A surge of light shredded through the thick cluster of wraiths. The collective laugh turned to a screech as they disintegrated en masse, ripped into sizzling bits that drifted in the air like ash. Those spared the initial blast scattered from the gunfire.

Her pain built to an unbearable pitch and she dropped her hand with an anguished scream. The gun smashed to the ground. She clutched her temples as the pain burgeoned into a scorpion raging its barbed tail against her brain, ripping at gray matter with twin talons. She cut off all magic, reverted to her civilian outfit, but it did nothing to mollify the beast.

She overdid it. Death loomed.

No—NO! The slaughtered wraiths must have dropped cubes. She only needed a handful... Howling in agony, she shuffled on her elbows, her legs twisting and struggling as she pushed her body to where a sporadic supply of cubes lay blinking. She reached, her hand and the cubes trembling both, and with a single solid swipe clenched more than she'd held at any one time in the past seven months. She mashed the whole handful against her Soul Gem, as if the closer they were the faster they would work. Small streams of grief flitted out, blending perfectly with the miasma.

From every direction arose a singular cackle. All around her, more wraiths emerged. Many more than the initial assault, an unbroken tide, in the street, on the squat structures, inside the passing cars. The front ranks were comprised solely of lesser wraiths, but behind them Sloan made out larger creatures with true forms obscured in shadow.

Her mind whirred for a plan, an action, a defense, an evasion, anything. All that appeared was blank. Her soul was shot to fuck. She sucked at barriers and diversions. Pure, unadulterated offense was her game, and if something shot in her direction her best bet was to jump.

They had her surrounded. She had nowhere to jump.

The robes of the wraiths began to billow and the static consuming their faces went ballistic as they charged a collective attack. A reverse panopticon of thick gray beams fired from their bosoms and raced to skewer her from every angle at once.

Around her sprung a translucent red bubble that appeared so suddenly she thought at first death really was like video games, where the screen froze red with GAME OVER plastered across it. Then she realized someone had placed a barrier around her. The beams of the wraiths bounced back as the bubble throbbed and undulated with a series of wet slaps.

Her first thought was Miss Maladjusted from the bus. But the Magical Girl extending a hand beside her looked nothing like Omaha. The sanguine bubble cast a fiery glaze over her but otherwise she bore a saccharine disposition with both gown and hair flowing in an imaginary breeze. She clasped a ruby-studded scepter and wore her Soul Gem as a brooch on her shoulder.

"Can you walk, love?"

Sloan pushed herself upright. "I'm fine."

"Let's not mince words, then. I can only hold the barrier so long. When it pops, we need to run. Be a dear and watch my back, will you?"

"I'm ready whenever." Sloan shoved both Soul Gem and cubes into her coat and retrieved her gun. Power ebbed back to her.

The girl snapped her fingers and the bubble popped, plunging them into the dark. The wraiths fired more beams but Sloan was already running. Bubble Girl led the way toward the exit, using her staff to ward away the wraiths that had flanked them. Her chief method of attack was to spray a barrage of small red bubbles from the end of the staff, which Sloan normally would have found hilarious. Instead she levied suppressive fire into the horde at their heels, targeting the wraiths preparing to attack. The end of the miasma hovered in the distance, where light from the real world filtered through and was immediately extinguished.

Sloan blasted back one column of wraiths only for another to advance with a salvo of death beams. A red bubble zipped in front of her, ballooned into a massive sphere, and reflected the attack before popping in a splash of crimson liquid. As soon as it did, Sloan decimated the wraiths behind it.

A few more steps and the miasma thinned around them. They broke free from its wispy tendrils and reemerged in a world of ground and sky. The infinite line of vehicles continued its advance into the darkness, each bus and station wagon in turn swallowed by the mist. Around them settled flakes of snow.

They returned to their street outfits, the other girl wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans. She let out a long sigh. "Phew! Nothing like some exercise to get you ready for dinner." She reached out a hand and jostled Sloan's shoulder as Sloan doubled over for breath.

"Yeah, thanks," said Sloan.

"Too bad I only have snacks. Let's go to camp and sort things out." She realized something and held up a finger. "Oh, yes! I'm Delaney Pollack. What's your name, love?"

Sloan scrutinized Delaney. She had introduced herself by her real name, not quite standard procedure for Magical Girls on first acquaintance.

"Sloan Redfearn."

Delaney Pollack marched away from the road, waving to a passing bus from which stared a chain gang of plaid-shirted men. Sloan followed.

"Sloan Redfearn, what a pretty name," said Delaney. "You must be the girl from Fargo. Kyubey told me all about you."

As soon as his name was mentioned, Kyubey poked his head out of the pouch of Delaney's sweatshirt and grinned at Sloan with his expressionless expression.

"Funny," said Sloan. "He didn't mention you at all."

It was considered highly unlikely you would agree to come if you knew others were enlisted as well, said Kyubey.

"You don't know that," said Sloan.

The probability was not in your favor.

Delaney led her through a gap in a fence and into a weedy field. Ahead stretched an expanse of badlands. Sloan wondered where they were even going. "In my experience," Delaney said, "Kyubey generally knows what he's talking about. You should thank him anyway, since if not for him I wouldn't have known to rescue you."

"Might've been easier if he warned me not to go in to begin with."

I dislike spending unnecessary time near you, considering your propensity to destroy my bodies.

They pushed through the stalks of grass and followed an embankment down to a muddy, half-frozen creek, across which stretched a small bridge. On the other side was a jeep covered with a camouflage tarp.

"Careful on the bridge," said Delaney. "It's none too sturdy."

It creaked but held. Delaney pulled the tarp aside and unlocked the jeep, depositing Kyubey onto the passenger seat before ushering him aside to sit herself. Sloan took note of the license plate, since Delaney had failed to mention where she was from. Saskatchewan.

"You're Canadian."

"Is that something you care about?" asked Delaney, with a note of legitimate concern that verged on condescension. "If it really matters, my territory spans the cities of Regina and Saskatoon. I doubt you've heard of either. Don't be shy, take a seat. I won't bite."

Sloan circled the jeep before sliding into the backseat. She didn't much feel like sitting after the long bus ride and the previous excitement, especially now that the cubes had worked their magic. She pulled them out her pocket and arranged them around her Soul Gem, although they had ceased absorbing more grief. Her gem remained dark, but better than before.

"What the hell," said Sloan, as Kyubey scampered up to her and devoured the cubes with his back. "There's more than enough here to have drained the whole thing."

Delaney cast a glance over her shoulder. "Soul Gems are attuned to the emotional state of their owner. Some people require a certain amount of grief to continue functioning, and even if that grief is removed via magical means, they will produce more immediately to fill the void. Perhaps you are one of those people, Sloan." She balanced her own Soul Gem on her upturned palm, tossed it into the air, and caught it with her other hand. Despite the magic she had expended, it was a nearly pure shade of red.

"Kyubey told me I could get enough cubes here to purify my Soul Gem," said Sloan.

That's true! The potential rewards here are so great even your permanent state of despair can be cured. In fact, this is really your only chance of survival.

"See?" Delaney scooped up the rat and gave him a hug. "Kyubey has our best interests at heart, even when it doesn't always seem like it. I'll admit, when I first heard you were coming, I had doubts. Girls on the brink of despair can be so difficult, you know? But seeing your offensive capabilities, I believe you'll fit into the team quite nicely."

"Just because you helped me doesn't mean I'm part of your team."

"Love, I didn't help you, I saved your life." Delaney opened the glove box, where a crumpled bag of chips awaited. "So don't go all rough-and-tumble lone wolf on me, I'll have to deal with enough of that from our third compatriot. You saw firsthand what awaits you in the miasma. Either we work together or we go home in body bags."

Yeah. Sloan didn't want to admit it, but she didn't know if she could take so many wraiths solo even at full strength. "Kyubey usually discourages Magical Girls working together."

I admit the risk of Magical Girls succumbing to infighting is particularly high, but this is a special case. Besides, instances of Magical Girls successfully working together are not unheard of. In Mitakihara, Japan, there is the example of—

"We're a long way from Japan," said Sloan. "Besides, the third member of this supposed team is not someone I want to work with."

Delaney shook her bag of chips but only crumbs fell out. "You met Winnipeg already? That doesn't make sense, she shouldn't be here for a few more hours."

"Winnipeg? She said her name was Omaha. Look what she did to me."

Sloan held up the bitten hand. The blood had clotted in a scabbed ring between her thumb and forefinger. Delaney laughed and waved her own hand over the wound, healing it completely.

The girl from Omaha was not invited to be part of your team, said Kyubey. I found her presence at the bus station as interesting as you did.

Sloan turned over her healed hand. "I doubt that. You being surprised by something is pretty rare."

As you may expect, her unique power can make her difficult to keep a close eye on.

"Unique power?" Delaney crumpled the chips bag and tossed it back in the glove box.

"She can disappear at will, at least from what I saw," said Sloan. "I scared her off the bus. Maybe she decided to go home." Although she doubted it. A girl heading here all the way from Omaha must be at least as desperate as Sloan herself. And the whole hand-biting spiel pointed to some serious derangement.

A thin layer of snow built on the windshield, instilling the jeep with a heavy chill. Sloan wrapped her coat tight around herself.

"Well, I'm not worried about any fourth girl," said Delaney. "She may even be useful as a diversion. This strategic talk bores me anyway, since I'll have to repeat everything once Winnipeg arrives." She turned in her seat and leaned her head uncomfortably close to Sloan, gripping her headrest. "I have the impression we've gotten off on the wrong foot. You probably think I'm totally full of myself, right?"

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"I swear I'm not a bad person," said Delaney. "Plus, if we get to know each other we'll work better as a unit. Which will be critical to our success! Trust me. I've done this before, and with a bunch of girls who would not stop squabbling over the pettiest things. It was so unfun."

"I'd rather take a nap," said Sloan. "I'll play ball with you and this Winnipeg chick. But I'm here for one reason only, and it's to snag enough cubes to cleanse my Soul Gem."

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Delaney Pollack with the bubble magic. Of course, wimpy magic wasn't a reason to let her guard down. Clair Ibsen had a pretty lame power, too. The one thing Sloan knew, the one thing she could not afford to forget, was that Magical Girls were either greedy, selfish, opportunistic bitches or else dead quick. Maybe Delaney was in the latter category, as she had that naive affection for Kyubey that usually signaled a novice. Or maybe the nice girl act was just that. An act.

For the next two hours, she pretended to sleep while Delaney cradled Kyubey in her arms and cooed to him under her breath.

By the time Delaney's cell phone spazzed with the first few notes of last year's earworm pop sensation, night had fallen in earnest and the temperature went subzero. Snow caked the jeep, but at no point had Delaney turned the ignition to run the heater.

She answered the phone. "Hi! Delaney Pollack speaking, how may I be of assistance?"

A muffled voice twittered on the other end.

"Of course, we'll be right there." She snapped her fingers at Sloan. "Winnipeg's arrived. Let's give her a warm welcome, alright?"

Sloan rubbed her eyes and forced a fake yawn. "You two know each other?"

"Not quite." Delaney climbed out the jeep, allowing Kyubey to scamper into the pouch of her hoodie. "Our territories border each other. Occasionally we come into contact. That's all."

Good, thought Sloan. She didn't want the Canadians teaming up on her, either in combat or group power dynamics. Dear lord, "group power dynamics"? She remembered why she hated working with others.

They tromped up the embankment and into the field, now blanketed in snow. A million stars glittered overhead. Sloan couldn't see far in front of her but there wasn't much to see.

"When we meet Winnipeg," said Delaney, "she'll say a lot of things you may not like. I recommend to grin and bear it. Try not to be confrontational. Just because she says something, doesn't mean it's the truth. Speak as little as possible."

"Why should I let her walk all over me."

"Because she'll kick your ass, love."

The road and the town emerged into view. The road remained illuminated by the headlights of the endless parade entering the town, but the miasma at night was darker than night itself. The top of the clock tower hung suspended above the black cloud, its face awash in a dull glow. Sloan failed to notice before, but the clock no longer worked. Its hands were frozen on the twelve and six.

On the side of the road, near the edge of the miasma, stood a small figure. With each passing vehicle, the figure was bathed in headlights, her shadow dancing on the ground although she herself made no movement at all. Sloan didn't need Delaney to tell her who it was, but she did anyway in a singsong chime.

"That's Winnipeg!"

Winnipeg, unmoving, waited for them to trudge the whole damn way to her. She was a short girl, younger than either of them, with the pugnacious stance of a pubescent who owed the world nothing. Her short, boyish hair and bilious profusion of freckles only made ridiculous the intense glare she levied at Sloan and Delaney as they approached. She already wore Magical Girl garb, a no-nonsense long-necked lavender vest with miniskirt and matching stockings which went so high up her twiglike legs they might as well have been pants.

She held a gleaming katana that was as tall as she was.

Sloan and Delaney moseyed up, Sloan with hands in pockets and shoulders slouched. The munchkin didn't even need to speak for Sloan to know she wouldn't like her.

"Hello, Winnipeg!" Delaney gave a cordial wave. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Regina-Saskatoon," said Winnipeg. Sloan thought she was speaking Sioux or something, but Delaney responded with a bashful smile.

"Please, you can leave it at just Regina. The full title sounds so silly, I can hardly bear it."

"You possess both cities, do you not?" Winnipeg's staunch stance did not waver, although both Delaney and Sloan towered over her. "Take pride in your accomplishments, woman. You earned your lands through your own prowess. If you now wish to disown one, perhaps I should seize it instead."

Delaney rubbed the back of her head and smiled. "Regina-Saskatoon it is, then."

Winnipeg wheeled on Sloan, jabbing a finger at her chest. "And you! Fargo. I was not aware that was a real place. I thought it was merely a movie."

"Yeah, well."

"I have zero faith in the ability of a woman who only controls such meager territory." Winnipeg sheathed her katana and folded her arms. "Your appearance ill suits me as well."

Sloan withheld a rebuttal involving Winnipeg's acne. "I owned Minneapolis before Fargo."

"Yes, the rat informed me as much." Winnipeg indicated Kyubey, who was enjoying a stroking between the ears from Delaney. "Your former holdings mean nothing to me. If you could not manage your lands, you do not deserve to use them as your name. As such, you remain Fargo."

"Not debating that," said Sloan.

"As for me." Winnipeg lifted her chin. "Nominally, I am Winnipeg. Other than a few northern sections, my effective territory encompasses the whole of Manitoba, as well as some northern counties of Dakota and Minnesota and an eastern stretch of Saskatchewan. In terms of territory alone, I am the most powerful Puella Magi in central Canada and assuredly more powerful than either of you. As such, I shall be the leader of this party. While the rat has informed me that Regina-Saskatoon is something of a specialist in the subject of wraith infestations, her expertise shall manifest solely as supplementary advice, upon which it is my decision whether to act. The other, Fargo, shall have no voice in tactical decisions and is expected to follow my orders without question. After we have dispersed the infestation, the spoils in terms of grief cubes shall be distributed as such: 60 percent to me, 25 percent to Regina-Saskatoon, and 15 percent to Fargo. The city of Williston and surrounding territory shall afterward fall under my jurisdiction and become part of the greater Winnipeg holding. No rewards in terms of either land or hunting rights shall be bestowed to Regina-Saskatoon or Fargo. If either of you object to the terms as I have outlined them, you are welcome to challenge me to a duel to claim the right to leader. Am I understood?"

"Of course!" said Delaney. She gave Sloan a look.

"I didn't come all this way for a 15 percent take," said Sloan.

Delaney stepped between her and Winnipeg and addressed the younger girl. "That's fine! Fargo can have 5 of my percent, so we both get 20. I think that's fair, right?"

"If I cared about being fair," said Winnipeg, "I wouldn't have divvied it the way I did. I made quite clear to you both what contradicting my terms entailed. Are you prepared to fight?"

"I'm not fighting for so stupid a reason," said Sloan. "We each get a third of the spoils. Even that's a compromise on my part, since Kyubey promised it all to me. Now are we going to start talking strategy or are we going to stand in the snow like assholes?"

Winnipeg's katana flashed in front of her, gleaming with the passing headlights. She certainly had no qualms about how many plaid-shirted men saw her waving her blade of otaku magic, although they were close enough to the miasma maybe they were all stupefied anyway.

"Gutless coward. The kind of churlish knave who speaks but refuses to back her words. You have no right to question my authority, Fargo. A woman on the brink of despair, with nothing to lose... I stoop merely to abide your presence. And here you demand yet more?"

So she knew about the sorry state of Sloan's Soul Gem too? Damn, Kyubey had sold out all her secrets. Winnipeg's gem, strung from her neck, was of course spotless. Sloan really had no hope fighting her, even if Winnipeg turned out to be only mediocre and overinflated, which Sloan suspected was the case. Kid Napoleons always amassed a large swath of worthless land and strutted about as though it meant anything. During her stint in Minneapolis, Sloan dealt with a girl from Duluth who claimed to control "all of northern Minnesota." As if anyone else even wanted such a frostbitten wasteland. When the Duluth girl died not two months later to a routine wraith attack, Sloan had considered it karmic justice.

She adjusted her jacket collar and looked away to signify non-confrontation. "When we fight the wraiths, you'll agree I deserve more than 15 percent."

Delaney gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. Winnipeg sheathed her sword. "You made the right choice, Fargo. Keep making those choices or I will cut you to ribbons. Also, if you turn out to be as big a liability as I suspect, I will cut you to ribbons. I would rather stand on my own than with a coward behind me."

With sweeping arms, Delaney attempted to finagle both of them away from the road and toward her jeep. "No need for melodrama, I'm certain everyone involved will pull their weight. We all want success, after all. Now—"

Winnipeg drew her katana again, for like the fifteenth time. Poor girl couldn't keep it down. "Now we end this ceaseless chatter and purge this city of wraiths."

"Hm, yes," said Delaney. "I think we should probably definitely formulate some kind of plan before charging in?"

"The plan is simple," said Winnipeg. "We enter. We cleave our way through the lesser ranks. We find the archon. We kill the archon. We collect our spoils. We return to our territories. Am I missing a step, Regina-Saskatoon?"

Delaney cringed at the moniker. "I mean, on a macro level, sure, those are the fundamentals, but I think you may possibly be underestimating a little the severity of the threat..."

"What the hell is an archon," said Sloan.

The other girls both stared at her, Winnipeg in exasperation and Delaney wringing her hands. Sloan stared back, refusing to feel embarrassment. She had ruled a long time in a city larger than either of them ever set foot in, and the word archon was as foreign to her as konnichiwa.

"So you're not only weak, you're not only a coward, but you're also stupid?" said Winnipeg. "Did you not ask the rat anything before coming here? Did you simply set forth on a grand adventure, completely unaware of what you were stumbling into? You may be desperate, but to forgo a basic understanding of your situation is beyond foolish."

"Yeah, because asking Kyubey for information is such a fun and rewarding experience."

Delaney stepped between them again. "This is all the more reason why we should take some time to plan our attack before charging in willy-nilly, don't you agree?"

It would be best if you listened to Miss Pollack's advice, said Kyubey.

"Nobody asked you," said Sloan and Winnipeg in unison. Kyubey added no further comment.

Winnipeg sheathed her katana. Sloan guessed how long until she drew it again; estimates ranged in the seconds. She swept past Sloan with a wave of her arm. "Very well. We shall waste time in order to make Fargo slightly less of a liability. I am enjoying this arrangement already."

She marched into the field, despite having no way to know where to go.

Chapter 3: The Garden of Earthly Delights

Delaney swept the snow from the hood of her jeep and flattened onto it a map of Williston, glazed red by light from her staff. The edges of the parchment kept curling until Sloan stuck out a hand to pin down a corner.

"Thank you," said Delaney. "After some sniffing about, I managed to procure this map of the town. It's from the 90s, so there may be some inaccuracies, but overall it's a passable representation of what we'll see inside. I'd use my smartphone for a more recent depiction, but miasmas are notorious dead zones so let's get used to the old-fashioned approach, yes?"

Even on paper the town looked like crap. A highway bifurcated the city diagonally. A slovenly cluster of smaller streets branched out in what approximated a grid. The map highlighted a "Main Street" but other than a point ambiguously marked "Municipal Building" it displayed little of note. A few empty plots, a cemetery, an airstrip runway on the north end. A school.

Winnipeg scrutinized the map and scowled. "How does this help?"

"Exit routes, for starters." Delaney traced her finger along the map. "Marshland borders the town's southern and eastern fringes. If you need out, your best bet's to find the highway and follow it one direction or another."

"There will be no need for escape." Winnipeg made a trenchant motion with her hand. "Our plan is to enter, exterminate the archon, and dissipate the miasma."

"Still nobody's said what's an archon," said Sloan.

"Use contextual clues, imbecile. An archon tops the wraith hierarchy. It manifests invasion-level miasmas like the one consuming this territory. Once we destroy it, the miasma will subside."

Half the map sprang up and curled over. "It's not simply a powerful wraith," said Delaney. With a frustrated sigh, she planted her staff in the ground so she could hold down the map with both hands. "Wraiths are personifications of human sin and despair. An archon is a wraith born from such immense negative emotion, from sin so great, it has the ability to spawn its own wraiths regardless of the human population around it."

"Hard to believe Shitsville, North Dakota could muster enough sin for that," said Sloan. "I spent years in Minneapolis and never even heard of one."

"It's exactly in places so removed from the familiar tedium of everyday society where the greatest despair occurs." Delaney closed her eyes with serene composure. "Desert outposts in Afghanistan... indigenous villages in the Amazon... uncharted islands in the Sargasso. These are—"

"Pointless," said Winnipeg. "I was told we would discuss strategy, not wax poetic on the desolation of the human soul."

Roused from her musings, Delaney ironed out the map again as she muttered vague affirmatives to Winnipeg's rebuke. Sloan still had suspicions. For starters, what made Delaney Pollack such an authority on a cryptozoological wraith subspecies absent from the common Magical Girl bestiary? Second, what the fuck kind of occult bullshit had Sloan wrapped herself up in?

"Okay yeah so strategy," said Delaney. "There's a slight problem with whole dip-in-dip-out plan, Winnipeg. Basically, the archon won't be easy to find. It doesn't want to be found. It has total dominion over the miasma, so it'll contort and bend the spatial dimensions to conceal itself. Compound that with the sheer magnitude of lesser wraiths it'll chuck in our path, and wow! If we found the archon on Expedition 1 it would be. Like, immaculate good fortune. And good fortune you don't see much in there."

Winnipeg kneaded her eye sockets and exhaled. "Fine. Tonight we cover this half." She slapped her palm onto the map. "If the archon isn't there, we sweep the other half tomorrow."

"I'm telling you, it's not that simple." Delaney wrung her hands. "The archon will adapt to our presence. The geography of that town may already have been completely rearranged since Sloan, er, Fargo's little misadventure. A strategy where we raid the miasma with strike attacks before retreating will actually be counterproductive. Trust me, I know firsthand."

"You keep mentioning you know firsthand," said Sloan.

Miss Pollack knows firsthand, Kyubey confirmed.

"Yeah, now I trust it."

Without warning, Winnipeg drew her ninja sword and cleaved the map in two. Delaney dropped to her knees with a piteous shriek as the halves of the map fluttered around her, revealing a long gash in the paint of her jeep's hood.

"Enough," said Winnipeg. "You tell me to discuss strategy, but mutter about shipwreck islands instead. You show me a map, only to inform me the geography has changed. You denigrate my plan of attack, but do not supply a replacement. I swiftly lose patience."

Delaney clutched the parchment to her chest. "You didn't need to do that!"

Sloan wished she had a watch to check. It was too cold for prattle.

Her companions blabbed some more until Delaney finally reached the point. "We must establish a base inside the miasma. It's very important it's inside. The archon has a tough time altering the dimensions of the miasma while a counteracting magical force—namely, us—is inside. Not impossible, but tough."

"A base. Inside the miasma," said Sloan.

"Without a constant presence inside the miasma, we're waging war against a perpetually shifting foe." Delaney hammered her words with sweeping gesticulations. "I can seal a safe haven with my barrier magic, granted the area's small enough not to exhaust me. I already scoped a potential candidate."

She slapped the halves of the map back on the jeep. Leaning close to better view the nonexistent details, she planted a finger on a random plot of land near the main street.

"Here! It's the Williston Inn, which I cross-referenced online to confirm is still operational. Sealing a motel room is perfectly within my capabilities."

Winnipeg folded her arms. "Fine. As long as there's nothing more to babble about."

"That covers the main points," said Delaney. "Anything else we'll worry about on the way."

At the road, the conga line of vehicles continued its descent into the depths of human misery, eroded faces in car windows oblivious to all but the beckoning stretch of pathway. Kyubey had mentioned oil in this town. Would so many come so far to so dismal a place for that? Oil, gold, they felt like such pointless concepts nowadays.

Winnipeg waved her hand in Sloan's face. "Transform already, Fargo."

"I am transformed," said Sloan.

"Your uniform is a filthy old coat?"

"The uniform is under the coat. I'm keeping the coat because it's cold."

"The lunatics Kyubey gave me." Winnipeg glared at the aforementioned rat bastard perched on Delaney's shoulder.

"Is everyone ready?" said Delaney. "It's constant danger until we reach the inn. Sloan, we need you at full capacity. Don't hold back to conserve magic. We'll pick up enough cubes along the way to cleanse you after."

"I know what I'm doing," said Sloan.

"Great! Before we begin, I've prepared a few words of encouragement to lift our spirits—"

The katana whipped out with a hiss as Winnipeg charged into the miasma. Sloan materialized her gun and followed, expending the magic necessary to make her weapon functionally weightless. Although her gem had not fully purified, she felt stronger than she had in a long time. She mentally cycled through the bag of tricks she lacked the luxury of employing during her tenure in Fargo. It'd require her to recalibrate her magic expenditures without going overboard, but she could do it. If nothing else, she had to keep faith in her abilities. Or no amount of magical prowess would help her.

Darkness surrounded her on all sides. Only the flitting, transient form of Winnipeg ahead made much coherent sense among the shadows. Sloan glanced over her shoulder as Delaney overtook her and settled into a position between her and Winnipeg. Her staff glowed bright red, tapering quickly in the void.

Then the wraiths appeared. They emerged first as distant faces, brimming on the periphery of Sloan's vision. The moment she turned her head they shuffled aside to stay in those nebulous corners of her awareness. A more tangible figure sprung at her and she almost blasted it before she realized it was a man, plaid shirt like the others, moseying down the sidewalk with hands in pockets and gaze between his feet. Around him appeared more and more men in the same clothes and with the same crooked posture, walking with no apparent goal or destination. Meanwhile, the wraiths grew more numerous, more distinct.

"What are they waiting for," she said. Or tried to say. The words dissolved into silence as they left her throat.

What are they waiting for, she said via telepathy.

Keep running, said Delaney. And when it goes to blows, try not to kill the civilians, okay love?

The wraiths continued to linger at the edges like spots on her eyes. A trepidation filled her that she had maybe fallen too far out the Fargo kiddie pool. How long since she saw a proper miasma at all, large enough to swallow a girl in darkness? If she strained, she had the barest memory of a past as a competent wraith-slayer.

Winnipeg struck first. Her tiny form blipped to the side in a gust of wind. Between her fell the severed pieces of a lesser wraith. Another wraith emerged from the dark, its pixelated face a crackle of dust and fear, withered claws rising and reaching for Sloan. She planted her foot and unleashed a round. The wraith erupted into particles, dispelling the miasma around it for a brief moment. In that moment, Sloan saw the truth of the world: a sullen town street, storefronts of flaked paint and rickety porches, normal men in search of work and fortune. The real world, the real Williston. The Williston seen by humans. This nightmare realm was only a trick.

If she remembered that, she might keep her head.

An army of red bubbles sprouted around her, many popping immediately as rippling beam attacks zoomed from all directions. Glowing crimson liquid splattered the street. Sloan tucked her head under the cascade, running and gunning at any wraith fool enough to fall in front of her.

How you holding up, love? Delaney asked as she caved in a wraith's head with her scepter.

I'm fine. Where's Winnipeg.

Don't worry about her, just keep up okay?

In front of Delaney rose a line of wraiths, crackling and cackling. Sloan aimed for the center to punch a hole or fifty. Before she could, a cyclone flashed from the sky. It tore across the street, slicing through wraiths in waves. When it reached the curb, the tornado dissipated and Winnipeg landed in its place, lashing out an arm to decapitate a wayward wraith before going airborne and ricocheting off a random floating polygon to pirouette toward the other side of the street, vivisecting wraiths with undetectable katana strikes in the most anime display of skill Sloan had ever seen.

Then a bubble burst by Sloan's face and she dipped to avoid the resulting downpour. Delaney seized her by the collar and pulled her forward as a billion more wraiths appeared around them. Weaving through civilians (kinda hard, given Sloan's huge ass gun), they departed the highway and landed on an arterial road that wound toward some unknown destination.

It's Main Street! said Delaney. Good job girls, halfway there already.

Halfway already. Piece a cake. Sloan hadn't even taxed her magic too hard.

Either her eyes adjusted or some outer ring of darkness had been breached, but before her sprawled a momentous panorama of Williston, or at least the Williston of the miasma: a hellscape of tar beaches and viscous black lagoons, populated with misshapen structures and billowing smokestacks and palpable horror. The canopy flashed intermittent lightning bolts, and everywhere traces of fire flickered between the men and wraiths intermingling in the dark land. Broken castles and yawning towers perforated a horizon of sulfuric gloss. In the center rose a column of unfathomable height, bending and bulging as it poked through a swirl of mist at the top of the miasma. The clock tower. In the twisted geography of this doppelganger world, it metamorphosed into a skyscraper standing sentinel over an infinite waste land.

Winnipeg was right. Delaney's map meant nothing here.

Are we going the right way, said Sloan.

Delaney quite helpfully failed to answer. They passed an abyssal hole in the ground into which plaid-shirted men hurled themselves while wraiths congregated nearby and gnashed their teeth. Other men lay facedown in splatters of oil or black blood. A many-jointed arm dragged a corpse into a crevice.

Nothing to save them now, said Delaney, her tone oddly blithe. Well, blithe was her usual tone, but it unnerved Sloan for her to maintain it. Even in Minneapolis, Sloan had never seen a miasma like this, one that did not simply distort the world with stagnant air and a dreadful aura but actually created a pocket dimension in the wrinkles of spacetime. This world was no trick. It was too vast, too swallowing for a mere trick. No, the world the humans saw was the trick. Illusion supplanted reality.

Bleck, that was all crap. What mattered now was run and gun. She swiveled her turret toward a gaggle of lesser wraiths, blasting luminous holes with carefully-managed fire. Charred flecks of gray cloaks drifted on dead air.

Behind you, love, said Delaney.

Something barreled into Sloan's back and sent her hurtling. She bounced against the ground and smacked into something hard and vertical, rolling back with her hand still clutching her gun and her nose hemorrhaging blood. Delaney flew to her side but Sloan waved away any gestures of aid and stood on her own, wiping the blood with the back of her hand.

Before them loomed a massive creature, a lion body with the head of a man, its pitiless gaze a mess of fragmented distortion. With muscled feline limbs the lamassu stalked toward them, sidewinding through lesser wraiths that quivered restlessly.

Sloan fought greater wraiths before, but long ago. She hefted her gun and traced the lamassu's path. Last time she squared against something like this, she had Clair Ibsen at her side.

Plan? said Delaney.

Isn't that your job?

She fired. With a rat-a-tat-tat her gun spewed light. The lamassu blinked out of the way and lunged. Delaney flung up a bubble but the beast smashed through it like you might expect a thousand-pound abomination of stone and hatred to smash through a bubble. Sloan threw herself aside only to bump into Delaney, unable to make much distance as a claw raked her side.

With a painful grunt she hit the ground. The lesser wraiths swooped in like vultures, reaching with elongated talons. Sloan scrambled to her knees, gripped her side as blood gushed between her fingers, and strafed her gun across the enclosing circle of foes. She made little progress before an oppressive claw gripped her back and forced her down. Rough and bitter soil seeped against her clenched teeth as she twisted her head around to face the lion beast grinning back at her. The crackle of its eyeless sockets sizzled against her cheek.

Delaney slammed her staff against the beast's head. With one swipe it knocked her back, but by the time it returned to Sloan she was ready. She threw her hand into the digital textures of its face and propelled her magic up the nerves of her arm to the tips of her fingers. From her hand erupted a pulse of pure light. The beast's entire head lit up as she incinerated its face and hollowed a cavity in its skull.

The lamassu staggered back. Sloan pushed herself up and distanced herself from it. Her nose bled and she cracked a rib or two, although the pain-deadening perks of her soulless body made damage assessment difficult. The lamassu wasn't doing so bad for missing most of its head, managing to remain on four legs as it swayed back and forth.

She raised her gun for the coup de grace, except the moment the barrel started to spin the lamassu regained its acuities and bounded out of the way, bouncing off a wall and sailing at her. She rolled to the side and flung herself upright and it pawed at where she had been.

Around the wraith manifested a grid of bubbles. Delaney appeared beside Sloan, unharmed. Not even a scuff on her gown.

Shoot the bubbles, love!

Sloan failed to understand at first but soon the idea registered. She aimed at a bubble and fired. As before, at the sound of her gun, the lamassu tried to leap away. But her light hit the bubble and ricocheted into the other bubbles, and that light ricocheted, until soon the entire bubble grid lit up with constantly-rebounding pillars of light. Despite the contortions of the lamassu's lithe body, shafts impaled it from all directions at once. It unleashed an inhuman wail and disintegrated into a shower of grief cubes.

Goddam bubbles. Sloan gasped for breath. Fuck, I need healing.

From the cracks and small spaces more wraiths emerged. They clustered into tightly-packed squads and lumbered forward.

Time for that later! Let's keep moving.

Delaney sprinted down the road and Sloan followed, her pain numb but detectable, like the broken edge of a broomstick jabbing her stomach every time she took a step. Of course no time for healing, although Delaney looked pretty prim and proper herself. Sloan wasted little time griping because she soon noticed another problem.

The fuck happened to Winnipeg?

Don't worry! I'm sure she's fine, said Delaney.

That's not the issue.

It's okay love, we're almost there.

Almost where? Sloan stared down the rollicking hell before them. The slanted constructions had doors and windows but were otherwise indistinct globules of architecture, some melting into frothing vats of oil, others crumbling to dust beneath the weight of the wraiths piled atop them.

Dead air rushed in and out of Sloan's chest as blood gushed down her side. Each vanquished wraith was replaced immediately by more. She was nearing the twilight zone of her Soul Gem, that running-on-empty strand that heralded death by Cycles. Having to worry less about dodging or blocking helped, but the sheer volume of ammunition she launched into the undying hordes was tolling her to her limits.

This way! Delaney pointed at a deformed two-story construction, the left side of which was detaching from the whole. Over the door hung a sign: WILLISTON INN.

Between them and the inn stood another lamassu, staring them down with a horrible grin. Sloan and Delaney skidded to a halt by a car propped on cinderblocks.

Another bubble attack? Sloan asked, aware how ridiculous she sounded.

This one's full strength, said Delaney. Can you fry its face as well, love?

When it gets close enough to maul me, yeah. Forget that her lungs would give out at any moment and her skull ached and she was too afraid to even check her gem.

The lamassu crouched to pounce. Sloan scanned for somewhere to duck, but everywhere was clogged with more wraiths, a carnival of staticky balloon heads bobbing up and down.

Something flashed and neatly bisected the lamassu. As the two halves plopped to the earth and vanished into mounds of cubes, Winnipeg stuck the landing and whipped her katana around to posture at a nearby wraith platoon.

You two are slow.

If not exhausted as fuck, Sloan might have given a retort. But the only thing she wanted now was safety, so she hobbled after Delaney and Winnipeg into the hotel lobby. The walls bulged and deflated like her own throbbing ribcage. Tons of plaid-shirted men milled about, some forming an uneasy line by the receptionist desk, others seated in chairs that had a tendency to float or liquefy.

A sign on the desk read NO VACANCY.

Delaney butted through the crowd and leaned over the counter to tweak the nose of a hollow-eyed receptionist. Sloan kept close and searched the room for wraiths, but Winnipeg must have cleared it.

"Hello ma'am!" said Delaney. "We're looking for a room, one bed's fine."

"The hell you doing," said Sloan. Her voice descended multiple octaves in the miasma.

"Sorry love, I can only afford to seal a small area. We'll have to get friendly with one another!"

"I mean, why are you bothering with her about it?"

The elderly receptionist indicated the sign. "No vacancy... No vacancy... No vacancy..."

"Surely you must have something? We're three poor girls out on our lonesome, it's so dangerous nowadays..." Delaney winked with a cute smile.

"No vacancy... No vacancy... No vacancy..."

Sloan glanced over her shoulder. Wraith faces swelled in the doorway, clambering to enter.

Deal with them, will you love? "What if the president himself needed a room at your fine establishment? Surely you'd have one for him! Well, the president isn't coming. So..."

"No vacancy... No vacancy... No vacancy..."

Sloan aimed, but humans crammed the lobby and blocked her line of fire. She tried to herd them aside, to no avail.

"I'll pay twice the going rate." Delaney pulled out a checkbook and clicked a pen.

Winnipeg, as usual, had gone somewhere.

Sloan finally pushed enough men away and blasted the wraiths crowding through the door. Every round shredded the foremost ranks and several more behind them. Despite the pain in her chest and her side and her head and the exhaustion seeping between her eyes she managed a smile at the unbounded annihilation raining onto these so-called embodiments of human misery. What could such creatures do to her? Clair Ibsen and Minneapolis inched closer.

Until a shard of pain impaled her brain like an aneurysm. She staggered back into the counter, her gunfire drooping before subsiding completely. She pressed a hand to her Soul Gem. It was trembling, she felt it even though the coat.

Delaney was on the other side of the counter, flipping through a ledger. The receptionist slumped facedown on the desk. Blood streamed through her curled gray hair.

"What... did you do..." Sloan wheezed.

Wraiths approached the doors, no longer deterred. Delaney opened a drawer and retrieved a rusted brass key. "No worries love. Merely unconscious. She was getting on my nerves, you know. Muttering the same thing every time." Her voice was crystalline clear.

Sloan had no time to protest. As Delaney hopped over the counter and made for the stairs, Sloan ambled after.

Winnipeg, you there? said Delaney.

Upstairs. I cleared the inn.

Lovely. Keep up the good work!

The stairs corkscrewed in Escher directions. Sloan's vision faded in and out. She groped along the banister, following the flitting tail of Delaney's gown. Her gun grew heavier and heavier until it dematerialized when she ceased her magic. She had to hope Delaney's bubbles watched her back.

When the stairs ended she almost fell forward. She stuck out her hands and steadied herself between the walls of the corridor. Numbered doors lined the hall on either side. Delaney stopped at each door and tried her key. No matter how many times she stopped, Sloan fell farther behind. In the distance stood a tiny figure barely recognizable as Winnipeg. The walls of the corridor closed in, bending and bulging and bursting with little pops of vaporizing paint.

Something struck her from behind, passing clean through her back and out her previously-uninjured side. A wraith wound. They must be shooting.

I'm hit.

Sorry love, I lose a little focus when I'm frustrated. She wedged the key into another keyhole. I'll try harder.

The space between the walls diminished to a narrow aperture. Sloan sidled through the gap as Delaney finally opened a door and disappeared inside, Winnipeg behind her.

Help, said Sloan. She sounded so fucking pathetic. Like those strung out girls who wandered into Fargo sometimes to beg for handouts, the kind that disappeared without a trace in a corner somewhere.

Worth more than 15 percent, said Winnipeg. Ha.

The walls squeezed against her. After months of living on cereal she lacked much of a third dimension, but her coat bulked her up. The force became crushing and she could not tell if she was moving forward. Paint dribbled down the walls and pooled in her hair and coated the side of her face.

She stretched a hand as far as possible. Come on, Delaney. Grab it. Don't leave me here. Her head was awash in fire, her thoughts muddled together. Hallucinations danced across her irises. She saw Clair Ibsen at a piano recital in a white dress. Her pale fingers glided over the keys while her head fell from her body. The head rolled to Sloan's feet. Sloan placed her boot on the skull and pushed.

Something grabbed her hand and dragged her forward. With a final exertion her worthless body staggered through the door, collapsing into the room at Winnipeg's feet. Winnipeg snorted and turned away as Delaney slammed the door and locked it.

"You made it!" said Delaney. "I'm so happy. Now be a dear and watch the window, make sure nothing comes in while I'm sealing the room."

Sloan writhed on the ground, curling into herself, digging a hand into the shag carpeting. "Cubes..." she maybe said, or maybe not.

"Hold a moment longer, love. I'll be with you once we're safe and sound."

With graceful aplomb, Delaney lifted her staff and touched the tip to the door. Red liquid gushed out and drizzled down to the carpet as Delaney slowly dragged her staff along the wall. Only now did Sloan realize it was blood, the bubbles and the liquid and all of it was blood. Like the blood on her hands and face and coat.

Delaney entered the bathroom and traced over the mirror and along the shower. She returned to the main room and climbed over the bed, allowing the blood to flow down the pillows and onto the blankets. She opened the closet and pushed aside a plaid-shirted man who hung from a noose as she maneuvered along the walls. She crossed the one black window and returned along the original wall, connecting her line at the door.

She stepped aside, admired her handiwork, and returned to her plainclothes. The staff disappeared, as did the blood. Only a faint mark remained on the walls. The miasma in the room dispersed and oxygen flowed again.

The dead man in the closet swayed. His rope creaked.

Delaney clapped her hands. "There! No wraith can enter as long as the seal remains. Which it will do unless I can't supply the magic to sustain it. But that won't be a problem for a room this small."

"You expect us to stay here together?" Winnipeg had not reverted her Magical Girl ensemble, although she sheathed her katana.

"Think of it as a character-building experience," said Delaney. She kneeled beside Sloan and stroked her hair. "How do you feel? Here, let me help."

She offered a generous handful of cubes. Sloan didn't know when Delaney grabbed them and didn't care. She pressed the cubes to her gem as Delaney turned her over and inspected her wounds.

"You're very brave, Sloan."

Her face was so close that Sloan could see the emptiness in Delaney's eyes. They were bright and soft but behind the irises lurked nothing at all; imitations of real eyes. Delaney slid an arm under Sloan's back and another under her knees. She carefully placed Sloan on the bed, resting her head on the pillow that moments before was drenched in blood. She began to heal.

Chapter 4: Reason / Rectitude / Justice

The room's one window may have been an obsidian slab. Its lacquered surface only reflected; nothing shone through. Winnipeg stood before it with arms crossed. In the reflection she watched Regina-Saskatoon (or "Delaney") play caretaker to Fargo, waving her staff to summon frolicking bubbles of blood. She hummed a quaint tune. Fargo had passed out.

In the closet hung a dead man. Regina-Saskatoon appeared to have no intention of removing it.

Winnipeg had told Kyubey no assistance was necessary. She could clear Williston alone, like she cleared Manitoba alone, like she cleared her namesake city alone. Their first skirmish only affirmed her suspicions. Infestation or no, irregular spawn patterns or no, archon or no, Winnipeg would do better without these idiots.

Kyubey, though, was no idiot. In fact, he was the opposite. Why rope in Fargo? She was good as dead. Either the wraiths killed her or the Cycles. Yet the rat expressly commanded to keep Fargo alive. A command Winnipeg had no intention to follow, although it seemed Regina-Saskatoon took it to heart.

Which brought up the other issue.

"Regina-Saskatoon. Why are you here?"

Regina-Saskatoon busied about Fargo with maternal conceit. "Please, Winnipeg! Call me Regina. Or better yet, Delaney. It's so confusing if Sloan calls me one thing and you another, you know?"

"Why are you here."

She smiled. "I'm here to save the town! Aren't we all?"

"I'm here for territory. Fargo for cubes. You have your own town in Saskatchewan to save. Two towns, in fact. Why are you here?"

The bubbles clustered around Fargo's body and burst, drenching her in blood. Fargo did not wake as the blood seeped through her open gashes.

"I told you, Winnipeg. I'm here to save the town. Your selfish interests don't make mine selfish too." She brushed back her hair and extended her hands over Fargo's body.

"Drop the façade," said Winnipeg. "I research my neighbors. I know what you really are."

"Really!" Tremors crept through Regina-Saskatoon's outstretched palms. The blood that had sunk into Fargo's body slowly flowed back out, rivulets pooling into a dense sphere under Regina-Saskatoon's fingertips. "Tell me, Winnipeg, because I'm curious myself sometimes. What am I really?"

"A killer."

The blood ceased its ebb. Regina-Saskatoon guided the pooled sphere into her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. She wiped her lips. "Dredge up ancient history, will you? That happened before you even contracted. As if you haven't offed a few girls yourself."

"Not a single one."

"Of course not." Regina-Saskatoon pulled the blankets and tucked Fargo in. She bent over and bestowed a kiss on the forehead. "You merely arrive at their town and kick them out into the cold, and if they freeze to death or disappear in a hovel that's no business of yours, is it?"

"I heard you enjoyed it when you killed her. It was the most emotion you ever produced."

Regina-Saskatoon gripped the edge of the bed and leaned forward. "Who told you that? Kyubey? You don't trust him."

"I know what questions to ask. When it comes to statistics, he is remarkably accurate. Where is he, anyway? I thought you had him on your shoulder like a parrot."

A red glint crept into Regina-Saskatoon's otherwise blank eyes. Her hands wrung together and twisted her white gloves. "Maybe, dear, it's best not to get on the bad side of a supposed murderer?"

In an instant Winnipeg sprung from the window and landed atop the bed, her sword tip against Regina-Saskatoon's pale throat. Despite the doughy and unstable mattress, the tip did not quiver.

"Don't threaten me, Regina-Saskatoon."

"Threaten something more vital than my head, will you?" The deadpan delivery gave way to a crawling smirk upon Regina-Saskatoon's face, which burst into a quake of brittle laughter.

"You should take me seriously," said Winnipeg. "I do not kill Puella Magi, but you are one only in name. Tell me why you are here."

"Fine!" Regina-Saskatoon rolled her eyes. "I'm here because I love misery and suffering and all things evil. The thought of men devoured in the most monstrous ways titillates me, sexually. The corpse in our closet already has me pretty randy! I'm simply depraved, there's no other explanation."

Winnipeg seized her hair and slammed her against the wall. "If that is true, tell me why I shouldn't do our species a favor and terminate you right now."

Regina-Saskatoon twisted her face to speak. "Do you understand sarcasm?"

"Do you understand I want a serious answer?"

"Not so loud, please. You'll wake Sloan."

"Answer me."

"I told you! I'm here to do my duty as a Magical Girl and defend humanity from despair. But you're too convinced I'm a monster to believe me—"

A backhand to the face silenced her. Regina-Saskatoon was an insidious sorceress. Her staked claim covered a minor area, but one unmolested by the renegades, wanderers, and vagabonds who anxiously whispered its name. They said an ill omen festered there, an imperceptible miasma lingering like the scent of death. A curse born of murder, a curse that tainted the creeks and fallowed the earth. This woman, this Regina-Saskatoon, this Delaney Pollack dwelled in the center of the vortex.

Winnipeg refused to believe superstition, but one did not inspire such fear without cause.

"Whatever your plan," Winnipeg said, "try it. Manipulate Fargo, turn her against me, team up. It will not work."

Regina-Saskatoon cackled again. "Turn against you? Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear!"

Winnipeg released her with disgust. It concerned her little what the cretin plotted. There had been assassination attempts before, women convinced they could overpower with deceit. She left each one beaten and bruised and nursing crushed hopes. Kyubey sent them, she was sure of it. He swore he was forbidden to turn Puella Magi against each other (by whom? He only mentioned a vague "Employer"), but Winnipeg knew he believed her inefficient. And thus, in his mind, worthy of termination.

No matter. If the rat turned Regina-Saskatoon against her, Winnipeg would neutralize her and absorb her territory, curse be damned.

It's bad to fight, said a familiar voice inside her head. The Incubator himself sat perched on the windowsill and stared at them.

Straightening her clothes, Regina-Saskatoon circumnavigated Winnipeg and let him in, carefully sealing the window behind him. She picked him up like a kitten and carried him to the bed, where Fargo's spent grief cubes awaited.

It's wasteful for Magical Girls to expend energy fighting amongst themselves instead of against wraiths.

"Where have you been?" said Winnipeg. Regina-Saskatoon fed him cubes, undeterred by the freakish receptacle on his back.

I was separated during the combat. But since wraiths take no interest in me, it was a simple matter of finding my way here.

"Go on Kyubey." Regina-Saskatoon tweaked one of his floppy ears. "Tell mean old Winnipeg why I decided to come."

Miss Pollack agreed to my terms so as to contribute to the salvation of the universe, and by extension, her species.

Regina-Saskatoon gave a fatuous look as though everything was explained. Winnipeg snorted. The most roundabout and ambiguous phrasing possible: classic ratspeak.

Now that Kyubey was around, Winnipeg didn't feel like pressing. She already knew all she needed: Regina-Saskatoon was no friend. Not that Winnipeg kept friends.

She returned to the window and stared at her obscure reflection.

Sloan awoke sore and slow, the room's confines ebbing into focus as she pieced together the events preceding her catnap. It took not long to remember she'd embarrassed herself pretty solid.

Someone had removed her coat and boots and tucked her under the covers like baby's first bedtime. She threw off the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed, viciously rubbing her eyes and jamming on her boots. She shimmied into her coat, nice and clean and cured of bloodstains.

Delaney was washing her face in the sink, robed in a pink bath towel. The mirror had clouded and perfume wafted through the quarters. Winnipeg stared into the window, still in uniform.

"How long was I out."

"Oh, not long, love." Delaney ran a brush through her damp hair, peering intently into her opaque reflection. "I'm simply ecstatic you made it. No hurts?"

Sloan prodded her side. "You're a skilled healer." The only remnants of her wound were the ragged gashes in her coat. Nothing she hadn't handled before. After years of abuse, she'd become proficient at mending with magic, despite having no innate aptitude. She had to conceptualize rays of light twisting into individual threads and entwining to patch the holes. Odd, but effective. You could get a lot done with any power if you were creative enough.

Sloan had the creativity of something not very creative. The whole threading-holes-with-light trick was suggested by Clair Ibsen a long time ago. Clair had a totally different type of magic, but that never stopped her from upstaging Sloan at her own craft.

She decided not to wander down Minneapolis lane; it tended to muddle her Soul Gem.

From the bathroom Delaney emerged in a puff of white powder, fully clothed and hair in a buoyant do. She cradled Kyubey in her arms. Had she taken him into the shower? Yuck.

"Get some rest, Sloan dear. We've a big day tomorrow, you'll need as much strength as you can muster."

"There is no need for rest," said Winnipeg. "Fatigue, hunger, thirst. These are merely restrictions we place upon ourselves in a desperate gambit to pretend we are still human. If you succumb to such yearnings, you can hardly be considered a Puella Magi."

"That's not true at all," said Delaney. "Sure, we can't starve to death, but these bodies deteriorate without proper nourishment." She plopped on the bed and relinquished Kyubey to inspect her nails, bright red and perfectly manicured.

"All nourishment can be replaced by cubes," said Winnipeg. "We embark in search of the archon in ten minutes. If you must replenish your body, you have the means." She indicated a pile of cubes from the previous battle, stacked upon a bureau at the foot of the bed.

Sloan took out her Soul Gem for examination. As before, only partial purity. She picked a cube and held it to the gem. The faintest trickle of despair osmosed out and dwindled to nothing. Maybe if she used the whole pile, she might manage something. But she suspected Winnipeg and her 15 percent stipulation would object, let alone Kyubey and his frequent sermons on efficiency.

She knew gems lost their luster eventually. There was a reason beyond the danger why so few Magical Girls grew to Magical Women. After a few years, the despair creeps in and refuses to leave. At first, it's small. A nagging thought or two, maybe the gem only looks a little dull because your eyes are what's failing. But soon the reality becomes undeniable. No tragedy, no calamity is needed to spark it. A few years fighting the evils of mankind with no friends and no hope, and even the most idealistic falter. And once the faltering begins... Well, despair begets despair. It extinguishes even the smallest hopes, replacing them with that all-devouring "Why bother?"

Her own mentor succumbed to it, back when she and Clair Ibsen were novices. The girl was twenty-two, a Methuselah of the trade, and after ten years of contentedly combating evil she sat down and asked if what she did meant anything, and poof! Law of the Cycles.

Sloan closed her hand around her gem and tucked it into her coat. Kyubey said there were enough cubes in Williston to stem the tide, and she chose to believe him. She had no choice but to believe. Even if it meant believing him, she would believe. The important thing was to remember Clair Ibsen. Sloan Redfearn couldn't possibly die without dragging Clair along to Magical Girl hell, could she?

Of course not.

"Oh, hooey," said Delaney, reminding Sloan a conversation was happening. "Cubes aren't everything. You feel hunger no matter what the cubes do. It's no fun fighting on an empty stomach."

Winnipeg shrugged. "Reliance on carnal needs is self-limitation. Take our current plight. How do you propose we find sustenance in the middle of the miasma? Unless you intend to compose a meal of ash."

"No, I'll order a pizza." Delaney plucked the room's corded phone from its cradle. Winnipeg was so baffled she could not muster a rebuttal. Sloan did it for her.

"A pizza? Here?"

"Of course. I researched this town before we came, after all. Even the remotest American locale has a pizza parlor." She dialed the number. "Hello! My name's Delaney, I'd love to order a large pizza. Hello? Yes, I said large pizza. Is that a problem? Oh, fantastic! Can we have it with pepperoni and olives?" She muffled the receiver and addressed her companions. "You're not vegetarians, right?"

Sloan shook her head. Winnipeg reported she would not be eating.

"Yes, pepperoni and olives is fine. How can you be out of olives? You have to have olives, that's simply irrational. Oh, fine. What about pineapple?"

"No pineapple," said Sloan. Though as starved as she was, she would eat whatever was in front of her.

"They don't have pineapple anyway," said Delaney. "What do you have? I already know you have pizza, ma'am. Yes, I want a large pizza, I said that. Stop repeating the same thing, please, you're getting on my nerves." She stuck a finger into her mouth and gagged at Sloan. "Okay, okay, yeesh! Pepperoni pizza it is. Oh, and throw in a thing of pop, will you? Thanks a million!"

Delaney gave the address and room number, although she had to say it five times until whoever was on the other end understood. She hung up with a profusion of saccharine gratitude. "Now we just hope the wraiths don't eat the delivery boy."

"The embarkation time to find the archon remains unchanged," said Winnipeg. "You have three minutes."

"But we ordered pizza!" said Delaney. "How could we leave now? Besides, you have no idea where to even start looking. I've triangulated the three most suitable locations of the archon den, but if you want to hear them you'll have to wait."

"I will scour the entire town and find the archon on my own."

Sloan groaned. A pizza would be her first hot meal in eons, but if Winnipeg went and killed the archon alone, all spoils would go to her. Plus, Sloan had a reputation to rebuild. Delaney may not mind playing a frilly debutante, but for Sloan to stay behind when she should be fighting was an admission of weakness. Not that she cared what Winnipeg and Delaney thought; Sloan couldn't admit to herself she would do nothing when presented with an opportunity to return to power.

"I'm going," she said.

"No," said Winnipeg. "Especially not you. Keep the agreed-upon 15 percent after I slay the archon, but stay in this room and do not encumber me with your presence. I have no intention to slow down and kiss your every scratch, which means you will merely die if you follow me. I see no point in allowing a needless death to occur."

"I slew more wraiths than either of you in that fight," said Sloan.

"Debatable." Winnipeg stopped in front of the door. "You also consumed the brunt of our curative magic and barely limped out alive. Your offensive capabilities are adequate, and would perhaps be useful if you had a modicum of defensive skill. I have no use for a glass cannon."

"Then I go out and die." Sloan held up her filthy Soul Gem. "See this? This is after I purified it. I would have given in long ago, but I have unfinished business in Minneapolis. If I can't kill wraiths, I got no hope finishing that business anyway. No hope, no life. I'll take my chances in the miasma."

Winnipeg closed her eyes. "Very well. I shall give you no assistance nor shall I expect you to request any. At the very least, you are no coward."

With a huff, Delaney sprung up and barred the door with her palm.

"A short break would be wonderful not simply to chart our next path, but to discuss Fargo's fighting style. You admit yourself she has strengths. If we could iron out her weaknesses, which we've already identified, then maybe instead of a worthless burden she could be, I dunno, helpful?"

"A conversation over pizza will not rectify years of poor technique," said Winnipeg. "I shall kill the archon myself."

Delaney's fingertips drummed against the door. Her other arm remained taut at her side. "Kyubey told you I dealt with an archon before, yes? Did he tell you how many other girls I needed to do it?"

"Twelve," said Winnipeg. "You and twelve others. Only you walked out the miasma alive. Quite convenient, after you called in the others for help."

Kyubey only told girls things he wanted them to know. If his intention was for them to work together, why feed Winnipeg information to make her suspicious? He hadn't even mentioned to Sloan she would work with others, which he claimed was because she wouldn't have come, and maybe that was true. but Sloan wasn't so sure. After all, he managed to cajole Winnipeg into it after telling her, and it was Winnipeg who was currently most opposed to the whole team shebang.

The rat stared with placid eyes.

"It wasn't chance I alone survived," said Delaney. "I have the best barrier and healing magic north of Chicago. It's only natural my survivability would outpace your normal Magical Girl."

"So you sacrificed your teammates to save yourself," said Sloan.

"Let's not be melodramatic, love. Have you ever taken first aid training? The healer always cares for herself before anyone else. If the healer dies, everybody dies."

Sloan did not have a ready remark.

The door knocked. Delaney opened it, glancing to either side of the pizza delivery boy (who was more of a grizzled bearded man) in case wraiths were nearby. The delivery boy's eyes had the same glazed look as everyone else.

Delaney paid from a heart-shaped wallet before relieving him of pizza box and half-gallon of soda. She slammed the door and placed the food on the bed.

It smelled fucking delicious. Sloan tried not to look too eager. Especially since Winnipeg had not moved from the door.

"Enjoy it," Winnipeg said. "I am leaving. Do you still plan to follow, Fargo?"

Sloan's stomach rumbled. She clenched her fists.

I highly recommend all three of you stay. Kyubey squirmed his way to the pizza box like they would give the fucker even a bite. I have access to each of your magical capabilities in terms of raw statistics and can calculate with ease your percentages of success. Miss Dufresne—

"My name is Winnipeg."

You are not the first Magical Girl to take that name nor will you be the last. It is much easier to track you by your real name. In any case, your chance of defeating the archon by yourself is rather low. Otherwise, I wouldn't have suggested teaming up. The risks of infighting and inefficiency usually outstrip the rewards, but if the archon is not defeated at all, that's merely wasteful.

"And my chances are improved with these two? One is a clinical sociopath and the other is less than worthless."

"Rude!" said Delaney.

Delaney Pollack is reliable. Sloan Redfearn is a Magical Girl of above average potential.

"What a cute answer," said Winnipeg. "Very well, I'll wait for their pizza party."

They had no plates, but a few napkins came with the pizza. They took turns drinking straight from the soda bottle; germs registered a big fat zilch on Sloan's list of concerns.

(Winnipeg, statuesque, didn't even look at the pizza.)

Delaney dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Sloan love! I heard you mention Minneapolis earlier, were you born there?"

The whole getting-to-know-you bit. Sloan took her sweet time chewing before replying. "No."

"Beautiful city. Twin cities, that is. Minneapolis is the twin cities, right?"

"Yeah. Minneapolis and St. Paul." If Delaney and Winnipeg had asked Kyubey about each other, they asked about Sloan, too. If they knew anything about Sloan they knew all they needed.

"Lovely." She started her second slice while Sloan went for fourths. "What'd you wish for?"

Sloan blinked at the non sequitur. Her wish? That was eternities ago. "My sister was blind. I cured her. Pretty typical." She swigged the soda.

"That's so sweet! I had an inkling you were a good person under all that gruff."

"No." Sloan puzzled how to approach this, as if she were discussing the Dead Sea Scrolls. Her family felt more like ideological concepts than real beings. "Jealousy. She always got the attention. Mom and Dad fawned over her and let me do whatever. Any minor accomplishment of hers was praised, mine ignored. At school everyone was nice to her. I figured if she wasn't blind they wouldn't care so much."

"I still think it was a nice wish, Sloan," said Delaney. "You could've wished for people to like you instead of her, that would be more direct. But you didn't, you wished for her to get well."

"Yeah," said Sloan. "When they still didn't like me, I regretted not doing it like you said."

"Do you still regret it?"

"Whichever way I wished it," said Sloan. "It means nothing now."

Winnipeg spoke for the first time since returning to the window. "There are worse wishes."

"Oh?" Delaney nibbled a crust. "That sounds like the opening of another story! Do tell."

With the same paleontological distance, Winnipeg spoke. "I wished a boy loved me. I was twelve. I was sick of him in a month."

And nothing more. Sloan tried to reconcile the current Winnipeg with the one who made that wish. A giggly schoolgirl, penning love poems. Wondering if he noticed her, thinking about him holding her. An impossible image.

"Well I," began Delaney with theatrical aplomb, "I wished for a puppy."

"A puppy."

Delaney nodded. "Yup! I wanted him so bad. But I couldn't have him. So I wished for him, and now he's a big grown doggie. My mom and dad watch him."

"You sold your soul for a dog." Winnipeg turned from the window. Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms.

"He was so cute, you should've seen him." Delaney hung her hands like little paws, scrunched up her face, and waggled her snout. She actually yipped. After Sloan and Winnipeg's unamused glares, she desisted the charade and scooped another slice of pizza.

The puppy thing might have made sense if Delaney were six when she contracted. But she acted like she would have wished it again if given the chance. If Sloan wasted her life on what was in the running for Shittiest Wish of All Time, she would have purged all thought of dogs from her mind long ago.

Apparently Winnipeg couldn't take the secondhand embarrassment either. Her mood, which had teetered between putting-up-with-this-shit and god-fucking-dammit, plummeted. "The only reason I agreed to letting you fill your faces was to learn the quickest route to the archon."

With a murmur, Delaney clenched her pizza between her teeth, wiped her fingers, and unfolded the map. She laid both halves on the bed and carefully lined up the torn edges before taking the pizza from her mouth.

"Of course! We've been lucky so far. The archon has only expanded the town. He hasn't bent the angles or done any chronological shenanigans, which happened on my last misadventure. As I mentioned before, now that we've established a firm presence here, he'll have a hard time making more macro-alterations to spacetime. Small changes are still his prerogative, but it's like trying to twist a wheel when someone's rammed a stake between the spokes. Us being the stake, of course."

"Meaning...?" said Winnipeg.

"It means, my dear, that this lovely map continues to reflect an almost perfect depiction of the geographic reality of Williston, despite your protestations to the contrary. The only difference is scale. While before, the entire town was about a mile from one end to the other, it's now probably..." She tapped her chin and turned her eyes toward the ceiling. "Ten times that. Which is another reason why establishing a base inside the miasma is so important! Cuts travel time to ribbons."

Sloan more-or-less followed. Miasmas were essentially pockets where real world rules could be altered depending on the wraiths within. Delaney simply determined the specific alterations and updated her spatial understanding of the town to accommodate. But Winnipeg leaned over the map and perched her chin on her fist. Spatial-analytic pseudoscience probably went a big whoosh over her head.

"I didn't solely pick this inn as our base for its creature comforts," Delaney continued. "Any closet would have sufficed. No, the inn provides a central location between my three chief candidates for the archon's lair."

From the inexhaustible depths of her jacket pocket, Delaney retrieved a pair of glasses and pushed them up the bridge of her nose as she leaned into the map.

"Bad eyesight?" Sloan asked.

"Only for reading, love."

"I can fix that."

Delaney looked up. Her glasses flashed under the light. "Oh?"

"I wished to cure blindness, remember? Fixing eyesight is about the only healing magic I have."

Delaney returned to the map. "No thanks, love. I like myself the way I am. Anywho! Neither of you have seen an archon, but from what I've gathered, they have unique appearances."

"From what you've gathered?" said Winnipeg. "You don't know?"

"Oh, I basically know. I've only personally laid eyes on one archon, Saskatoon 2010. However, eyewitness records of Fort McMurray 1985 describe it totally different from what I saw. The only constant between the two is they were both massive. Like, blot-out-the-sky big. I confirmed with Kyubey, largeness is a recurring trait. Which means its hiding place must be similarly large."

"But..." Winnipeg scratched at her ear. "You said distance is stretched here. So how is this relevant?"

"Stretched, yes," said Delaney. "But someplace larger to begin with will obviously stretch more than someplace smaller. Which means the largest structures in the city are our best bets. Hence, my candidate locations for the archon's lair."

A dramatic pause as she raised her hand above her head and slammed an outstretched finger onto the map.

"The city hall!

"The school!

"And the airstrip! Not technically a structure, I know. But these are far and away the most likely places. Aren't you glad you waited, Winnipeg?"

"Assuming your predictions are accurate."

"Of course they are," said Delaney.

Sloan finished the last slice of pizza. She had eaten five all told. She downed the dregs of the soda and wiped her mouth. In Fargo, her quality of life verged on third world. Calorically-independent body notwithstanding, pizza did leagues more to satisfy than a paltry diet of cubes.

"I see no further reason to linger," said Winnipeg. "The city hall is the closest of the suggested locations. We scour it first."

Delaney sagaciously permitted Winnipeg the final word. Without ceremony, they sallied forth.

Chapter 5: In Hell Thy Kingdom

A globe revolves. The frostbitten prairies of the American Midwest roll and crash against the mountains that split the continent asunder. The land rises, then descends to a parched desert basin, the ground cracked for lack of water. A coastline emerges, dotted with cities of men, and quickly passes into an expanse of lapis lazuli. This ocean scrolls; land is sighted on the horizon. Another continent, largest in the world.

At its vanguard stand four islands, jagged and inhospitable. Few things grow on them. They are ravaged by tremors, tsunamis, storms, and volcanoes. Nonetheless they have prospered into a nation of steel and skyscrapers, of effulgence and economy. A nation that has survived all calamities of man: war, famine, conquest. The world's most devastating weapons fell here.

In this nation, deities slumber.

The globe stops. The perspective of heaven or satellites dwindles, zooming in on Japan and the interconnected megalopolis that spans it. Seas and mountains vanish in favor of roads and structures. Streets, lights, people appear. Honeycombs of productivity, lifelines of transit, shopping districts, factories, companies, schools.

From these schools, identical children in identical uniforms return to their homes, clustered in groups of two or more. They chat animatedly, discuss their futures, laugh, and play.

Two of these children are Madoka Kaname and her very best friend, Homura Akemi.

Madoka did most of the talking. It pleased Homura to listen no matter the topic. The topic was their studies.

"I'm not looking forward to the English test." Madoka held her bag in front of her. It bounced as she walked. "I get marked down for the tiniest things. People think I'm good at English because I lived in the United States for three years, but sometimes it just makes it more difficult. My grammar's really bad."

"Mm," said Homura. They turned onto a paved pathway lined by hedgerows. Homes of ferociously modern architecture fanned out in both directions. Many of the schoolchildren lived in one of these houses or another, so fellow students surrounded them, each lost in their own conversations and cares.

"Maybe I could ask Mami for help," Madoka continued. "She's always using English when she fights, and plus she's in a more advanced class, so she's probably good at it, right? I'm just worried it would be too much of a hassle. School's hard enough for all of us, considering we're out fighting every night. On second thought, I better not bother her."

"She wouldn't say no," said Homura.

"I know, I know. That's the worst part. Even though it would make things harder for her, she would still do it. I'll just cram for an hour before we go wraith-hunting tonight. My grade won't be so good, but I guess I don't have a choice, do I? Being a Magical Girl comes before all of this."

They delved deeper into the grid. The farther they walked, the fewer students remained around them.

"That's no reason to give up on your life, Madoka," said Homura. "Do what makes you happy."

Madoka rubbed the back of her head and gave a sheepish grin. "Well, I wouldn't exactly consider studying something that makes me happy. Truth be told, I'm not sure what does make me happy. Probably being with you and the others!"

Homura said nothing. They neared Madoka's house; Homura knew the way by heart. Save for them, the road had emptied. Well, them and the gothic black dolls that marched behind them, each with identical white faces, wide elliptical eyes, and serrated grins. Other than Homura, nobody ever noticed the dolls much.

They reached Madoka's house, a geometric construction surrounded by gardens and lawn. Madoka's aproned father pruned vegetation. When he saw them, he waved and said hello. Homura held up a hand to wave back.

Madoka gave Homura a slight bow. "Thanks for walking me home, Homura! You really don't need to go through all the trouble, I know you live in the complete opposite direction."

The dolls pranced along the tops of hedges. "I enjoy our walks," said Homura.

"Well, I'll see you in a few hours. The miasma has really been getting worse lately, hasn't it? Maybe we should team up with the others, like we used to. Back when we all fought together, we could really take on anything."

"The others are happy as they are."

Madoka nodded gravely and grabbed Homura's hand. "Well, thanks again for walking me home. See you soon!"

Homura watched her friend clip-clop up to her house, greet her father, and disappear inside. She remained watching some time after, before she finally turned and snapped her fingers at two of her dolls. "Selbstsucht. Eifersucht."

The indicated dolls broke from the pack and hopped down the hedges. She commanded them in German: "Stand guard over Madoka's house. Ensure the Incubator does not speak to her. Alert me if anyone other than her family approaches her."

The dolls nodded and tottered off with mischievous chuckles, dancing hand-in-hand across Madoka's lawn. Despite their antics, Homura had faith in their abilities. The dolls were ruthless when needed.

She headed for her daily report on current events.

The building in which she lived was wedged between two roads, a triangular two-story slice with an unassuming façade. Homura dismissed her remaining dolls to entertain themselves as they desired. She had fourteen dolls at her disposal, although she mostly used them to keep Madoka safe when Homura herself could not be with her. They were also useful for subtly altering the courses of the other Mitakihara girls when necessary. In extreme cases, they monitored the Incubator.

A fifteenth doll existed, which managed the Law of the Cycles for all Magical Girls across time and space. But that doll was permanently occupied and rarely factored into Homura's designs.

Schematics for said designs floated throughout Homura's dusky living quarters. At any given moment she had blueprints planning the events of the next week, occasionally the next month, to an hour-by-hour basis. She reached through the levitating papers and plucked one that read DECEMBER 19 2013 15:00 - WALK MADOKA HOME / DISCUSS ENGLISH TEST from the air, creasing it neatly down the middle and banishing it to the archives of her mind. Such micromanagement had always been her forte, but since her transformation into the Adversary of God (or Satan, as some preferred), she found her capacity magnified exponentially.

The Incubator was yet to arrive. Funny. For all his sermons on efficiency, he always came tardy to their scheduled meetings. Not that she minded. She took the opportunity to check the statuses of the four other Magical Girls in the area, drawing the reports prepared by the dolls to the forefront of the floating file directory. TOMOE MAMI - OUTWARDLY CONTENT. SAKURA KYOKO - BORED WITH SCHOOL. MOMOE NAGISA - DESIROUS OF CHEESE. MIKI SAYAKA - UPSET WITH SAKURA. Nothing unusual, except Miki. If any of them caused trouble, it tended to be her. Now she was upset with Sakura? Probably nothing serious, but Homura made a mental note to peruse Miki's report in detail later. Any issues with Miki needed to be suppressed swiftly before they burgeoned into a web of petty drama.

The report would wait; the Incubator had arrived. The small white catlike creature skulked on the other end of the room, beside the giant swinging pendulum that served as metronome for the pace of Homura's thoughts.

"Give your report." Homura had no wish to waste time with her most despised underling.

The Incubator crawled into the light, the otherwise omnipresent smile wiped from his immutable face. In the past week, 863 Magical Girls were killed in action or by the Law of the Cycles. 879 new Magical Girls were contracted. Regional breakdowns and historic trends can be viewed on these charts.

From seemingly nowhere, a collection of large documents sprang into the air. She gave a cursory glance, her demiomniscience allowing her to process the information nearly instantaneously. Slight decreases of Magical Girl populations in North America, Europe, and Oceania were offset by increased populations in the Middle East, coinciding with the renewal of conflict in Syria. Wars always required temporary boosts to recruitment, and these were within acceptable parameters. She had to keep a close eye on the statistics, because if she didn't, the Incubator was liable to contract more than needed.

Of the Magical Girls killed in action, 27 were killed by another Magical Girl. This continues the five-month downward trend of magicides. You can read the individual case reports to confirm that all magicides transpired in unforeseeable circumstances of minor emotional consequence.

More files floated to the fore. Homura flicked through them. Twenty-seven cases of opportunity, greed, or mischance. Remarkably low considering the total number active. The provisions Homura had forced the Incubator to adopt were working.

Meanwhile, the Incubator continued, the total energy harvested this week was only 87.3 percent of our quota.

Another paper flew up but she waved it away. "That doesn't concern me."

It concerns the fate of the universe over which you preside and which you helped create. We implore you to reduce some of the stringent regulations you have placed on our ability to contract and control Magical Girls—

With a wave of her hand she swelled the Incubator with a glut of unrefined emotional despair. She had nearly unlimited amounts of the stuff on standby because her Soul Gem served as the primary receptacle for the Law of the Cycles. The Incubator crumpled and writhed with a series of jerky, spastic motions. He thrashed his tiny body against the carpet and grinded his face into his paws.

Stop, please! We beg you... the pain...

She watched to try and determine how much was genuine and how much was hammy acting. Then she grew bored and twisted a mental nozzle. The stream of emotions ceased and the Incubator quickly composed himself.

"It should be apparent by now I do not require your advice on such issues."

Our apologies. That concludes the weekly report. Any additional statistics can be found in the provided files. We will be leaving now.

"Stay." She flicked through the papers, absorbing the information on each sheet at a glance. "You've failed to mention something of interest. There has been a sudden and unexpected infestation of wraiths in a remote area of the United States. A village called Williston. Why have you not explained this anomaly?"

The Williston event is not an anomaly. It is a predictable outcome of the socioeconomic conditions which have caused the town's population to explode without proper infrastructural support to quell the resulting influx of sin and despair, creating an environment for an archon event. Similar conditions frequently occur in impoverished or war-stricken nations, like the current situation in Syria.

"In Syria you contracted more girls to compensate. There are no such increases in Williston." The statistics tumbled through her mind effortlessly. But one of the things she had difficulty knowing, even with her godlike powers, was the inner workings of the Incubator's mind. Even the minds of regular people could be tricky to navigate, but the Incubator far exceeded a human in complexity. Hence her need to keep him on a short leash.

Given the demographics of eligible female candidates in Williston, combatting the wraiths via contracting was considered infeasible. Instead, we migrated Magical Girls from nearby cities.

"Magicide chances increase significantly when Magical Girls are grouped together," said Homura. "Give me intelligence on the girls you called in."

She had little interest in Williston or the girls involved in its cleansing. But if she let even the tiniest detail slip, the Incubator would later exploit such holes in her omniscience. If only she could do away with him and have her dolls contract Magical Girls and collect grief cubes. She had crunched the logistics a thousand times with a thousand different equations and parameters; replacing the Incubator's talents was simply impossible.

More files. "Only three girls. Considering the urgency, this is acceptable. Although I question the addition of this Sloan Redfearn. Your statistics give her a low chance of survival, and her necessity to the mission is dubious at best."

The inclusion of Sloan Redfearn is not meant to improve the mission's odds. If you look deeper into her file, you will note she is a large magicide risk if left unchecked. Surely, you would vouch for her termination?

Sloan Redfearn had a particularly detailed and easy-to-read file, aided by the fact that her magic was based on visibility. It painted a portrait of someone who spent seven months nursing a death grudge against a fellow Magical Girl. The magical potential of Redfearn and the girl on which she vowed vengeance were fairly high, which only exacerbated matters. Sloan Redfearn was indeed a prime candidate for termination.

The odds indicate that Miss Redfearn will die soon, one way or another. Is it not better for her death to come fighting wraiths rather than fighting another Magical Girl?

She banished the file on Sloan Redfearn to the back of the stack. "The other girls are suspect as well. Erika Dufresne has shown exceptional competitiveness and the inability to work with others. Delaney Pollack's sordid past should have marked her for termination three years ago. In fact, she has already been tied to an archon event. This team you assembled is a powder keg waiting to explode."

Erika Dufresne's competitiveness has never manifested in magicide, even in self defense. In fact, she takes great care her opponents survive. Her motivations—territory and prestige—are both unwanted by the other members of the team, reducing the chance of conflict.

"And Pollack." Homura drew up a detailed report on the girl from Saskatchewan. "This girl is problematic in many ways. Why was she even contracted?"

You'll note her high magical potential and despair tolerance. We admit we underestimated her emotional issues, but in the past three years she has had no incidents whatsoever. It's safe to say she has reformed.

"People don't reform." Homura flicked the files away. "Considering the urgency and remoteness of the situation, I'll give your methods a tentative pass. However, I am keeping a close eye on Williston. I want a follow-up report at our next meeting."

Of course.

No other anomalous occurrences. Information, data, names flooded through her mind, processed and sorted instantaneously. The Incubator middle-managed more-or-less to her liking. He had not made a major mistake for almost a year. She didn't trust it.

"That is all. You may leave."

By the time Homura turned around, the Incubator had vanished. The guillotine pendulum swung back and forth, the pages and files drifted, shadows ate the corners of the room. Loosening the bow of her schoolgirl uniform, she plopped into one of the couches in the center of the room, allowing her legs to dangle over the side.

She stared at the ceiling as the overloaded information ebbed from her brain, melting into a viscous puddle at the base of her skull. The factoids and statistics left her as her eyes glazed over, leaving behind only a single, pure image on the cataract film spread across her irises: that of Madoka Kaname, the one for whom she did all that she did.

The stairway leading to the Williston city hall was paved with the ragged skeletons of plaid-shirted men. The city hall itself rose to the dark sky, a medieval fortress of stone walls and jagged parapets. Arched double doors beckoned to the three girls who ascended the steps, girls who moments before existed as names in Homura Akemi's database.

The route from the inn to the city hall had been much shorter than their previous foray into the miasma and they encountered much less resistance. Not a single greater wraith; the clusters of lesser ones were obliterated by the combined power of Sloan and Winnipeg, all meager counterattacks blocked by Delaney.

"Should we expect a trap," said Sloan. She had managed her magic well so far. Her goal was to survive the excursion without horrendous embarrassment. It wasn't a pride thing, although the scorn Winnipeg exuded did bite deep for some reason. It had to do with Minneapolis. Clair Ibsen defeated Sloan at peak form and confidence. Sloan's ultimate goal was to crush Clair, so mere survival was not an option. She had to flourish.

"We should expect an archon, love," said Delaney. "That's why we came, after all."

They reached the top of the stairs and paused before the open doorway. Dead air whistled through.

"If we find the archon, what's the plan," said Sloan.

"The plan is hit it until it dies." Winnipeg plunged through the doors. Sloan ran after, leaving Delaney in the rear. She had learned not to linger at the back, where Delaney might "forget" her.

Entering the city hall was like entering yet another world, a pocket dimension inside a pocket dimension. As they crossed the threshold, the way back to Williston fell into obscurity and the grand main hall lit up with a line of torches that shed gray light across stones, carpets, and tapestries. Between every two torches was a door. At the end of the hall hung a map of the city, identical to Delaney's but blown to astronomical proportions. It had the same red ink and the same locations circled and the same jagged tear down the middle.

"Too many doors," said Sloan.

"Fear not, love. Remember in the real world, this city hall is a dumpy little thing. These added doors are but illusions."

Delaney stepped in front. Her heels clicked against the opulent, reflective floor. She held aloft her staff and summoned thousands of bubbles in a spiral pattern. With a wave, she zipped the bubbles down the hall. Some broke from the main pack to slam into each door, splattering blood.

At first, Sloan didn't understand. But as the blood drizzled down the doors, the doors drizzled too, washing away like crayon. After a few moments, all but three had resolved into dew.

"You're useful after all," said Winnipeg. She took point and headed for the closest door.

Delaney flashed a charming wink and struck a pose. "Brute force only achieves so much!"

"You wished for a puppy and this is how you turned out?" said Sloan.

"Well, some other things happened." Delaney shrugged. "Let's not worry about that, love. Keep close to me. Don't put much faith in the walls here—they're liable to shift."

They entered a library of towering metal cabinets instead of shelves, monstrous manila folders instead of books. The cabinets formed a precarious labyrinth of handles and rippling tin, their tops too shrouded in shadow to see. No obvious direction or destination existed, but Winnipeg hurried down a random corridor with her katana drawn and forced the others to follow.

Some of the upper cabinets were open. Unseen creatures rummaged through the contents, smacking and chomping heavy lips. Flecks of shredded paper drifted down and coated the floor. Sloan snatched a scrap out of the air and turned it over. The words were scrawled in stylized German, brimming with umlauts, tangled compounds, and thick consonants. It did not look like an official town record.

She crumpled the scrap and looked up. A wall of filing cabinets barred her way. The wall had not been there before.

Delaney and Winnipeg had vanished. Paths curled in every direction, terminating in either darkness or a dead end. Somewhere in the distance, a wall groaned and shifted with an avalanche of documents.

God FUCK. You fucking retard, Delaney warned you about the walls literally FIVE SECONDS AGO and you fucked it up. Stamp a big red FAILURE on "survive the excursion without horrendous embarrassment."

She clenched her fists, locked her jaw, and broadcasted telepathically: I got cut off.

Oh dear, love. I do believe I warned you like three seconds ago to be careful about this sort of thing.

The wraiths marked you as the weak link, said Winnipeg. Retreat to the inn. We won't need you anyway.

I'm blasting through. Stand back.

The gnawing and munching from the open cabinets stopped. Over the edges peeked malformed, impish wraiths. In unison they crawled out and began climbing down.

Sloan aimed her gun and fired at the wall. The cabinets rattled and quivered with a metallic gurgle as a blinding aura filled the corridor, purging the imp-wraiths that crawled too close. When Sloan released the trigger, a solid circular opening had been chewed through the metal.

Delaney and Winnipeg weren't there.

God dammit, Sloan said. Where did you go.

Nowhere, said Winnipeg. We're at exactly the same spot. Where are you?

Sloan peered through the opening. Limitless corridors of cabinets sprawled. What the hell was this funhouse? Onto the tile around her plopped upside-down imps, squirming themselves upright like scarabs. First only a few, but soon they were piling atop one another, covering the ground in a writhing mass.

An imp clawed at her shin and she smashed it with a boot before swinging her gun and unleashing hellfire onto the crowd. The imps squealed as her light disintegrated them, but more and more came tumbling down. One sank needlepoint teeth into her ankle. She crushed it with her other leg as the rest crawled for her, cretinous dwarfs with stumpy proportions and misshapen limbs.

You alright love? asked Delaney from somewhere.

Sloan hurled her gun aside and backflipped onto the wall, latching onto the cabinet handles. Immediately the creatures scrambled after her. Her levitating machine gun seared ranks to cinders at her mental beck, but the ceaseless tides only multiplied. One dropped onto her head, digging ratty claws into her scalp. She slammed it against the wall and sent it plummeting to its fellows.

She jumped from the wall, bounced atop her floating gun, and bounded onto the next tower of cabinets, grabbing the handles for support. The climbing imps came crashing after her, hurtling the gap in a lemming leap, plunging to the ground and crawling up the new wall. She jumped back to the first wall, gaining a little height and momentum and barely pausing before leaping again across the divide. The imps toppled after her. She only fired at the few who got close, using her gun more as a platform as she caromed between the walls like god damn Super Mario. The pillars of cabinet shelves had to have some top. If she could reach it she would gain vantage over the library, find her companions, and salvage at least some scrap of competence from her latest mistake.

But as she continued her trapeze act and the ground grew distant, the cabinets only continued to soar into the void above. The imps had fallen farther behind, but Sloan perceived no end in sight. She quit jumping to survey the surroundings.

The instant she stopped the shelves around her burst open, unleashing a nest of imps and a flurry of shredded paper. The entire wall twanged metallically and began to move, scraping to flatten her against the opposite wall.

Sloan released her grip and plunged. Imps halfway in their climb groped for her as she dropped. With a swing of her arm she circled her gun below her, clearing a landing with a single ray of erasure through the writhing bodies. She hit the ground on a perfect parkour roll, distributing the brunt of the impact with her magic. Immediately she somersaulted to her feet and sprinted down the aisle, diving through the closing walls and leaving the imps to be squashed behind her.

But really love, are you okay?

Fucking dandy, Sloan transmitted as another whooping horde of imps dropped in pursuit.

The corridor zigzagged randomly. The walls loosed primordial rumbles as they twisted. Cabinets shot out to block her but she either slid under or leapt over them. Her lungs pounded and her legs ached, and she felt maybe she hadn't stuck her landing so perfectly, because a dull throb set into one of her bones, maybe a fracture or maybe psychosomatic, she didn't know, she could only run like hell.

She rounded a corner, crashed face first into a wall, and bounced back onto her ass. A dead end.

Her hand shot for the nearest cabinet so she could try to climb again, but already the imps were on her. Several kamikaze-plunged onto her floating gun, forcing the barrel's aim as they pounded gnarled feet against it. Its fire sagged uselessly into a wall while other imps leapt onto her back and clawed at her coat. She flailed her arms, frying them with pulses of light from her fingertips. She staggered into the dead end, still no sign of Delaney or Winnipeg, options dwindling. The imps slowed their assault, understanding they had her cornered, none wanting to be the first forward as she faced them with her hands afire. Magical exhaustion had yet to set in, which meant she had hope. If the wraith rodentia wanted her, they would pay dearly in their own cooked corpses.

The front lines advanced hesitantly. Many of the wraiths clucked and chuckled at her, some outright cackled.

Sloan braced for a brawl to the death.

A hand settled on her wrist; the world went colorless and hazy. The imps drew back in surprise, but they did not attack. They did not start moving forward again. They stared at her—or rather, the place where she was standing—with eyeless faces, collective mouths agape.

Sloan faced the one who grabbed her, who until then had been unseen. The mousey dark-haired girl from Bismarck peered back. The hand-biter.

Murmuring to themselves, the imps turned and slinked back to their cabinets, unable to see Sloan and the girl who saved her.

Chapter 6: Charred Child Flesh

A ratty gray cloak hung from the invisible girl in loose folds. Clumped tufts of unkempt black hair tumbled down her shoulders. The fragile hand that gripped Sloan's wrist wore a bracelet embedded with a pyrite gemstone. When Sloan looked at her, she averted her eyes and adjusted the thick-lensed spectacles barely supported by her tiny nose.

"Thanks. I guess." It was the third time someone rescued Sloan from imminent death in as many hours. But who was counting.

The girl parsed her lips in what was either a smile or a grimace. Oh, uh, you're welcome, but, they can still hear you. I can only make things look not there. I, uh, can't take them away.

Makes sense. Sloan unrooted from the corner between the cabinets and gazed up, trying not to look particularly interested in the invisible girl. The imps had clambered back into the cabinets to resume their activities. Even the walls seemed to have stopped moving, or else they were biding their time. A hollow tranquility fell as Sloan led her new friend in search of an exit.

She tried to conceal her footfalls, but she could only tread so lightly in boots. The invisible girl wore a sort of moccasin and glided wraithlike beside her.

I forgot your name, said Sloan.

The girl hesitated, rubbed her throat. Omaha.

That's right. Cornhusker country. She looked Asian, uncommon for the Midwest, but metropolitan girls often got shoved to the boondocks. Why you following me, Omaha?

Omaha tensed. I, I'm not following you.

Cut the shit, kid. No way you just happened to be loitering in the same corner I got chased to. You're following me, why?

I, I, I can't tell you that, said Omaha. I, uh, I don't think I'm allowed.

Allowed by who?

Uh, I, um...

She lowered her eyes so much it was a miracle her glasses stayed on. Silence predominated as it became clear Omaha had no intention to answer. Pity, because Sloan would have loved to hear the answer. She doubted this meek, jittery creature was here of her own volition. But given all Omaha had to do was release Sloan's wrist to drop her back to the wraiths, Sloan decided not to pressure a response.

They continued down the endless corridors in uncomfortable silence. Their linked hands compounded the awkwardness. Omaha's fingers trembled and her palm was surprisingly warm.

The silence built and built until with a frantic and sudden intensity Omaha stammered again. I. Uh... Um! I'm sorry, for uh, for biting you! You know... on the bus.

She bowed her head as if in anticipation of a blow. Like an abused dog.

Sloan tried to smile, but the smile probably sucked and Omaha probably didn't see it. Don't worry about it, kid. No hard feelings.

I didn't mean to. I mean. I didn't think about it. I just got scared. I thought you were going to hurt me, and I, I...

You still think I'm going to hurt you?

Omaha said nothing.

Well, don't worry. You don't hurt me, I don't hurt you. Deal?

Omaha said nothing. Sloan wondered if this labyrinth had any end.

Eventually Omaha worked up the nerve to speak again. Um, Miss Sloan?

No need for the Miss.

If it's, uh, not much of a bother, could you maybe, keep this quiet from your companions? Miss Delaney and Miss Erika?

Erika must be Winnipeg, although Sloan did not recall her giving her real name.

If I told them, would someone be mad at you? said Sloan.

Omaha looked up, her submissiveness erased in an instant, her dark eyes piercing and stern. My friend never gets mad at me. But I would get very mad at you.

An unseen bird squawked from the rafters above. Sloan bit her lip. Unease crept into her, even as Omaha swiftly reverted to fidgeting and muttered an apology. The girl could easily be a lunatic. It happened time to time: tortured girls who saved themselves from the Law of the Cycles by fleeing reality, altering their perception of the world to defend from its pain. Omaha's first response to an unwanted social situation was to bite someone. Not damning, but suspicious.

Generally Kyubey slated those types for termination. Whenever girls became "dangerous" (although Kyubey probably cared more about them being harder to manipulate), he posted a grief cube bounty on their heads. Some girls made livings as so-called Terminatrixes, traveling in search of loonies to cull. But Kyubey had said nothing about Omaha. No, he said Omaha's invisibility made her hard to track. Sloan accepted the explanation at the time, but how did a girl in control of a midsize city disappear and Kyubey not at least have an inkling of where she went?

She tried to remember Kyubey's exact wording. Did he say he failed to track her, or just that she was difficult to track? Because the latter did not preclude the former. (She remembered he said he "did not invite her to be part of your team." Another choice Kyubeyism. Sloan really wondered the identity of Omaha's friend.)

Calm down, she told herself. She needed to escape the maze before she worried about anything else.

Don't worry, said Sloan. I won't tell.

Th, thank you, Miss Sloan. It's very important to me.

They walked. And walked. Sloan tried to think of ways to wheedle more information, but conversation ranked low on her list of qualities. She couldn't even think of icebreakers to at least end the all-consuming silence that made everything so damn eerie, like she were dragging along a doll instead of a human being. What could Sloan do? Go the Delaney Pollack route and ask about wishes? Sloan didn't want to know what such a miserable girl sold her soul for. And if Omaha really were deranged, anything might set her off. Families, friends, fucking pets were minefields waiting to erupt.

So Sloan said nothing and pulled her companion by the hand. Omaha sometimes murmured like she had something to say, then thought better of it and averted her eyes.

Minutes passed. Maybe a half hour. Time was difficult to gauge in the miasma. The labyrinth had no end. Every corridor split into two more. Going in circles was a real possibility. Sloan soldiered on like she knew what she was doing, and Omaha never corrected her or suggested an alternate route. Sloan's frustration mounted and almost boiled over (couldn't Omaha at least do something?) when out of the silence emerged the voice of Delaney, a crystalline chime with slight urgency.

Sloan love? You there?

Thank god. Someone remembered her.

Yeah, said Sloan. Blasted my way through a mountain of imps, but I'm here.

Stupendous! I was so worried. I hadn't heard from you in so long, it's hard not to assume the worst. Do you know where you are?

Sloan checked the cabinets around her. They looked the same as all the other cabinets. Not a clue. Still in the library.

Well, it's best if we reconvene, said Delaney. I'll send some bubbles into the maze. If you find one, follow it to me, alright love?

Sounds good.

Omaha said nothing about the interaction. Sloan tried to wink as if to say, See? I won't sell you out, but Omaha was pro at eye contact evasion.

After a few more minutes of meandering, they found a red bubble adrift amid the passages. The moment they sighted it, Omaha relinquished Sloan's wrist. The effect was instantaneous: Sloan reemerged in the visible realm while Omaha crumbled from existence, free to stalk Sloan unnoticed. Not a reassuring thought.

Sloan poked the bubble. It wobbled. I found one, she broadcasted to Delaney.

Splendid! You must be close.

As if tugged by a magnet, the bubble drifted down the corridor. It moved faster than Sloan expected. She jogged to keep up with it.

She strained her ears for Omaha's footsteps beside her, but heard nothing at all.

It only took a few minutes to follow Delaney's bubble to the exit. The main hall and its ocean of lacquered tile gleamed with the rosy aura of more bubbles. No trace remained of the massive facsimile of Delaney's town map, which had taunted them on arrival.

Delaney stood in the exact center of the hall, twirling her staff. "Oh, how lovely you made it!"

Sloan doubled over and caught her breath. She hated cardio, but it embarrassed her she couldn't run fifteen minutes without being totally winded. She had always been one for sprints instead of endurance.

"Where's Winnipeg?" she wheezed.

Delaney waved her staff and eliminated Sloan's minor cuts and dull pains.

"I wouldn't worry about Winnipeg, she's strong. Whatever's befallen her, she has the wiles to escape."

Sloan's eyes narrowed. "But really. How were you separated?"

"The same way you were separated from us." She frowned. "I didn't hurt her, if that's what you're thinking. I know things got quite accusatory back at the inn, but Winnipeg gave you the completely wrong impression of me. I want nothing more than to do good deeds."

"I don't give a shit about that. Where did you last see her."

"Oh, you know." She hesitated, raised a lazy hand to indicate a door. "Somewhere thereabouts. Does it matter?"

Although her lungs still pounded, Sloan headed in the indicated direction.

Delaney swept into her path with a single flowing step. Her long white gown swished at her ankles. "You know, Winnipeg cares very little about the people we're saving here. All she cares about is herself and her territory. She likes to be in control, she likes to feel secure."

Winnipeg? said Sloan. Can you hear me?

"You'll need to do something about her eventually, love. Or you won't receive the grief cubes you need."

Winnipeg? Are you alive?

Delaney placed a hand on Sloan's shoulder. Her fingers curled, kneading the malnourished flesh through the overcoat. "I want to help, love."

From the dead air, Winnipeg's brusque voice cut into Sloan's head. Fargo. If you're with Regina-Saskatoon, kill her. Now.

Delaney's arms coiled around Sloan and drew her into an embrace. She nuzzled her head against Sloan's shoulder, her warm breath brushing strands of hair off the nape of Sloan's neck. Sloan's body went into lockdown. Normal human interactions were hard enough, but this was uncharted territory. Delaney pressed closer, her non-insignificant breasts difficult not to notice despite Sloan's best efforts.

"Please, Sloan, you wouldn't hurt me, would you?"

A frantic impulse struck Sloan and she disentangled herself, staggering back to put distance between her and Delaney. Her machine gun materialized in her hands. "Don't touch me! What did you do to Winnipeg?"

The timorous, disembodied voice of Omaha whispered into Sloan's ear: "Leave her alive. Miss Delaney is needed for now. If she tries anything, I'll stop her."

Sloan was already on edge, but Omaha's words pushed her toward freakout. Needed for now? Needed for what? To kill the archon? And after they did that, when Delaney was no longer needed, then what? What the fuck was happening here?

Delaney drew back, wrapping her arms around herself and shaking a little at the sight of Sloan's gun. Sloan took a deep breath and made the gun disappear.

"Look. Delaney. I'm not going to kill you. But you need to be honest with me. What did you do to Winnipeg?"

"I did nothing," said Delaney. "Please, we need to leave before she finds us! She's dangerous and paranoid, she'll kill us both."

Omaha whispered: "Miss Erika is also needed for now."

Sloan disliked the psychopathic advice that kept seeping into her ear like a devil on her shoulder. Not that Delaney was acting like the paradigm of sanity either, but fuck.

"I'm gonna find Winnipeg." She spoke as if to tell herself rather than anyone else.

She approached the door Delaney indicated earlier. It was totally possible Delaney had lied about the door. Anything was totally possible.

Delaney shook her clasped hands in supplication.

"Oh no love, you don't want to do that. What's she ever done to help you? At every turn she abandons you. Who stuck with you always? Me, right?"

Sloan continued for the door.

"Well," said Delaney. "If that's the case. I hate to do this, love. But it's for your own good."

The swish of something heavy came from behind. Sloan dove aside, rolled to her feet, and manifested her machine gun, swinging it to face Delaney and firing. The moment she squeezed the trigger she saw her mistake. A large bubble had affixed itself to the end of the barrel. It lit up as streams of Sloan's light bounced inside, filling the bubble until it burst and the accumulated magic erupted in every direction. A beam sliced a chunk from Sloan's leg and another pierced her lung. The breath whooshed out of her as she struck the ground.

Her gun landed in front of her, bisected by another beam. Delaney popped the barrier she had placed around herself and emerged unscathed.

"I hope that didn't hurt too bad." She crouched and stroked Sloan's hair. Sloan tried to roll over and failed. She sputtered to breathe. "Now, I'm going to knock you unconscious for a bit. When you wake up, you'll be nice and healed and we can have a good long talk about saving the universe together."

Delaney gripped her staff in both hands and hefted it above her head. The massive ruby at its end flashed as it bore down on Sloan's skull.

Something invisible lashed out and severed both of Delaney's hands at the wrists. The staff, hands still attached, flopped to the ground and two arcs of blood shot from the stumps.

Delaney regarded her arms with mild fascination.

"Oh dear." Her blood flowed onto Sloan's prone torso. "Did you do this, love?"

Sloan wheezed in reply.

Bubbles formed around Delaney's lifeless hands. With a series of nods and pantomimes she directed them to carry her hands back to her bleeding stumps. She worked with composure and efficiency. When the hands were reattached, the bubbles popped and doused her forearms in blood.

After the blood evaporated, not a trace of the mishap remained.

Delaney balled her hands into fists and wiggled her fingers. Satisfied, she picked up her staff. "Or perhaps you didn't do it at all. I recall you mentioned something when we first met. About a fourth girl. One who could go invisible at will?"

Unbeknownst to Delaney, the blood that had spilled from her hands began to seep into Sloan's wounds. Slowly, Sloan's breath returned and her pain diminished. She continued to wheeze and sputter, maintaining the charade of injury.

"Who knows?" said Delaney with a shrug. "A girl who can turn invisible whenever she wants. Isn't that a tad overpowered, Sloan dear? I mean, my Soul Gem is right here." She motioned to the brooch of her gown, a crimson gemstone set in a golden clasp. "Were this invisible girl here right now, she would need only one strike to eliminate me completely."

A challenge. Omaha—wherever she was—did not bite. Probably she sensed the obvious trap. As of yet, Delaney had demonstrated no offensive capabilities beyond the pathetic use of her staff as a bludgeon. But her healing and barrier magic were nothing to scoff at. She was not an adversary to take lightly.

However, she could not defend against what she did not expect. Sloan reared up, already swinging her arm as she materialized a new machine gun in her hand. Delaney's face formed an expression of indignation before the hunk of metal crashed against her skull. A breathless squeak escaped her lips and she dropped to the floor.

Sloan let go of her gun, blood-splattered at the point of connection. Delaney's magic cut out and her Magical Girl costume disappeared, replaced by civilian jeans and hoodie.

"Th, thank you," Omaha's voice stammered. It remained creepily close to Sloan's ear. "I was worried I would have to compromise myself to keep you safe."

"Thanks," Sloan forced herself to say.

Delaney's Soul Gem, in egg form, rolled against the tile. Sloan briefly considered smashing it. But murdering an unconscious foe—not something she could do. Besides, Delaney was crazy but Omaha was right: she was useful. They still had an archon to kill.

No time to waste deliberating. Winnipeg was still somewhere, maybe in danger.

After pocketing Delaney's Soul Gem, she lifted the senseless body and hoisted it onto her shoulder. The girl was already light and an ounce of magic made her weigh as much as a feather, legs and arms dangling.

Winnipeg, she said. I incapacitated Delaney. Where are you?

Running. No exit.

I'm coming to help. Which door?

The one on the right from the entrance.

No snide jabs about Sloan's worthlessness, at least. Sloan turned toward the door on the right, the same door Delaney had indicated.

"Omaha. Take Delaney to the inn. I have her Soul Gem, so she won't wake until I return. I'm going for Winnipeg."

Omaha manifested from the murk. In the visible realm, her decrepit cloak seemed even more filthy. She tugged at her collar and shuffled her feet.

"I, I'm not supposed to leave you..."

"Too bad. I'm not fighting with Delaney draped over my shoulder. If you want me to keep her alive, do as I say." She unslung the body and pushed it toward Omaha. Omaha shrank back, teeth clenched, hands upraised. Sloan maintained her expectant glare until Omaha adjusted her glasses and took the body.

"Okay, but, uh, I'll be back! If there's trouble, please call me. I'll come."

Both Omaha and Delaney vanished. Sloan sighed, relieved to be rid of them both, before she seized her gun and charged through the door.

She burst into a cavernous arena split down the middle by a chasm. Filing cabinets tilted precariously near the edge, documents spilling from drawers into the abyss. The walls of the atrium were speckled with mouths of tunnels. Each tunnel had a smooth cylindrical surface, although stalagmites jutted between the cabinets in the main area.

Sloan scanned the tunnels for any marginally more promising than the rest, but they were all identical.

Where are you, Winnipeg?

I can't see anything.

Sloan could help that. She discarded her gun and extended her hands as she focused her magical energy into her fingertips. A ball of light grew in her palms, causing scattered gremlins to scurry for safety. She squinted and turned away as the glow gathered intensity, spilling into the caverns and flooding through their veiny passages.

Anything now? said Sloan.

Nothing. Wait—a light.

Sloan figured she didn't need to tell her to run toward it.

From one of the tunnels, Winnipeg emerged at a sprint, half her face marred by a jagged gash that rendered one eye a sealed welt. She leapt in a squall of wind, hit the top of a leaning cabinet, and dashed along the edge of the chasm with imperturbable finesse.

"Run," she said.

From the same tunnel burst a gargantuan worm, sized exactly the width of the opening, its head an enlarged version of the same gray head of all wraiths, its mouth ringed with rows of gnashing fangs that tore into dirt and dust and paper and anything in its path.

Sloan hurled her light orb at the worm, aiming it just over Winnipeg's head and into the gaping maw. The light struck the staticky crackle of its eyes without even fazing it. She scooped up her gun and ran for the door back to the hall.

As soon as she turned, the door began to close on its own. She threw an arm to prop it but it slammed shut before she could reach it. She planted her feet and blasted it with her gun, the woodwork smashed with the first round, but past the opening was no longer the main hall; a tunnel sloped downward into imperceivable blackness.

Unthinking, Sloan prepared to sprint down the tunnel, but Winnipeg yanked her by the collar. Idiot! We fight in the open.

Her surprisingly formidable grip slingshotted Sloan out of the way as the worm crashed where they stood moments prior. Sloan staggered back amid dust and debris, stumbling over her feet and slamming against a row of cabinets. In contrast, Winnipeg leaped at a cabinet, hit it with both feet, and went soaring at the thrashing serpentine body of the worm-wraith. Her katana flashed out like a streak of silver and as she descended on the other side a long gash spread between the worm's meaty segmentations.

The worm howled as unctuous black fluid seeped from its wound and seared the ground. Winnipeg jumped again, evading the flailing tail that tried to swat her out of the air, and cleaved another, deeper cut across the body. The blood shot out in a splatter and Winnipeg landed near Sloan with droplets adorning her uniform.

Outside of its tunnels, this thing is weak. I'll use my finisher next.

The worm writhed, its tail smacking cabinets and gremlins and stalagmites into the chasm, the sizzle of its blood audible above its demonic hisses. Winnipeg brushed back a lock of hair, posed, and raised her katana to prepare her final strike. It seemed when it came to finisher moves, even Winnipeg maintained some girlish comportment. She opened her mouth to deliver the ability name:

"BOURRASQUE... D—!!"

The second word caught in her throat. Her entire body went rigid and her katana plummeted from her grasp. Her eyes revolved wildly as a continuous "duh" forced its way from her agape mouth.

I CAN'T MOVE! she said.

The worm's wounds regenerated. Its body ceased thrashing and it righted itself, coiling up and raising its soulless face above them, fangs parted into a hysterical smile.

The blood. Winnipeg was covered in splotches of it. Sloan had read somewhere, or seen a documentary, of natural neurotoxins designed to incapacitate and paralyze prey. Could the blood—?

From between worm's countless fangs poured a deluge of the same black liquid. Sloan wrapped an arm around Winnipeg's waist and hurled her away. The tiny rigid body sailed across the atrium. At the same time, Sloan's machine gun lifted from the ground and fired. The blast intercepted the oncoming flood of vomit and atomized it in a bilious puff, but the discharge only continued to flow, its volume too high to handle for long.

Sloan backflipped to the top of the cabinets behind her and slid down the opposite end. The inky torrent splashed after, drenching the whole shelf and any misfortunate imps who had not already fled, but it missed her by inches.

Seething and squirming the worm undulated in pursuit. Its noises shifted to hungry sucking sounds. She ran around the perimeter of the atrium and turned her gun's attention toward the beast itself. Round after round of light magic pummeled against its leathery hide, only to bounce back with no perceptible damage. This was cause for concern. Her magic required sustained fire to pierce anything armored. But with the worm constantly shifting, she could hit no one spot for more than a brief moment.

Winnipeg's katana was sharp enough to cleave the tubelike anatomy with a single slash. As Sloan bounded back and forth over the chasm in a desperate gambit to keep the worm away from where Winnipeg's immobilized body had landed, she scanned the battlefield for the sword. It wasn't in Winnipeg's outstretched arm. Had it fallen out when Sloan threw her, or did it drop when the poison first affected her?

Where's your sword, she asked as she slid underneath a swiping tail and somersaulted back to a sprint.

Get out of here, leave me, I lost, how did I lose to this thing, what am I even doing—

And so on, a continuous barrage of self-loathing broadcasted at full volume with increasing acerbity as Winnipeg worked herself into a lather.

If the katana hadn't fallen from Winnipeg's hand in flight, it must be near the atrium entrance. But the entire area was awash in glutinous oil, from which a few frozen imps extended motionless arms like tar pit dinosaurs. Sloan paused to search and the worm whipped a body segment against her. She flew forward, hit a cabinet, and skidded to a halt in a bed of jagged stones, her jacket and skin a crisscross of scrapes and gashes.

She pulled herself up, disoriented. The ceiling and floor and walls and tunnels swirled. Out of the visual melange emerged the worm, fangs bared to devour.

Sloan kicked a mound of stones at its face. At the same time she directed her gun to fire at the stones. They exploded in a powdery cloud, until she remembered worms didn't use sight to sense their surroundings. She lunged aside as the worm missed by inches. Dirt and dust rubbed into her wounds and intensified the pain above her ability to dampen it. Now instead of a numb ache every motion she made was accompanied with physical misery.

The worm's segments encircled her. Ignoring the pain, she dipped through a closing window and ran for the puddle of ooze where she suspected Winnipeg's katana had fallen. Most of the fluid had trickled into the central chasm, but enough remained to work its effects on her if touched.

Useless, useless, useless, raged Winnipeg's telepathic temper tantrum.

Awash in the black lagoon was the katana. When Sloan saw it she wondered how it had taken so long, because the gleaming blade lacked even a bead of corruption upon it. It floated atop the surface, slowly spinning, catching dim light and shining it in her face. But Sloan had no way of grabbing its hilt without groping her fingers through a fistful of paralysis-inducing poison.

Unless...

She hooked her fingers into her overcoat and ripped it open, spraying brass buttons in every direction. The wanton destruction of her dear friend panged deep, but she could mend it later. Unveiling a Magical Girl costume she barely dared remember, she swaddled the coat around her good arm and wrapped it tight in the fur-lined fabric to form an oversized makeshift glove. She sprinted to the edge of the black pool and jumped. There was no safe landing on the other side; it was either into the mire or into the chasm. She had one chance to make this work.

Her scanty golden ensemble glowed in the oil's reflection. Sloan had a few torturous moments to look at herself in full (or not so full) regalia. Then the moment passed and the katana appeared beneath her. She swiped the hand wrapped in overcoat and through the fabric seized the hilt.

As soon as her grip was secure, she flipped in midair and employed the centrifugal force to launch the katana at the worm-wraith looming up at her. The blade sailed through the open mouth and into the lower jaw, impaling the flesh to the ground beneath it.

She slammed into a cabinet covered in black blood. The splatter gummed her hair, her face, her arms, nearly every inch of bare skin her costume allowed (it allowed a lot). The paralyzing toxins traveled from nerve to synapse to brain at breakneck pace, and before she had even ricocheted from the cabinet to the ground her limbs jammed. By then it no longer mattered. She could control her gun via telekinesis.

She gave it the order to fire. With the worm's lower jaw pinned to the ground by the katana, it had finally stopped shifting long enough for her to unleash her full power against it.

The ray of light drilled into the epileptic face of the worm-wraith. Its inhuman screech filled the atrium, echoing through the arches and domes until it achieved a communal shrillness, as though more than one creature were dying. Seconds passed; more and more all-consuming light obliterated the thing's face. The screech built in intensity until all at once it dispersed into only a few scattered remnants reverberating within the cavern.

The worm's head bulged out like a balloon and exploded. In a chain reaction, the rest of the body followed. Each individual segment expanded until it could no longer contain the light and erupted in a cascade of flesh, oil, and cubes. Each eruption shrank as the segments tapered to the tail, and the very last segment made only a tiny pop.

The black blood the worm had spewed steamed. Bit by bit, Sloan regained the ability to move and pushed herself to her feet. She sopped with the liquid, now rendered benign. In fact, as she held a goo-drenched hand under her nose, she realized it really was oil. She pulled her hand away and blenched.

It would take a good shower to remove it, not to mention a thorough scrubbing of her overcoat, which she unbundled and shuffled into before Winnipeg could espy her embarrassing costume. Wasn't oil corrosive? Not that it mattered much, she supposed.

The fight left her drained, but in a good way. The kind of drained you got after early-morning aerobics, the kind that hurt but was okay because you knew the hurt was good for you. Not the literally-about-to-die kind of hurt. The worm had dropped enough cubes to replenish all her magic anyway. She threaded through the remains, plucking cubes and applying them to her Soul Gem as she approached Winnipeg.

Winnipeg was in a posture of supplication, although to what deity if any was uncertain. She had folded on her knees, her forehead against the fallow soil and her hands splayed before her. A wide, bloodshot eye stared directly into the ground and a manic scowl plastered her gaunt face.

"Winnipeg? You alright?" Sloan offered a handful of grief cubes.

Winnipeg's fingers curled into the dirt. "I lost."

"You didn't lose," said Sloan. "We won. If we had lost, we'd both be dead."

"I deserve to be dead."

"You had no way of knowing its blood was poison." Sloan's hand continued to offer cubes. "I've never seen a wraith like that. Wait, you think that was the archon?" She looked around. The atrium, the chasm, the massive cabinets, even a few scurrying imps remained. "I guess if it were the archon, the miasma would be gone." But if the archon had lackeys of such strength...

"Being prepared for the unknowable is part of a Puella Magi's job." Winnipeg used the fancy Latin name that Sloan had only ever heard from the lips of Magical Girl hipsters. "I failed. I made a mistake. I lost. Bring me my blade."

The katana remained planted in the ground where Sloan had thrown it, growing from the soil like a steel sapling. Sloan did not like the tone Winnipeg used to ask for it.

"You're telling me you've never lost before. At anything."

"Not once," said Winnipeg. "That is the life of a Puella Magi. Win until you lose. And when you lose, you die. Bring me my blade."

"Look, Winnipeg. I don't have time for this shit. Or patience. I need you to maintain a semblance of sanity because right now I'm surrounded by lunatics." Sloan considered mentioning Omaha, but refrained. Plenty of time had elapsed for Omaha to drop off Delaney at the inn and return, assuming she ever left at all.

Sloan continued. "If we're going to pull this off I need someone other than myself who's not totally nuts. Please be that person."

"There is nothing wrong with my sanity," said Winnipeg. "Nothing more than anyone else. We live in an insane world, Fargo. A transient, temporary, insane world. How are creatures predicated on order and reason and rational thought supposed to exist in such a world, a world that has no inherent meaning whatsoever? They do it by creating meaning. Familial ties, relationships, economic success—these are what normal people, non-magical people, use as metrics of meaning. They keep those people moored. Anchored. When we made our contracts, those things were stripped from us. For Puella Magi, only one thing matters: Success. Success for the sake of success. Success at defeating wraiths. Success at defeating other Puella Magi. Success at acquiring territory. None of it matters beyond the fact that success means continued existence. Failure means death."

Philosophical debate was the last thing Sloan felt like right now. Although she supposed to some extent what Winnipeg said was true. She had ruled Minneapolis under a similar train of thought, and when she finally did lose at the hands of Clair Ibsen, it took a painstaking seven months to restructure her life around the idea of undoing that failure. Undoing it by avenging herself on the one who brought it about.

Winnipeg's arm lashed out and swiped the cubes from Sloan's hand. "I am not going to commit suicide, if you are wondering." She pressed the cubes to the necklace dangling against the dirt. "A Puella Magi has no excuse for suicide. If they truly feel such despair, the Law of the Cycles does the deed for them. I would like my blade back nonetheless."

Sloan sighed. As much from relief as exasperation. She pulled the sword from the dirt and returned it to the world's youngest existentialist.

"If I see any imminent seppuku, I'm intervening," Sloan said.

Winnipeg sheathed the blade and climbed to her feet. "I told you I would not kill myself. I do not lie. I shall simply redeem myself by destroying the archon."

"Awesome," said Sloan. "About that. We have a certain third party member to discuss." And a fourth invisible one. If she could ever be sure she was out of that one's earshot, at least.

"Regina-Saskatoon. I assume you did not follow my advice to kill her." Winnipeg straightened her posture and waltzed past Sloan toward the atrium's exit. After the worm's death, it led once more to the main hall.

"No. I conked her over the head."

Winnipeg clutched the hilt of her katana, although she did not draw it. A wan smile crept over her face. "Then let us correct your mistake."

Chapter 7: Looking As If She Were Alive

Returning to the inn without Delaney posed a challenge. Sloan and Winnipeg clashed in both ability and style: Sloan ambled down the sidewalk pumping rounds into anything and everything, while Winnipeg blitzed across the street in a maelstrom of precision strikes. To keep from advancing too far ahead, Winnipeg had to slow considerably, but in slowing she stripped herself of her natural advantage and often strayed into Sloan's fire. Eventually Winnipeg dealt with enemies creeping from behind while Sloan forged an inexorable path onward, but fighting took major concentration and they did not speak.

By the time they trudged into the inn, Winnipeg convulsed with rage. With half her face lacerated and only one eye left to pinwheel fervently in her skull, she forced open the door with her katana drawn.

On the bed lay Delaney, limbs akimbo. When Sloan entered, Delaney was motionless as a corpse. But as Sloan neared with Delaney's Soul Gem in her pocket, an unseen defibrillator jolt resuscitated her. Although she remained unconscious, her chest heaved with labored breaths.

"Wait for her to wake up," said Sloan.

Winnipeg bent over Delaney's prone form, turned the body over, rifled through the pockets. "Where is her gem."

"We need her healing. She has no offensive ability, we can handle her."

From the pouch of Delaney's hoodie, Winnipeg extracted a small revolver. "No offensive ability. Ha."

She unloaded all six shots into Delaney's gut. Delaney jerked as bloody holes erupted across her body. Her eyes snapped open and she contorted with her hands pressed to her wounds.

Winnipeg tossed the handgun into the air and bifurcated it with a swift stroke. "Where is her Soul Gem."

Delaney turned over and moaned.

"I have it," said Sloan. "I'm not a goddam moron."

"Give it to me."

"No."

Winnipeg rose from the bed. This girl, Sloan thought, this girl cannot stand defeat, cannot stand contradiction, cannot stand lack of control. She gobbled up parcels of barren and useless territory to exert control. In Williston from the start she tried to control them, but very quickly her control had been usurped: by Sloan, by Delaney, by Kyubey, by anything and everything. Somehow, the barrenness of Williston was unlike the barrenness of Manitoba. Powerful figures had arrayed themselves here, and Winnipeg no longer held absolute dominion over the circumstances of her life. Winnipeg probably knew as little of what was really going on as Sloan—less, even, because at least Sloan knew about Omaha.

"GIVE IT TO ME." The lone eye roved.

"I can't," said Sloan.

Winnipeg rushed her and clutched at the fluttering lapels of Sloan's overcoat. She tore yet another hole in the fur before Sloan stuck out her hand and fired a small pulse of light into Winnipeg's remaining eye.

She collapsed. Her katana dropped; both hands flew to her face. She writhed, she screamed, she kicked the ground with her stockinged legs, she devolved into temper tantrum. Sloan fell on her and pinned her down before she could do any damage. Winnipeg's smallness surprised her; she hardly had to push to keep her from moving.

"Calm down. Please. Calm down." She whispered into Winnipeg's ear, the way she used to whisper to her Soul Gem back in Fargo. "I'll heal the blindness. Please calm down."

"Why does this keep happening." Winnipeg descended into sobs. "How is this happening to me?"

"Because you're not calm," said Sloan. "You've been on tilt since Delaney backstabbed you."

Winnipeg blurted something incomprehensible. She was a fucking wreck. Smeared lavender makeup flowed down what remained of her face. Sloan resisted the urge to slap her. A slap was the thing people did in movies to calm someone down. But really a slap made someone feel shittier. As Winnipeg teetered on hysterics Sloan had no idea what else to do or say.

Winnipeg's sobbing seemed to only exasperate her further, as if she were being defeated by herself, her own weakness. Her own secret identity as an adolescent girl that she usually hid.

Sloan knew these things because she had felt them herself.

"Winnipeg, it's okay. It's okay." She clasped her hand across both of Winnipeg's eyes. A tranquil white glow bathed Winnipeg's face. When Sloan pulled her hand away, Winnipeg could see again from both eyes.

She squeezed them shut immediately. "I keep losing. There is no reason I should still be alive."

"I know, Winnipeg," she began, pausing to gauge Winnipeg's reaction. "I get it. Back in Minneapolis I thought I was hot shit. Nobody could fight me. Wraiths meant nothing. I had stockpiles of cubes, I had suburban girls pledging fealty, I had basically everything."

If Winnipeg listened, Sloan could not tell. But if she backed out of the story now, she would look like an idiot.

"And then... and then something happened. I lost. I got stabbed in the back. Not just by some lunatic, but by my best friend. My only friend. She took my cubes, took my city, almost took my life. I probably looked a lot like you right now. Bawling, falling over myself. What the fuck was the point of living, I thought, if I had to go on living in Fargo?"

Winnipeg opened eyes that overflowed with derision. "You're right. What is the point?"

Dammit. No, wait, she could salvage it. "The point is this." She held up her Soul Gem. The top half of the egg swam with muddy grime, but a golden core shone through the bottom half. "See this? You know what this looked like when I came here? I was at the brink. The limit. Another week and the Cycles would get me. But I got up. I came here. It hurt at first, but every fight I get stronger. I'll kill that archon. And when I do, when I get those cubes, I'll return to Minneapolis, kill Clair Ibsen, and take everything back. Maybe when I first stumbled into Fargo, I didn't deserve to be alive. Maybe that's true. But I was alive. As long as you're alive, you still have a chance to redeem yourself."

Oh god, she hoped she sounded inspiring. Speeches were not her forte, but the words felt right somehow. Near the end she realized they might even be true.

The expression on Winnipeg's face shifted from tear-streaked self-loathing to tear-streaked apathy. She wiped her eyes with a sleeve and shrugged. "Get off me."

Sloan obliged. Winnipeg stood, brushed herself off, straightened her vest, and retreated to the bathroom with corporate efficiency. The door locked behind her. Sloan listened for residual sobs; nothing.

"Just remember," Sloan said, "nothing's over yet. You said yourself earlier: You can still kill the archon."

No response. Sloan took it as a good thing. No response meant Winnipeg was thinking. Winnipeg was brash, arrogant, but not an idiot. She would reach the right conclusion.

Sloan got up. Proud of herself. Optimistic, even. That may have been her first well-handled interpersonal connection since the days of Clair Ibsen. No, it definitely was.

She turned her attention to Delaney, who writhed on the bed. The sheet rippled with the wet sheen of her blood, but she did not cry out. She kept her ragged breaths controlled and managed to shuffle her upper body upright, staring at Sloan through gritted teeth.

"Wh... what happened?"

"Winnipeg got mad and shot you."

Delaney squinted an eye. "B... before that."

"I hit you on the head because you were being crazy."

"Oh, oh no..." She pulled herself higher against the headboard. Her breathing began to regulate and she spoke with surprising perspicacity. Although she could not heal herself without her Soul Gem, it seemed her tolerance for pain was massive. Sloan had seen girls shrug off crippling blows before, but still. "I didn't mean it like that... you have to believe me, you've misunderstood everything... that's my fault, I'm so bad at getting people to understand..."

"You tried to kill Winnipeg."

"No... you have it all wrong, I never intended her to die... I meant to... to... to weaken her a little, I knew she could fight that worm thing. I don't kill people anymore."

"Right." Sloan decided to ignore the 'anymore' for now. "Let's review the basics. I have your Soul Gem. You can't transform without it and I can destroy it at any moment. I don't intend to destroy it, so don't give me a reason."

Delaney gulped down phlegm. "You're mad because I got so brusque with you, is that it?"

"Winnipeg wants you dead. Apologize to her, not me."

"I told you she'd be fine. Oh, Sloan love, I'm so sorry. I made a big mistake."

"Okay," said Sloan. "Why'd you make this big mistake, then? You babbled some zany shit before I knocked you out."

It took a long time for Delaney to respond. Beyond the bathroom door, a faucet ran.

"I did it because... because... I'm trying to do the right thing, okay? That's the reason I'm here! I don't want territory, I don't need cubes. I want to save people. That's important to me."

Reading Delaney's expressions and body language was an unreal experience, because she operated with such emphatic gestures and anguished facial contortions that she would have seemed parodic if not for the omnipresent hollowness of her eyes.

"How does killing Winnipeg—sorry, weakening her—achieve that?"

"More people are in danger than those in Williston, love. Try all of them? All the people in the world. No, beyond that—all living organisms in the universe! But, but Kyubey told me, if I helped you... And since Winnipeg was going to cut you out of the rewards..."

Bingo. The exact expression Sloan expected: Kyubey told me. The rat bastard had clung to Delaney the whole time.

"So Kyubey told you if you did what he said, it'd save the universe." Sloan sighed. "That's the most uninspired trick in his bag. To him, everything Magical Girls do is 'saving the universe.' Didn't he give you the thermodynamics spiel? You know, entropy and whatnot?"

"I know that!" said Delaney. "This is different. His energy intake is below his quota. His employer, he said his employer won't let him increase production... What we're doing is related somehow. I mean, I don't know the specifics, but..." She wrung her bloodstained hands together. "I thought I was doing the right thing. He can be so persuasive..."

The Kyubey story made sense, but how easy it would be for Delaney to make all this up.

The bathroom door opened and Winnipeg emerged. She had fixed her hair, straightened her outfit, eradicated all signs of sobbing. The gash on her face had lost its puffiness; she may have used weak healing magic on it. Her demeanor was stoic, which was a relief because Sloan didn't know if she could nanny an emotional hurricane while dealing with Delaney's bullshit.

Winnipeg went to the closet and severed the noose from which hung the plaid-shirted cadaver who had been there since they claimed the room. The body hit the ground with a dull thud. Winnipeg dragged it by the rope, rounded the bed, opened the window, and pushed the body into the dark. No sound emanated from its fall.

Winnipeg shut the window. "So you believe Regina-Saskatoon's story. That she did it because Kyubey told her."

"I don't believe anything yet."

"You did me a favor." Winnipeg stared out the window. "So I'll do you one. Regina-Saskatoon is a murderer. First-degree magicide. One count confirmed, I suspect others. She is here because she derives pleasure from the misery of others."

Delaney curled her fingers into hooks. "Liar! It's all a lie, love, don't you believe her!"

"I refuse to be drawn into a battle of name-calling," said Winnipeg. "I spoke all I care to say on the subject."

Magicide. It seemed like such a bold and baseless claim, with no hard evidence. Except for Delaney's questionable recent actions. And how she sometimes 'forgot' to heal Sloan. And her empty eyes.

"I said I don't believe anything yet," said Sloan. "Though if Delaney were that dangerous, Kyubey would have had her terminated. The point is we're fuck deep in this town with an archon to kill. We need to work as a team, no matter how much we hate each other, no matter what we did in the past. Yeah, maybe Delaney's killed someone. I'm no angel myself. Neither are you, Winnipeg."

"I never killed another Magical Girl."

"You seemed determined to break that streak none too long ago."

"A momentary lapse of judgment instigated by extraordinary circumstances. I have no desire to slay Regina-Saskatoon, despite her heinous crimes. I am here to defeat the archon and acquire this town as territory. I merely warn you that Regina-Saskatoon is dangerous, and that you are well advised to ignore her crocodile tears."

Sloan jabbed her fingers into the corners of her eyes. Could they really have made no progress whatsoever? She thought she had established some sort of rapport with Winnipeg, a connection, but oh no Winnipeg couldn't be friendly or nice or helpful, waaaay too cool for that shit, so fucking edgy with her white girl katana. The goodwill Sloan had mustered when Winnipeg showed a shred of humanity boomeranged back and smacked her in the face.

From the other side of the bed, Delaney flashed Sloan a smug smile, as if in agreement with Sloan's private thoughts. But Sloan had issues with her, too.

"Look," said Sloan. "I'm a mess. I'm covered in weird goop, I'm scraped all over, and worse yet my coat's ripped. So I'll take a nice long shower and stitch up the coat and then we talk more reasonably about what next, yeah?"

Neither girl spoke. Sloan absconded to the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

She resisted the urge to scream. Infighting, squabbling, petty backstabbing, foolish pride. She had thought by unmasking them both she might make progress, but they were determined to make her life miserable.

Not so miserable as to degrade her Soul Gem, though. She placed her and Delaney's gems on the sink's empty soap dish. Sloan's appeared only slightly muddier than Delaney's. She didn't need the comparison to know. She felt better. Annoyed, sure. But the emptiness, the dread, the lethargy, the apathy, the irritability, the entire gamut of negative emotions was diminished.

Lukewarm water flowed from the shower nozzle. It had an acrid, ashy smell but it erased the oil congealing over her body. Thick splotches splatted to the tile and swirled around the drain.

She tried not to ponder if Omaha were spying. The water droplets did not bounce off any invisible girl-shaped objects, so at most she was on the other side of the curtain. The thought failed to put her at ease.

Hey, said Delaney's telepathic voice. Sloan. Mind a chat?

I'm planning what I'll do next, Sloan lied. Really she wanted to zone out in the comfort of warm-enough water.

Love, I haven't been quite honest with you. What Winnipeg said about me... Well, some of it is true. I did murder someone, long ago.

I killed a girl once, said Sloan. In Minneapolis. A Chicagoland reject, thought she could usurp me. She tried to kill me, I killed her instead.

Delaney did not respond right away. Magicides were a touchy subject. Under certain circumstances Kyubey considered them permissible. For instance, when terminating a girl he marked as dangerous. Or in self defense. Other than that, they were verboten. For Kyubey, of course, it was all business. Girls killing girls cut the return on his investment. Hence, the deal he proposed to Sloan: permission to kill Clair Ibsen, but only if she harvested the cube goldmines in Williston. If she weren't making Kyubey a net gain, killing Clair would certainly be cause for termination.

Now that Sloan thought about it, she really was prime termination material. Her sole goal in life was to commit a magicide, after all. She had always assumed her vendetta was justified, and she definitely still felt that way—but did Kyubey? To him, Clair Ibsen was a docile, cooperative, productive girl. And what was Sloan? None of those adjectives, to be sure.

Meanwhile, Kyubey had apparently exhorted Delaney to kill Winnipeg. And Delaney herself had obvious problems. All three of them were girls Kyubey, under normal circumstances, might want removed. Yet here they were, brought together by his puppetry. And when the archon was dead, who lurked the shadows to finish off the survivors and reap the spoils? Who had an ambiguous "friend" feeding her orders?

Mother. Fucking. Omaha.

Well, Delaney said. Winnipeg probably told you a lot of things about me, and a lot of them were lies! Most, even. But some were maybe true.

Sloan and Delaney's Soul Gems sat unprotected near the sink, where any nearby invisible girls could crush them. No, Omaha wasn't going to strike now. Not when they were still "useful." Not when they still had to kill the archon.

It started when I was younger. I mean, I don't want to justify it by saying something awful happened to me so what I did was okay. That's not what I'm saying. I just want you to know I didn't, like, emerge from a vacuum. I'll spare you the details, but my foster father—

Delaney, I'm sure your tragic backstory is super fucking tragic, but is now a good time?

The important thing was to not let on she had figured out Omaha. As long as she kept doing what Kyubey wanted, i.e. slay wraiths acquire cubes, Omaha would remain Sloan's little guardian angel, lopping off the hands of all who would do her harm. But somehow she needed to inform Delaney and Winnipeg—

You're right, I should get to the point. The point being that when I contracted, I was wrong in the head. I... I didn't wish for a puppy.

Even telepathic channels of communication weren't safe. Strong Magical Girls could detect private lines, and Kyubey could reroute thoughts to whomever he wanted. But Omaha was always watching, so physical channels were no bueno too.

Before I contracted, I met the girl in Saskatoon. I was in Regina, she was in Saskatoon. She was a very nice girl. Her name was Claudia. I don't know her last name.

Omaha could turn invisible but she still had physical needs. Food, sleep. She had to go to the bathroom at some point. There would be a window, no matter how fleeting, when Sloan could warn Delaney and Winnipeg. Then they could plan a contingency...

Claudia had no family, she came from Seattle I think. She didn't go to school and had no friends. Except her dog. She loved her dog. A little beagle, easy to care for, easy to keep in her apartment. Always wagging his tail and begging to be petted. He wore a red bandana around his neck, like the mascot in a kid's camp movie.

Sloan turned the water off, her skin thoroughly scourged. The logistics didn't work. Even if Sloan could speak to her companions unfettered for five minutes, how to relate the situation and engineer a plan in so short a time?

I remember the whole time I talked to her, when she explained what being a Magical Girl entailed, just thinking how pointless and pathetic her life was. How her sole reason for existing and continuing to live was because of this stupid dog.

Drying off with a towel, Sloan casually extended her arms around the narrow confines of the bathroom to see if she could bump Omaha. But the room was empty.

But then I like, reflected on myself? Yeah. And I realized I didn't even have a stupid dog. I had jack fucking shit. I had a tragic backstory, and yes, it was SUPER tragic, thank you very much for your concern Sloan love, I had a tragic backstory and not a thing else in the world.

Once dry, Sloan examined her coat. Several rips. Buttons would need to be reattached. Could be worse.

The third night after I met Claudia, I made my wish. I could totally lie and I say I wished to kill my foster father. That's the kind of thing where, it's still pretty lousy, but it's understandable, it's something you can see a normal person doing. I didn't wish for that, though. I wished I could kill Claudia's dog.

Sloan looked up from the magical threads she employed to stitch her coat, working at the assiduous pace her meager mastery allowed. The... dog?

And not just kill it. I wished Claudia would be forced to watch. That she'd be powerless to stop me.

That's. Christ.

What's worse is when I did it, I enjoyed it. A lot. Too much. Delaney relayed this information in utter monotony. It happened in Claudia's apartment. I knocked on the door like I'd done before, like I wanted to chitchat about how wraiths worked and how many cubes they dropped and all that technical asininity that was the sole thread of our so-called friendship. As soon as she let me in, I sealed her behind a barrier. And I grabbed the dog.

The stitchwork on Sloan's coat continued sorcerer's apprentice-style. Holes, rips, tears sealed and left no trace.

Since I'm being totally honest with you, I should mention I do have offensive magic. It's more devious than devastating, I could obviously never go toe-to-toe with you or Winnipeg. It takes the form of a small dagger. The weapon of an assassin.

The worst of the damage had healed, but Sloan kept working on the coat anyway, obviating small frays around the threadbare hem, redoing the serviceable embroidery on the cuffs. She had not expected this story. At all. Magicide usually meant you, like, betrayed someone for their territory. Like what Clair did to Sloan, minus the actual killing. This was... this was like a serial killer thing. Why kill the goddam dog? What was the motive? Jealousy? Of someone's pet?

I took my time. I enjoyed it. False starts, small nicks, torturing Claudia as I drew the knifepoint to the dog's throat only to pull it back at the last moment. It exhilarated me, thrilled me. She had an exquisite agony on her face, a despair tempered by hope every time I spared it, the dog yipping and growling but mostly not even there, like I was holding a toy. That was exactly how I conceived it. Holding a toy.

Soon even the detail work on the coat was finished and Sloan had no more excuses to waste magic on it. She sat crosslegged, wedged between the sink and the shower, listening.

Obviously, I eventually killed it. Not sure how long it took. Then I burst the bubble around Claudia. Part of me expected she would kill me after I did it, even when I made the wish. Like, I would do something unjustifiable, and retribution would swiftly eradicate my miserable existence. Creative suicide. Or maybe I knew I would kill Claudia all along. The thing about me is that I don't understand me. Well, the point was moot because when I let Claudia out she didn't even fight. She sagged to her knees and sobbed, totally pathetic, clinging to the corpse of this dog, cradling it like a baby. I knew very little about the Law of the Cycles but I could see she was toast soon. So, I dunno. I killed her too. At the time, I didn't see why not.

Sloan held her coat close. Her eyes drilled into the benign tile pattern on the floor. Delaney. This is fucked up.

Yeah. I guess you're right. I mean, I know you're right. I'm fucked up. I still am. Like, secretly, deep down, I replay those moments in my head and get, like, satisfaction. I dunno.

Sloan said nothing.

I probably would have turned into a serial killer or whatever after that. I had an abstract conception that what I did was really really bad, but I felt it didn't matter. It made me feel good, and nobody could catch me. What can society do when the murder weapon is magic? So I was scot-free, right?

She punctuated with a chuckle, heard through the bathroom door.

Nope. Turns out someone was watching. And that someone was God.

God. The word sounded foreign. Sloan's experience with God was a vapid, minor swear.

Before my divine punishment, I fancied myself an atheist. The way it's trendy for disillusioned kids like you and me to forswear religion. In retrospect it's pretty obvious that not only does God exist, but we're her little Christs, swallowing up the world's misery until our ignoble ends.

So God's a chick now. Sloan dragged her fingers through her freshly-dried, unbrushed hair.

You don't see any Magical Boys, do you? It only makes sense for God to sacrifice those she loves most. I must have angered her greatly. To see someone entrusted with spreading hope and joy and all that good stuff turn around and immediately contribute to the very evil they're supposed to fight. I didn't even have the excuse of corruption or disenfranchisement or whatever made you so salty, Sloan. I popped out the oven already vile, even before the tragic backstory. So she punished me. She descended an archon upon me.

Sloan held Delaney's Soul Gem in her hand. She turned over the ruby, felt its smoothness with her thumb.

The immediacy with which it happened brokers no doubt that the archon came because of what I did. By the time I left Claudia's apartment the sky had darkened and a chill pervaded the air. It makes sense, of course. Archons are manifestations of the greatest depths of human sin and despair, right? And what I did was very sinful indeed. That's how I know there has to be a God, and that she's a Magical Girl or something akin to that. Because what the hell even is sin? How do you define it? For a concept of 'sin' to exist, it means there is some governing entity on a plane above our own who decides what it is. It means our world HAS MEANING! Isn't that fantastic, Sloan? Until I became a Magical Girl and did one of the worst things anyone could ever do, at least in the eye of a God whose chief concern is the doings of Magical Girls, I operated under the steadfast belief that the world had no intrinsic value. That it simply existed, and anything anyone did was pointless. In essence, murdering Claudia's dog and then Claudia herself tested that theory.

Somehow, Sloan could not bring herself to destroy Delaney's Soul Gem.

But I swear. I absolutely swear. I have never killed another living thing since that day. Since the archon descended to punish me. This is, this is the point I'm trying to make, Sloan. I did an awful thing. A truly awful thing, that I cannot excuse or forget or ignore. I did that awful thing because I'm an awful person. But since that day, since that affirmation of God's existence, I have dedicated myself to DOING GOOD DEEDS. Because that's what this universe means—girls like us fight to do good deeds. I understand now that I am the plaything of an infinitely powerful deity. To serve this deity, to curry her favor, to make her happy, that's our purpose. And if I do good deeds, even if I'm a bad person, even if I feel no emotion doing those deeds, even if it makes me physically ill to so constantly smile and act friendly and save lives and heal bruises, if I do good deeds can I still truly be a bad person? Can I, Sloan?

She asked as if she needed confirmation. Sloan imagined if she simply said yes it would pull the pin out of Delaney, annihilate her utterly.

Sloan didn't say yes. She stood up and unfolded the jacket she had folded and refolded twenty times during Delaney's confession. She slid into it, buttoning it all the way and pocketing both Soul Gems. She couldn't say yes because she didn't believe it. What Delaney told her was odious in a way sharply personal to Sloan. It reeked of betrayal, to inflict such pointless pain on a girl who mentored you. But when Delaney spoke of God with such a quavering voice, the way she had been unable to speak of anything before, Sloan knew that despite how insane it sounded, Delaney truly believed it. That her real reason for coming to Williston was to DO GOOD DEEDS, to save people, to seek redemption for an irredeemable past. And there was something good in that, something worth doing.

Or maybe Delaney lied out her ass, and Sloan wasn't as good at seeing through bullshit as she thought. She opened the bathroom door defensively in case Delaney awaited in ambush.

She didn't. She lay facedown on the bed.

"My hope is," said Delaney, "my hope is one day I do enough good deeds I actually feel something when I do them. Genuine feeling, not rote action."

Sloan didn't respond, only partially because she lacked the equipment to discuss morality with Delaney. Winnipeg was no longer in the room.

"Where'd she go," Sloan asked.

Delaney rolled over. The blood on her stomach had staunched. "She left, love. As soon as you got in the shower."

"By herself."

"There's nobody else, is there?"

Only Omaha. Sloan decided to worry about Omaha later. Her hypothetical betrayal was predicated on them defeating the archon in the first place; far from certainty.

"Does it matter, love? Winnipeg's hated us since the moment she arrived. I'm honest when I say she's better off on her own. Besides, we make a good team, don't we? You kill the enemies and I protect you. Where I'm weak, you're strong. And vice versa."

"Right now you're not strong in much of anything." Sloan didn't understand. She thought her heart-to-heart with Winnipeg had been pretty conclusive or whatever. Fuck. Even in Minneapolis her sole point of contact with humanity was Clair Ibsen, to whom she had entrusted all the managerial bullshit necessary to run an American metropolis, like dealing with nomads and ensuring the suburban chicks didn't kill each other. The woeful inadequacy of her interpersonal skills stood bare before her.

She wondered if she missed a point somewhere in Delaney's rambling exposition, like maybe Delaney was trying to do something other than paint herself as dangerously deranged? In her defenseless position, her goal should have been to worm her way back into Sloan's confidence and retrieve her Soul Gem. Her story had not done that. Or had it? What had it done, exactly?

"If you really want," said Delaney, "you could go after her. Most likely she went to the second place on our list, the school."

"You told that story to distract me," said Sloan. "Keep me occupied while Winnipeg slinked away."

Delaney shook her head. "At first, maybe. I dunno. Winnipeg must have told you something about me, so I thought I'd defend myself. But I guess what I did is pretty indefensible? I knew that, but I told the whole story anyway. Once I started, it was hard to stop. I've never told anyone before. People usually learn through Kyubey."

"And you're here in Williston, fighting the wraiths, for atonement."

The word atonement sparked a light in Delaney's eyes. She scrambled forward on the bed and kneeled before Sloan, hands clasped, ignoring her wounds. "Yes! That's it exactly. I did something awful. Unjustifiably awful, by the laws of the God who governs this universe. I recognize that, I admit it. But if there's no hope of redeeming myself, why am I still alive? God gave me a message when the archon descended on Saskatoon. You have to believe me. I want to save the universe, the people, everyone."

Sloan went to the window and pressed her forehead against it. Frigid condensation left a cold circle on her skin. Her hand reached into her pocket, took out Delaney's Soul Gem, and tossed it to her.

"I don't know if I believe you. At best, I might believe that you believe yourself, but that only makes you crazy." She watched warily as Delaney transformed into her Magical Girl costume, the flowing white robe vaguely bridal. "I'm giving you back your Soul Gem because I don't have a choice. Winnipeg's gone and I can't do this myself."

Delaney healed her wounds and cleared the blood on the bed. Seconds passed and Delaney did not lash out, did not summon menacing bubbles, did not attempt to restrain or maim or kill Sloan, only got off the bed and stretched and donned her socialite smile and reverted her eyes to their pleasant but lusterless glow.

"Well, shall we make for the school, love?"

Sloan summoned her machine gun. "Yeah, guess so."

Chapter 8: Omit Needless Words

The head of a wraith, still leering, rolled across the cobblestone. Both it and its body vanished in a puff, leaving behind a pittance of cubes. Like proverbial zombies, the wraith weakpoint was the head. Given enough force, any attack would suffice, but in protracted battle efficiency counted most.

Winnipeg carved a path through the main quad up to the school entrance. While her muscles moved, her head drifted. She knew she needed to return to reality. That this mental weakness (everywhere, everywhere weakness) intensified the deterioration of her ability and her confidence (the two not mutually exclusive). Her Soul Gem had dipped below peak condition and cubes were not helping. The breached permafrost of her mind revealed long-buried skeletons, grinning.

Fargo meant well, but she was a total imbecile so all she had done was expose the question at the core of every Puella Magi's life: What are you alive for? The answer need not be elaborate. A goal of reclaiming the life they once led as a bland but content teenager was enough for a while. But eventually the inability to return to their old life became undeniable. One by one, they grew alienated from their old friends, their old family, their old ambition. They either found a better purpose or died.

Winnipeg (née Erika Dufresne) contracted at twelve and made a twelve-year-old's lousy wish: that Stewart Wibaux, the attractive and sociable lacrosse captain upperclassman, loved her. The wish worked. He did love her. He still loved her, probably, wherever he was.

She could not fault Kyubey's implementation of the wish, which an Arabian Nights djinn might have carried out in any number of unsavory ways. Stewart truly cared for her, was kind to her, respected her wants. She lasted one blissful month as she danced through Ottawa's agents of despair under the tutelage of an apathetic veteran named Gatineau who called her "fille" with barely-concealed disdain. In that month, everything was chouette. She was a goddess, no longer a plain and awkward girl with braces.

Everything went so well she did not even notice her slow estrangement from her friends and family. Or maybe she did notice, but didn't care. Because she had Stewart, right? Perfect kind thoughtful Stewart. He didn't scold her for coming home late, he didn't pester her about the bags under her eyes. He didn't ask about "the old Erika" (not like he knew her anyway) or shove a report card in her face. He held her hand and kissed her and brought her flowers and chocolates and massaged her shoulders and opened doors and even when he politely asked if she wanted to sleep with him and she got scared and said no he remained respectful, caring, and kind, never broaching the subject afterward.

So of course she got bored. The hormonal impulses she mistook as "love" wore off. For a time she continued under the desperate hope that her growing apathy was a lull, a rut she could escape. Months passed. The rut deepened. Gatineau's sarcastic remarks, previously ineffectual, began to bite. Apathy became hatred as Stewart continued to be kind and polite and respectful no matter how much she spurned him. She refused to admit she made a mistake and so blamed him for everything: he was too perfect, too obliging, she needed push-and-pull. Once, he missed a scheduled date because of a legitimate sickness and she latched onto the failure as if it were unforgivable. She screamed at her parents, at her teachers, at chain-smoking Gatineau, at anyone who tried to help. She told Stewart to leave her alone and never talk to her again, and the next week a gang of Stewart's lacrosse buddies surrounded her and said Stewart wasn't even eating anymore, and eventually guilt and self-loathing consumed her and she made an effort to be nice that lasted a week before she couldn't stand him again.

Her Soul Gem got scary dark. She spent longer and longer nights prowling the ghettos of Ottawa for increasing quantities of cubes. Once she attacked a man who tried to kidnap her (or worse) and ran away unsure if she had killed him. Exhaustion compounded. Gatineau, who never seemed to despair at all, guffawed in her face.

A choice presented itself: Find a better purpose or die.

The real-life Winnipeg blinked and discovered herself inside a classroom for giants. Desks towered like fairytale forest mushrooms. Discarded textbooks formed mezzanines across a linoleum flatland. The last few minutes had been totally lost while she dredged up last year's melodrama. She slaughtered the nearest wraith with especial prejudice and chided herself for succumbing to her own mental labyrinth. That was despair: to not only have no hope for the future but no solace in the past, because when you retreated there you found only old tragedies magnified to mythic proportions.

Which almost sent her back into the maze to contemplate how she abandoned Ottawa without a word to her parents, her friends, or Stewart Wibaux, and how she came to Winnipeg, which a Puella Magi social media site said had an opening, and how she fought twenty competitors for the right to rule, but at the most dangerous moment of replaying her life in search of SOMETHING to latch onto she wrenched herself away and eviscerated another wraith.

Idiot, fight!

Focusing on technical skill, Winnipeg whipped through the classroom at galeforce velocity and exited into a topsy-turvy hallway lined with rattling lockers. A circus of wraiths clogged the space. Lions, serpents, jackals, locusts, hellhounds, a litany of mankind's historic and imagined scourges, bearers of plague and pestilence.

So they thought to overwhelm her with numbers, did they?

Allowing herself a cold chuckle at their hubris, she raised her sword high. Her magical energies gathered as she prepared her most devastating attack, the pocket ace for when speed, strength, and wits were not enough. The finisher that never failed to incapacitate her opponent, no matter their defenses or agility. Normally she would not resort to it so early, but she felt like massacring this assemblage of wraiths who so feebly believed they stood a chance against her.

As a violent cyclone began to form around her upraised blade, she shouted: "BOURRASQUE—"

Winnipeg? Winnipeg, are you there?

The unexpected telepathic intrusion shattered her concentration. Her words caught in her throat and the tornado fizzled.

She sprinted back the way she came with the entire wraith army in pursuit. What perfectly inauspicious timing, Fargo.

Where are you? replied Fargo's voice. This place is massive.

In a hallway. Now a classroom. Winnipeg decided not to consider the implications of being once more in danger with Fargo in position to rescue her. Although if not for Fargo's interruption, her finisher would have lived up to the name. Is Regina-Saskatoon with you?

Yeah. I gave her back her Soul Gem, sorry. She did not sound sorry. We have to work as a team. The fact that I of all people am saying this is all the proof you need.

Winnipeg skirted a corner and whipped her blade to slice a sphinx that caught up to her. No, Fargo. You need us to work as a team, so you can get your cubes. You are not strong enough to defeat the archon without me. But I—

Don't give me this shit Winnipeg. If you'd swallow your pride for five seconds...

Winnipeg knocked back an onrushing regiment with a miniature hurricane. And Regina-Saskatoon wishes to work together as well? What a quick turn for her, considering not an hour ago she sealed me into a tunnel with a carnivorous worm.

Regina-Saskatoon's voice chimed in. I'm really sorry for that, Winnipeg. You probably won't believe me, but I truly didn't mean for you to die. I just wanted you out of the way.

Winnipeg spat a laugh even as she hacked the wraiths encircling her. And you believe that, Fargo?

I don't care. I want the archon dead and the three of us to walk away alive, never to speak again. Now can you give us some more exact whereabouts? We're in Classroom 103.

A plaque overhead read Room 501. Winnipeg ducked into the corresponding class and weaved between the titanic chairs and desks. She lashed with erratic strikes to thin the horde at her back. I'm on the other side of campus.

Give us a number. Please.

A naga fell shrieking in several squirming parts. 501. Pleased?

Apparently, because they resumed radio silence. Winnipeg continued her slaughter. As long as she kept moving, they could not touch her no matter their numbers. The dregs of fiendish grimoires tore at her shadow with tooth, claw, and talon. She darted between the behemoths, the colossi, the leviathans, literally entering her element (alchemic, not periodic) to travel between adversaries, eliminating weaker wraiths in droves and saving the larger ones for last to maintain a sense of urgency, a building of tension, which as she escalated from wights to manticores to eldritch squids built and built and built until after a climactic and too-short battle with a dullahanic envoy of Hades propelled by four fire-snorting steeds she finally returned to earth and stood silent amid an expanse of desks and chairs that loomed like the ionic columns of a Roman temple.

She heaved air into her lungs. Sweat dripped from her brow as she made one final assessment to confirm all wraiths lay slain. Wiping her forehead and sheathing her sword, she scooped a handful of cubes, held them to her Soul Gem, and watched the purging of her grief, which now seemed so simple, so trivial. That was the way. Don't think, just fight. The only solace she needed was in her ability.

Her Soul Gem purified fully, even though it had remained muddied despite her using many more cubes not long prior. This felt normal, as if the cubes were placebos for an underlying cancer it was her prerogative to control. She wondered what exactly happened to Fargo for her to teeter on a ravine of despair for seven straight months with neither damnation nor amelioration. From what Kyubey explained, Minneapolis had deliberately spared Fargo, a kindness traitors rarely gave. That Fargo could dwell in such stagnation after overcoming the initial hump her embarrassing defeat deserved seemed unreal, scornful.

With impeccable timing, Fargo and Regina-Saskatoon emerged in the gaping doorway. "You did it!" Regina-Saskatoon said. Her voice remained clear even at great distance and through the miasma. "See? You're too strong to die to wraiths."

Find the archon? said Fargo.

If I had, you would not need to ask. Winnipeg waited for them to come to her while she conceived of a plan for Regina-Saskatoon. The sociopath disgusted her, but did not scare her. Even if she wormed her way into Fargo's heart, Winnipeg's finisher could obliterate both girls at once.

Assuming it came to that. Regina-Saskatoon, like all narcissists, was a coward. And Fargo had too much at stake to try something so foolish. Now that Winnipeg had reasserted her dominance, any meager threat brought by their presence vanished entirely.

They had taken a single step in her direction when the ground shattered. Cracks spread across the linoleum, curled between the desks and chairs, spread into ravines of chalky dust into which grief cubes tumbled. Momentous chunks of earth broke and plummeted into the abyss. Everything trembled; the school furniture tilted and toppled.

Winnipeg's reflexes activated. She bounded from her own schism of land to the next descending block, then the next. Time elongated. The clear safest path across the obstacle course of rock and tile presented itself as if illuminated by a rippling current.

Beside her, a tremendous fount of gravel burst between the cracks. A high-pitched, wailing screech pierced the denuded soundscape as from the spray surfaced a scuttling, clicking, clacking thing of spindly legs and awesome claws, its face humanoid save the two stalks protruding from its sockets, adorned with beady static eyes flicking back and forth to survey the terrain.

It was a giant... lobster. It went airborne and a massive shadow obscured her route along the falling platforms. Winnipeg continued on memory and instinct. She hastened as she realized the lobster wraith (could it not have picked a more dignified form?) was attempting to land on her. Her mind whirred with projections of the ground's future movements. Every time her foot landed, it hit something solid. She was almost out from under it.

Then her foot landed and hit only air. She lurched forward as she sought an alternate landing. She was certain if she only deepened the oblique of her descent she would hit the next block and resume her advance toward flat earth, where she could turn and fight the lobster.

Instead, a bright red bubble ballooned beneath her. She bounced skyward, her ankle twisting from the sudden contact, although not painfully enough to deter her from reaching the next block and launching forward. She broke from below the beast's shadow moments before it smashed through the remnants of the ground and disappeared into the darkness. The two stooges floated in a bubble nearby.

Wow! What a monster, said Regina-Saskatoon. Good thing I helped you, right Winnipeg?

Winnipeg reached the doorway of the classroom, where the shattered earth ended. Regina-Saskatoon's bubble drifted beside her and popped in a torrent of blood. Fargo landed on her back while Regina-Saskatoon placed a graceful heel upon the ground.

Fargo quickly righted herself and manifested her machine gun. "Is that the archon?"

"It's certainly something, isn't it?" said Regina-Saskatoon.

A claw burst from the void and hammered down to crush them. Winnipeg dove aside while Regina-Saskatoon used bubbles to keep her and Fargo from death. With another beached whale shriek the rest of the lobster reemerged, probing with the distorted orbs of its eyes.

Winnipeg didn't like those eyes. She leapt onto the claw wedged firmly in the ground and cleaved them from its face with one swipe.

The lobster didn't even recoil. Its jaw unhinged and a serpentine tongue lolled out. Winnipeg jumped but immediately bounced against a bubble. She reoriented but another red wall faced her. Red walls in all directions. Winnipeg finally realized:

The CUNT put her INSIDE a bubble.

Don't worry, Winnipeg! It can't hurt you as long as you're in my bubble!

"AAAURUURUUUUGH," said Winnipeg.

The tongue coiled around the bubble, coating it in unctuous ooze. Once it had a solid grip, it reeled the entire bubble with Winnipeg trapped inside toward its cavernous mouth.

Fargo must have remembered she existed because a dazzling bright line cleaved the monster's tongue. Winnipeg, the bubble, and the severed bit of flesh flopped to the ground. Winnipeg railed against her confines with the katana.

"Let me out, let me out!"

The bubble burst. Winnipeg zipped aside to avoid getting wet and reassessed the battle. The lobster wraith clung to the edge, one claw firmly entrenched, the other swinging with ponderous slowness.

She readied an attack, but Fargo had already positioned herself before the lobster. Round after round of gunfire pelted it. After a few seconds of sustained fire, the face completely caved in. Its head became a misshapen lump of matter. It tried to swipe at them but its motions were so sluggish that even Fargo had no difficulty evading. The lobster howled, shivered, and expired. Its body slumped against the edge of the precipice, the remains of its head bowed in monkish repose.

Regina-Saskatoon ran up and high-fived Fargo. "Splendid, love! You made it seem easy! Your magic is really powerful."

Like Fargo did anything special! She stood still and held a trigger. With such a large target, not even her aim was commendable. And if not for Regina-Saskatoon's meddling—

The lobster's head burst like an egg sac and a thousand parasites scuttled forth on frantic, reedy legs. Fargo raised her gun but it had already revved down. Regina-Saskatoon lurched back in stereotypical female response to arachnids. The tide swarmed at them, each creeping thing adorned with a miniature wraith head.

Winnipeg dove between her hapless companions and drove her katana into the ground. She focused her magic energies into the blade, as though to use her finisher, but instead she launched a spiral of wind into the floor. Cracks streaked through the linoleum before a massive chunk of ground blasted back in a mighty gust, taking with it the thousand scuttling parasites. They sailed into the void, turning and flipping and squealing until they melded into the darkness and disappeared forever.

The lobster wraith's headless corpse also plummeted as it disintegrated into cubes, leaving only the three Puella Magi to survey the aftermath.

"Well!" said Regina-Saskatoon. "That was quite a shock."

Winnipeg whipped out her arm and decapitated Regina-Saskatoon with one stroke.

The head hit the ground while the body slumped to its knees and plopped forward, spouting blood from the stump of the neck.

"What the fuck!" said Fargo. "WHAT THE FUCK! She just HELPED you!"

She pointed her gun at Winnipeg. Winnipeg remained perfectly still at the end of her stroke. Blood ran down her blade.

"Do you know," said Winnipeg, "how sometimes you become very, very frustrated, and even though you know it will not harm him in the least, not even scratch his nigh-immortality, you vent your rage on one of Kyubey's bodies?"

Fargo gaped, uncomprehending. Regina-Saskatoon's body spasmed.

"Hurry and fix yourself," said Winnipeg.

As if on command, a bubble formed around Regina-Saskatoon's head, which had rolled some distance. The bubble ferried the head back to the body, rotated to line up correctly, and pressed the two ends of the neck back together. The bubble popped and the resulting blood flow was enough to erase any trace of a wound.

Regina-Saskatoon pushed herself to her feet, cracked her neck, and fixed her hair. "I'd rather not become your chew toy, Winnipeg."

Winnipeg flicked the blood from her sword and sheathed it. "Would you prefer I ram my blade through the gem on your shoulder?"

"I wouldn't be so keen to stand idly by and allow that. Remember I'm no helpless damsel myself." She retrieved a handheld mirror from her gown and inspected her neck.

"I don't understand," said Fargo. "Delaney helped you, Winnipeg. Are you still mad at what she did in the city hall? It should be obvious by now we need to stop dicking around and work together already."

The school hallway remained gigantic and tinged with evil aura. Which meant the lobster was not the archon (surprise). Winnipeg strode down the hall to cover the rest of the school, although she harbored little hope of finding anything. She doubted also the third location on Regina-Saskatoon's map, the airstrip, which was too open for something that supposedly wanted to remain unseen. Perhaps Regina-Saskatoon simply had no clue what she was talking about.

Fargo scampered after her. "Hello? We're having a conversation here? Can we maybe talk for five minutes and settle on a truce? The wraiths are too strong for any of us alone."

"Oh, but your magic is so powerful, Sloan love!" said Winnipeg. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and loosed a fangirl squee. "You made short work of that lobster! You're just the greatest, why don't the two of you make out already?"

As soon as she said it she regretted it. She turned away from Fargo and Regina-Saskatoon to avoid seeing the satisfaction assuredly etched on their faces at such a juvenile outburst. If only the hallway were not so long and empty so she could pretend she had anything better to do.

"Is that the issue?" said Fargo. "This isn't a fucking talent show. If anything that fight proves we need to stick together. We all contributed."

"All your girlfriend did was impede my progress," said Winnipeg. "Trap me in bubbles and get in my way."

"One, I don't like her any more than you do. Two, if not for her bubble that thing would've gotten its tongue around you."

The whole time, Regina-Saskatoon followed. Her heels clopped but otherwise she made no interjection.

"If not for her bubble I would have dodged the tongue."

"It was moving fast."

"I would have dodged it."

"Okay, maybe." Fargo got in front of her and attempted to establish eye contact. Winnipeg tried to avoid it but Fargo always seemed to know which way she was about to avert her gaze. "To me it looked like you were in trouble."

"I would have dodged it."

Fargo threw up her hands. "Fine. Whatever. You would have fucking dodged it. Congratulations. Delaney made a mistake."

"Can I say something?" Regina-Saskatoon remained behind Winnipeg, out of sight. "Sloan's absolutely correct. I've made many mistakes. I keep making mistakes, even though every time I make one I tell myself it's the last. I swear I didn't mean ill when I put up that barrier. I only wanted to help..."

If she sniffled or forced back a tear even Fargo's suspension of disbelief would have broken, but Regina-Saskatoon allowed her spiel to end with a mere dwindling of her voice.

"We have another location to search," said Winnipeg. "We go to the airstrip next."

"No," said Fargo. "You can't keep doing that thing where whenever you don't like a conversation you change the subject. If that keeps happening nothing gets resolved, nobody trusts anyone, people get decapitated. It's a shitshow."

Why was the hallway so empty? Nothing but linoleum in either direction. Winnipeg felt a migraine building in the back of her skull, a pressurized node of pain that spread thin tendrils through her lobes.

"What do you want me to say. That I trust you? That I like you? That I want to work with you? The most I'll say is that I abide you, and only barely."

"Your Soul Gem." Fargo pointed to the chain around Winnipeg's neck, from which her gem hung. The lavender hue was unhealthily dark. She had not used so much magic in the fight for it to look like that.

Regina-Saskatoon was quick to appear with a fistful of cubes, which she offered Winnipeg wordlessly. Winnipeg raised her hand to hit the cubes away, or hit Regina-Saskatoon, or hit something, but instead she balled her fingers into a fist, sighed, and accepted the offering.

"If it makes you feel better," said Fargo, "I'm only doing this because I need you to take down the archon. If not for that, I wouldn't care what happened to you. That vouches for your ability."

Conversation dwindled. As the trio covered the rest of the school and the grief drained from her gem, Winnipeg wondered if her ability had only ever been part of the problem.

Chapter 9: Behold the Seen Unseen

Fly on the wall. Those were her Friend's exact words: fly on the wall. Become a fly. Become less than a fly. Become nothingness incarnate. It was easy. It hardly expended magic. It was a simple matter of... emptying the eyes... emptying the mind... melding. Allowing a much more colorful and interesting world to swallow her completely. When she disappeared, all identity, all self erased. When Sloan Redfearn asked her name on the bus in Bismarck, she hesitated only partially due to timidity. The other part was she had trouble remembering.

Omaha. Her name was Omaha. Her Friend told her. Thank you!

As soon as the Williston Three reconvened in the hotel room, Omaha slipped through the closing door and slid to her accustomed hiding place under the bed. She could hide anywhere, being invisible, but under the bed minimized the chance of someone bumping her on accident. A family of cute mice had made a den here. Their pink noses sniffed and sniffed but they could not see what their snouts detected.

Under the bed, Omaha could not see faces, but she could see feet. Sloan's big brown boots tromped along the perimeter of the room, turning with clockwork motions of her heels and the flitting of her coattail. Delaney Pollack's red sneakers remained in one place, facing the bed as she leaned to inspect her map. Erika Dufresne stood near the window.

An inquisitive mouse sniffed his way near Omaha's hand. She stretched out a finger and stroked his hunched back, only for him to scamper away as if haunted by the devil herself.

Delaney Pollack spoke and Omaha forced herself to listen.

"To be perfectly honest, I never expected it to come to this." Tap tap tap went her foot. "I thought for sure the archon would be in either the city hall or the school. I only put the airstrip on the list because three candidate locations sounded better than two."

"You're saying we should not check the airstrip," said Erika Dufresne.

"I'm figuring it now." Tap tap tap. "If there's somewhere I missed, somewhere the archon would dwell."

"Where did the Saskatoon archon hide," asked Sloan. Good question! Predict future patterns based on past observations.

Tap tap tap. "As I may have mentioned before, I bungled the Saskatoon 2010 archon hunt spectacularly. My companions and I camped outside the miasma and only entered on raiding expeditions. It took a long time to realize that every time we left, the archon moved its location! We eventually tracked it down to a warehouse, but it hid many places before that."

"How do we know our archon isn't moving too," said Erika Dufresne.

"It's too large. The ground would shake and its shadow would cover us all. Now in Fort McMurray 1985, the Edmonton girls reported immense distortion by the time they arrived. The archon hid in what on the outside looked like a tiny shack, but on the inside was a palace."

"So all this is pointless, because the archon could be anywhere."

"No, no, no." Tap tap tap. Omaha resisted the urge to reach out and just... hold down the tapping foot. "Fort McMurray 1985 was also a special case because infighting between the Edmonton and Calgary factions delayed the response and let the archon to run roughshod over the spatial properties of its miasma. Again, totally unlike here, where we arrived before it could do much except expand the proportions."

Omaha's mousey friend returned, approaching with more caution. She placed a finger in his path so he would stumble upon her and be spared surprise.

"What are you trying to say," said Sloan.

Delaney Pollack's foot quit tapping. "I guess I'm saying I don't know. We can try the airstrip and hope it's there. If not, I'm not sure where next."

Mister Mousey, with some trepidation, crawled onto Omaha's upturned palm. She clasped her hand and petted its swift-breathing little body.

"Until we exhaust the original candidate locations there's no point discussing this," said Erika Dufresne. "We search the airstrip. If the archon is not there, we consider alternatives."

Delaney Pollack's foot resumed tapping. Why was it a red shoe? In folk tradition red was the color of Lucifer. Which would make sense as the underlying theme of Delaney Pollack's aesthetic, because she was sinful. Sinners were agents of Lucifer. Lucifer had committed the greatest sin of all. Luke 4:3 and 4:4: And the devil said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, command this stone that it be bread. / And Jesus answered him, saying, IT IS WRITTEN, THAT MAN SHALL NOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE, BUT BY EVERY WORD OF GOD. The old texts mixed up the genders, but the point stood. Lucifer enticed God to succumb to carnal desire, to satisfy herself in the physical world. But that world was inherently sinful. The place of God and God's true followers was in the spiritual realm, divorced from corporeality and thus sin.

Pollack's conceit, to absolve her inherent wickedness by performing good deeds in fear rather than in feeling, would not save her. It was the same as Lucifer's temptation: a deception based on the physical rather than spiritual. How could Pollack's soul be taken to heaven, when it was her soul, not her body, that was tinted to its core?

Omaha stroked Mister Mousey's head.

"That makes sense," said Pollack. "The issue is, the airstrip is far from the inn. It'll be our longest trip yet. I want to make sure I didn't miss anything first."

"Is there a movie theater," said Sloan.

"I don't see one."

Sloan quit pacing. "Uh, a grain silo?" She went to the map. "It's just squares."

They fell silent. Omaha released Mister Mousey and let him scamper back to Missus Mousey and the Mousey Juniors. Maybe she was too harsh on Pollack. There must be something admirable in warring against one's nature in subservience to God. It wasn't Omaha's right to judge her, after all. God would judge Pollack.

"This posturing wastes time," said Dufresne. "If we have no alternative, we go to the airstrip."

The feet shuffled and migrated toward the exit. Carefully, quietly, Omaha extricated herself from under the bed and followed.

The journey to the north of Williston was long but uneventful. Omaha kept close, but at no point did she have to surreptitiously strike down a wraith closing in on Sloan's back. Nor did Pollack commit any more blunders to aggrieve Dufresne; she kept her bubbles for Sloan's defense and allowed Dufresne free rein. Their communication was disjointed, but at least they functioned adequately on their own, if not as a unit. Now that Sloan had salvaged herself from the dead zone, she moved quicker and fired faster and did not sap so much of Pollack's magic. This allowed Pollack to use her barriers more creatively, such as by walling off alleyways to prevent hordes of wraiths from even entering the battle.

Her Friend had predicted after the initial rocky start they would reach an efficiency like this. And Omaha had doubted!

The airstrip was no longer functional as an airstrip. The vast plain of tarmac had been and was still being devastated by jackhammers and backhoes, great mounds of gravel unearthed and stacked in piles. Empty-eyed men wandered among the rubble, some carting trolleys of sand, some wielding digging tools. Wraiths mingled with them and fed from their quintessence. In the savaged ground lurched an infinite line of drills and pumpjacks, drilling and pumping in perfect synchronization, filling the air with thrums and whirrs. The atmosphere was densely ashen. Men collapsed in fits and tugged at their chests.

Sloan stifled a cough. "So this is what everyone's come for." She shielded her eyes and scanned the horizon. "Drills."

"Hm, I don't see anything that might be the archon," said Pollack.

A gleaming hangar swallowed the eastern fringe of the airstrip. Its gate hung open, although inside was dark. Omaha knew nothing about archons (she forgot most of what Pollack yammered), but she supposed if anywhere the hangar was where one would be.

They made for the hangar. Omaha drifted behind. The debris made it difficult to disguise her footsteps, so instead she matched her walk to Sloan's, whose heavy boots crunched to muffle Omaha's softer tread.

The hangar was aglow with a cobalt shimmer, its domed roof of corrugated steel like a cold idol, some Mammon or Belphegor. Omaha knew before they even entered that this had to be the temple of the archon, felt her insides tighten in revulsion. In her hands manifested the scythe her weapon, although her Friend had made clear she was not to intercede unless the trio were in a peril they could not escape themselves. Even so, as she walked behind them, unseen and unknown, she brimmed with solidarity. A hero like them tasked to purge unholy creatures. She wanted to whisper to Sloan some statement of union, something to include herself. If they could work with Pollack, surely they could work with her, surely she was not so vile as that.

But she said nothing. A great fear gripped her, sparked not only by her Friend's command to minimize interaction, but by the thought that perhaps she was that vile. How could Sloan trust her? After she bungled their first meeting (bit her! Like a beast). They were better off not knowing about her. Better off unaware of her existence.

As soon as they passed the threshold, the interior of the hangar became illuminated in a gray haze made hazier by Omaha's bleary vision, which was bad normally and worse when invisible. Omaha tensed in anticipation of some false and prideful demon, but no such thing awaited. Instead, the hangar was filled with tents, most of white tarp but some in patchwork reds and blues. Tent after tent in neat lines and columns. An entire metropolis of tents, abuzz with dull activity as the oil men murmured in guttural tones. They sounded like the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoon, one of the three television shows the Man Who Said He Was Her Father had allowed her to watch.

"No archon," said Dufresne. "Let's go."

Sloan stood at the entrance of the nearest tent and peered inside. Omaha peered inside as well. A stunted man sat on a threadbare quilt, his bony knees tucked under his chin. Arrayed before him were photographs of children. A wraith stood nearby, claws hooked into his neck like intravenous tubes.

"Do they sleep here," said Sloan.

"Looks like it, love," said Pollack. "This must be a wraith smorgasbord. They don't attack us because they found something to munch already."

"The archon is not here," said Dufresne. "Let's go."

Sloan stepped back and took in the domed ceiling. Omaha stepped back and saw what she saw, tried to piece together her thought process, tried to understand her.

"Poor insulation." Sloan pulled her jacket tight.

"Let's go before we attract attention," said Pollack. "If we fight here, it'll be hard to keep civilians safe. Winnipeg's right—this place is a bust."

Sloan followed her helpers out and Omaha followed Sloan. A tractor trundled past, dragging a caboose that overflowed with dust. As they waited for the path to clear, Pollack extracted the torn halves of her map. Sloan gathered close while Dufresne did something else.

"There's nothing," said Pollack. "No other place. The cemetery? Maybe?"

"Even the cemetery is tiny," said Sloan.

"Maybe we missed a room in the city hall. A secret passage."

A drill plunged into the earth. Sloan covered her ears and shouted: "IS THERE A SUPERMARKET?"

"WHAT?"

"SUPERMARKET!"

The drill died down. "No," said Pollack. "Not that I can see. It doesn't help this map is fifteen years old!"

"I told you it was worthless," said Dufresne.

Pollack crushed the map in her fists. "It doesn't make sense. Stupid... map!" With one girly fling after another she launched the halves into the air. They caught in the stagnant breeze and flitted down as soon as they left her hands. Before they touched the ground she gave a shriek of dismay and caught them.

As Pollack smoothed the halves over her knee, Sloan turned away. Omaha gravitated to her, tried to see what she saw, but all she seemed to see was the giant drill that had stirred such a ruckus. Beyond it many more drills heaved up and down like sledgehammers, until at long last they dwindled into darkness.

What makes you so pensive, Sloan? Is it your Soul Gem, your uneasy relationships with your helpers? What the archon looks like, its keep? What you will do when you find it, what tactics you will employ? Or perhaps you stare onward, across the plains of North Dakota to that last city on the fringe of oblivion: Minneapolis, where a certain someone awaits with her piano and her dulcimer and all her other instruments. If only Omaha could ask her, speak with her... If only she had not squandered the previous chances she already had!

"Underground," said Sloan.

Neither Pollack nor Dufresne heard at first. Perhaps she did not wish to be heard, but Omaha had wandered so close that the whisper, sedated even before the nullifying effects of the miasma, bloomed like an incantation in her ears.

Underground?

"Underground," said Sloan. Louder.

Pollack cocked her head. "What's that, love?"

"The oil." Sloan's eyes remained fixed on the drills. "The whole reason they're here, the fucking oil. Underground. The drills, the worm thing, the crawfish thing. Tunnels and pits everywhere. It all goes underground."

Pollack looked at the ground between her ruby red heels. (Even in costume her shoes were red!) "You mean..."

"The archon is underground."

"Even if we believe that," said Dufresne, "underground where? Here? Somewhere else?"

Sloan snatched Pollack's map and ran her finger over it as both of her helpers leaned in over her shoulders. She scanned the rows of squares and streets. Finally her finger settled on something. "Here."

With the others crowding the view, Omaha had to get creative to see what Sloan meant. She looped around to the other side and contorted herself to view the map upside-down, careful not to nudge anyone or breathe in the wrong direction.

The structure Sloan prodded had no name in typeface either large or small. Instead it was marked by a tiny round emblem. Omaha pushed her glasses close to see what was inside the crest. All she could make out was a black funnel, with lines around it to indicate motion.

After an unresponsive moment from her helpers, Sloan explained. "Tornado shelter."

An alley twisted up to the tornado shelter, nestled between much grander and more imposing structures. From aboveground it was nothing but another uninspired and distinctly practical construction, flat and short and geometric, dilapidated and decayed. Meant for mere survival and nothing else. No doubt this amorphous structure had stood for many years. No doubt it would stand many more.

The thought filled Sloan with hope. The archon had to be here. The more she mulled it over, the more it made sense. The bland facade, the curious lack of wraiths nearby, the winding network of back alleys they navigated to reach it. It all pointed to a hidden lair. If she were right, it would give her leverage to bargain her grief cube cut with Winnipeg—undeniable proof of her contribution. Not only that, but it would be a victory rare for Sloan, a victory of wits over brute strength. She could not help but think she would need such victories to overcome Clair Ibsen, who for the first time in a long time no longer felt like an abstract concept, a carrot on a stick, but a tangible entity. The entire way up the alley, Sloan's thoughts probed Clair's strengths and weaknesses, her various powers and her innovative ways of using them. She had to reprimand herself to keep focused on the archon. Something about chickens and hatching.

Winnipeg folded her arms and regarded three plaid-shirted men clustered around a burning metal barrel. "This looks unpromising."

"We're here, so there's no reason not to check it out," said Delaney. "I for one think it's an excellent hypothesis, love!"

Amazing what a few words of flattery could do when you actually believed them. Amazing how you realize just how miserable you were when the first traces of happiness return. She was going to make it out. She was going to go to Minneapolis. All the bullshit with Delaney and Winnipeg meant nothing because soon none of them would have to see each other again. And Omaha—

Ah, shit. She forgot Omaha. Whatever, if the three of them could take an archon, they could take her. Poor girl. Who knew what bogus philosophy Kyubey crammed down her throat; hilarious if not so pathetic. Sloan, magnanimous in victory, would let her live. For the first time in a long time Sloan felt like the good guy again.

"Sloan love? You alright?"

Sloan blinked. Delaney and Winnipeg stared at her.

"Uh. Sorry. Zoned out."

"Don't do that," said Winnipeg. Although the rebuke sounded less harsh than usual. Or maybe that was another byproduct of the anticipation bristling inside Sloan.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Sloan tried the door to the shelter. It opened with a rusty creak and a puff of reddish flakes.

Cobwebs and dust presided over a narrow room of vague purpose. Furniture draped in sheets bulged in awkward directions. A morose silence filled the space although the space was not silent; a heating unit reverberated with a ubiquitous om.

"Find a staircase or ladder or something. Anything that goes down," said Sloan.

Winnipeg studied an object draped in a sheet and with one brush of her arm disrobed it, revealing a perfectly normal table. She patted dust from her hands. "This is pointless. There's nothing here."

"You're simply sour you didn't think of it yourself." Delaney crouched and tapped the floorboards with her staff.

With a blast of wind, Winnipeg blew the rest of the sheets against the wall. A cloud of dirt filled the room and Sloan buried her mouth and nose within the collar of her jacket.

"I would not care about something so petty," Winnipeg said. Unconvincingly.

On an uncovered table, Sloan found a thick book bound in colorless leather. A single word adorned the cover in embossed gold: DOMESDAY. She brushed off the dust and opened it. Inside was a list of names and dates. The months were in German, although Sloan could read them because they were basically the same as English except with more Ks and Zs. Her finger traced down the page. Every name was female.

She flipped through the pages until she reached the R names. Sure enough: REDFEARN, SLOAN. October 11, 2010. The day she contracted.

What was something like this doing here? She remembered the German records in the city hall and realized how little she knew about the miasma.

"Found it!" said Delaney. She stamped her ruby slipper against a rickety trapdoor.

Sloan shut the ledger and inspected the hatch. It was fastened by a padlock that crumbled to ash the moment she touched it. The hatch fell inward with a pained screech, revealing rungs into an empty abyss.

Something below murmured.

"Who goes first?" said Sloan.

Without a word, Winnipeg dove, somersaulted, and plummeted through the hole.

Sloan scrambled after her, swinging onto the rungs. The moment she placed her weight against them they broke in unison. She groped for Delaney's outstretched hand and swiped nothing but air as the small square of light above grew smaller and smaller and Delaney minimized into oblivion.

She fell a long, long time, long enough to worry how and where she would land before she landed on an updraft of air about a foot from the ground.

"Idiot," said Winnipeg as she dispersed the air and dropped Sloan to the floor. "It was obvious the rungs would break. Why do you think I jumped?"

"Thanks for the warning," said Sloan. "And thanks for catching me."

"Yeah." In the dim light, only the contours of her face were visible. "I hope you're right. I hope the archon is here. I want to kill it and depart as swiftly as possible."

Sloan realized now might be her last chance to warn Winnipeg about Omaha. If Omaha jumped after them, they would have heard her land. Right?

She decided to chance it. "Winnipeg, I need to tell you something."

"About Regina-Saskatoon?"

"No. There's a—"

A red glow washed over them as Delaney descended atop a glimmering bubble. "Hello, dears! Glad to see you both made it safely. Any sign of our foe?"

There was no sign of anything, only darkness. Sloan held up a hand and exuded a small orb of light. Nothing was illuminated except her companions. The thought struck her that Omaha might cast a shadow despite her invisibility, but none stretched across the ground.

The murmur sounded again. It encircled them in the dark, an odd high-pitched voice dampened by the miasma, neither human nor inhuman.

"The archon," said Sloan.

"Or another minion," said Winnipeg.

At the edge of darkness something long and slender writhed. Winnipeg ran forward and slashed at it. The blade sunk halfway with a wet slurp.

Sloan illuminated the wriggling thing. It took her a few moments to compartmentalize what she saw: A massive tubular root, girded with gnarled thorns. White pus oozed where Winnipeg sliced it.

After a few unsuccessful attempts, Winnipeg placed her foot onto the root and tore her sword away. The root only continued to writhe, neither rearing to attack nor retreating into darkness.

Winnipeg inspected the white juice dripping from her blade. She smelled it, but didn't touch it.

"What's this root belong to," said Sloan.

Delaney extended her staff and pointed the way the root led, deeper into the dark. "Let's find out!"

They followed it down a space with no walls and no ceiling and no distinguishing features at all save the gravelly turf beneath them. The squealing, almost feminine murmur continued, as if engaged in conversation with a deity that could not be sensed. The root lured them deeper and deeper. Sloan tread carefully, ready to blast anything.

At some point they entered a tunnel, or they had been in a tunnel the whole time and only now the dimensions narrowed enough to be seen. The walls grew smaller and smaller around the root, until the three of them were forced to crouch to continue.

"This may very well be it," said Delaney. She lacked her usual pep.

Sloan angled her body to avoid a jutting thorn and shuffled against the root to scrape by. Something pulsed within it like a thick, throbbing vein. "The archon you fought in Saskatoon. What did it do?"

"It took the form of a thousand-limbed giant," said Delaney. "It lifted enormous piles of earth and hurled them at us. It crushed girls between its fingers. I don't think this archon is anything like that."

The mouth of the cavern contorted to a gasping space, most of which was filled by the root. They slithered across it, avoiding the thorns as well as they could. Sloan's overcoat snagged more than once.

The murmur grew in intensity.

When the space tightened to the point where Sloan thought she might have to shed her coat to continue, Winnipeg stopped. "I see the end."

"What's there?" Delaney tried to peer over Winnipeg's shoulder but bumped her head on the ceiling.

"Light." Winnipeg continued her crawl.

Sloan crushed herself against the root to slide forward. Sand and rock scratched her from all sides. The throbbing root filled her with an obscure dread, as though it were draining her by its mere touch. Ahead Delaney and Winnipeg reached the mouth of the cavern, which widened enough for them to peer side-by-side into something below. Sloan wriggled forward, kicking the walls for leverage. The root exuded sap that caught in her hair and stuck to her face.

She wondered if Omaha were behind her, moving with the same amount of difficulty. Probably she had no trouble navigating the space, as slight as she was.

"Not stuck, are you love?"

With a grunt, Sloan slid forward and forced herself into the mouth of the cavern. She wiped off ooze and dirt, only succeeding in gumming her fingers before she gave up. She peered between the heads of Delaney and Winnipeg.

Sloan knew what she saw even before Delaney said, "That's the archon."

Chapter 10: The Lord God Prepared a Gourd

The vast, eroded walls of the archon's den curved inward and met in a dome engulfed in shadow, although a vague gray aura illuminated the rest of the astronomical absence. Mouths of caverns like the one in which they stood dotted the den, and into each trailed a pulsing, thorny root. The roots clung to the lower walls and coalesced at the bottom of the room, where they widened until they disappeared beneath the heaving underside of the archon.

The archon was a giant flower bud. That was the best way Sloan could conceive it. At the base, its dappled epidermis swelled into a rotund, almost perfectly spherical bulge that gently heaved as if breathing. The bulb tapered to a conical protrusion that ended in a wrinkled nub, out of which a small black flower with three petals swayed.

Below, the archon's inky runoff ebbed slowly back and forth. Roots weaved in and out of the brackish pool.

"You're sure that's it. That's the archon," said Sloan. Her voice came out as a whisper, although she had not intended it.

"Oh yes, love," said Delaney. "Look."

She pointed, her arm frail and white against the blackness below, at the great black drops of dew that formed on and rolled off the leathery bulb. As each drop struck the pool and burst, a wraith emerged as if from a cocoon before plunging beneath with only a ripple.

"It's creating wraiths," Delaney continued. "Only the archon can do that. It must use these tunnels to spread them through the town. With the roots, it perceives everything. It can probably feel the palpitations of your heartbeat right now."

Sloan shuffled away from the writhing root beside her.

"It has no discernible weakpoint." Winnipeg crouched low as she surveyed the unbroken form of the thing's vegetable flesh. "No doubt that hide is too tough for normal weapons to pierce."

"What about the roots," said Sloan.

Winnipeg stroked her chin. "If we severed them all, perhaps. There must be hundreds."

"The flower on top?" said Delaney.

They all whispered. This thing, this archon emanated a daunting presence, not sheerly from its immensity but from something else, something extrasensory, neither smell nor taste nor feeling but nonetheless something Sloan perceived. Bad mojo.

The word evil for the first time meant something as she gazed upon the archon; before it was only the antonym of good, a device from fables and fairytales, the cheap gimmick of a writer afraid to delve into the complex reality of the human psyche. Now, in the face of this evil thing, complexities dissolved, nuance and subtlety vanished, all plunged into darkness.

Sloan felt very much like she wanted to die.

"The flower..." Winnipeg's words came out slow, distorted. "Is probably... A trap..."

Sloan rubbed her eyes. Blinked. Her head rang with the archon's murmur. She sagged against the wall as nausea swept over her. Her body felt hollow, like skin draped over bones, and she realized it was exactly that: a husk, soulless and empty. Like chattel. Like compost. Decaying, rotting in the ground, fed upon by worms.

This had to be... some kind of... psychological attack. She knew it, but it consumed her anyway. Delaney and Winnipeg continued to talk without noticing. They didn't care about her. Nobody did. Not her family, not the only person she ever called a friend. Memories surfaced unbidden like images on a projector screen. She tried to blot them out, but they would not be ignored. Her alone. Alone at home. Alone at school. Alone in the neighborhood as she scratched sticks in the dirt.

Sloan grabbed her skull and tried not to think, tried to shut down, tried to die, but she could not. She unspooled from the reality of the cavern mouth. She returned to Eden Prairie, to that Minnesota middle school where she skulked across campus stewing in resentment of her sister, wondering why her defect made her so much more popular as she searched for a place to eat her bag lunch but every bench was occupied by cliques of happy friends, absorbing Sloan's happiness for themselves, because every time she saw another smiling face she grew emptier and emptier, until she found a bench with a single pensive girl who stared down a sandwich as though this sandwich were the single most engrossing thing in the world, and Sloan thought maybe if she kept quiet and ate quickly this other girl wouldn't even notice her, since the sandwich must be infinitely more interesting, but as soon as she unraveled her own lunch the other girl looked up and extended a cordial hand and said: "Hello. I'm Clair Ibsen. What's your name?"

And Sloan stared back shocked and muttered a response except that wasn't what Sloan did now, what Sloan did now was throw herself across the table and wrap her hands around Clair's pretty white neck, intending to squeeze until her fucking head popped off. Clair's eyes bulged and she fell back and Sloan fell atop her and slammed her head against the ground and kneaded the soft flesh of the throat like putty.

A blade ripped into her back and through her chest and into Clair Ibsen's chest and out her back. Eden Prairie shattered into a thousand shards to reveal the compacted walls of the cavern. Clair Ibsen disappeared, replaced by Delaney Pollack. Delaney's face was an almost comical shade of violet, her mouth agape in a twisted half-grin.

Winnipeg retracted her blade from both of them and voided it of blood with one quick wipe. "Are you done being crazy yet?"

Sloan's blood dripped down and splattered Delaney's white dress. She relinquished her grasp and rolled over against the archon's root, struggling to breathe. Winnipeg must have pierced her lung.

It took only a moment for Delaney to jump up and heal them both with an operatic wave. The purple drained from her face, replaced by her typical rosy luster. "Pretty weird, love! Hope that was a one time thing."

The root seethed beneath Sloan. She peeled herself off and stood abruptly, growing dizzy as her brain and senses calibrated. She rubbed the back of her skull and regained her balance. "Fuck."

"Careful, don't fall over the edge." Delaney steadied her. "Were you hallucinating or what?"

Everything felt topsy turvy. "I thought you were Clair Ibsen."

"The girl from Minneapolis? The one you hate?"

Sloan nodded. "The archon must have—"

"Your leg." Winnipeg brushed aside the tail of Sloan's coat with her blade. Sloan drew back shamefaced as her companions ogled her bare (and poorly shaved) legs. Only after seconds of prolonged staring did she muster the will to look down herself. A shallow red line ran along her left calf, no broader than a pen stroke. Even after she saw it she could not feel it.

Delaney snapped her fingers and healed the scratch. "Remember where you got that, love? I'd wager one of these thorns nicked you."

That sounded right. She certainly hadn't taken the utmost care slithering past the root.

"So the thorns are toxic," said Winnipeg. "Significant intel. Good that we learned this now, before the fight began."

"Glad to be the guinea pig." Sloan pulled the tails of her coat back together. She hoped her embarrassment wasn't too obvious, but of course Delaney gave her a knowing look as she tapped her lower lip.

At least Winnipeg could be counted on to not give a shit. She made an abrupt turn back toward the archon. Its bulb-like body had made no movement; black beads rolled off it endlessly into the pool below. "Now the matter of how to fight this thing."

Sloan elbowed a space for herself between Delaney and Winnipeg as she materialized her gun. "I say we shoot it. A few seconds of sustained fire, it won't matter how thick the hide is."

Nobody objected to Sloan's plan, so she revved up the barrel and unleashed a steady stream of light. She struck the fattest part of the bulb, where the epidermis stretched wide and (she hoped) thin. Not that she knew jack dick about plant anatomy. Not that a magical demon of despair needed to conform to plant anatomy anyway.

The light hit the skin with no splash, as though it bored a hole straight through on first contact. Or maybe the plant was absorbing the light the moment it touched. The irony of fighting with light was that things got so bright it was difficult to see what was happening. Usually Sloan assumed when something disappeared beneath a deluge of her magic it meant the thing no longer existed, but as she fired for five, ten, fifteen seconds with no change in the archon whatsoever, she began to doubt. After twenty seconds she shut off her magic before she taxed herself too heavily.

Not a single mark.

"As I expected," said Winnipeg. "I recall saying exactly that: I doubt normal weapons will harm it."

"Yeah, whatever."

"It doesn't even care about us." Delaney folded her arms and chewed her lip. "We're so insignificant, it doesn't even bother to react."

It baffled Sloan. Basically her only strategy was to shoot something a lot. Sometimes things moved fast or had some weird power to make it tricky, but then she just had to find a creative way to shoot it. The shooting itself never failed to suffice.

Her eyes settled on the tiny black flower that sprouted from its topmost tip. Winnipeg began to say something but Sloan cut her off by sending one swift beam at the flower, incinerating it instantly.

The bulb made no change. The beads rolled off, the roots throbbed. After a few seconds, an identical flower sprouted from the tip. Sloan tossed up her hands and turned away.

"Thank you for that pointless interlude," said Winnipeg. "As I intended to say, we should next attempt to destroy the roots."

Delaney shrugged. "Might as well."

They stepped aside to give Winnipeg room. She pressed one foot against the root next to them and touched her blade to its thinnest part. She drew back her sword and swung hard, sinking in halfway with the first slice. With a vicious tug she pulled the sword out and swung again, severing the root. Noxious white pus oozed out.

Winnipeg dried her blade on the dirt and sheathed it. They looked from the root to the bulb in anticipation.

Nothing happened.

The pus hardened and sealed the severed ends of the root back together. The root continued to throb happily.

Sloan jabbed fingers into the corners of her eyes. Winnipeg prodded the sealant with her sword. Delaney found a safe part of the root and sat.

"Well," said Winnipeg. "Hm." She strained for something more profound with a series of false starts. Eventually she turned away with a huff. "It's too cramped to think."

She stepped from the mouth of the tunnel and plunged, then skated the festooned root to the lagoon below. When she reached the bottom, she pushed off and landed atop a gnarled bramble. A few wraiths ascended from the mire, but Winnipeg decapitated them with a single whirlwind strike, performed by rote as she surveyed the surroundings.

Sloan considered joining her, but Delaney said, "What exactly did you see?"

"What?"

"When you were strangling me. You mentioned your friend in Minneapolis. What was the exact nature of the hallucination, love? Had I simply been replaced by Clair Ibsen or was it something else—like a dream, perhaps?"

"No, I saw memories. A lot of them. When I got to one with Clair, I..."

"Snapped." Delaney leaned close to observe a thorn, her face inches from the tip. "But there's no guarantee the effects of the toxin manifest in violence. You simply encountered something you were naturally predisposed to hate."

"Whatever it is, it's obviously no good, so don't touch it."

"I know, love." Delaney sighed, stood, and brushed dirt from her dress. "I would never jeopardize our mission over something so silly. But I am curious, you know. Memory is something that appeals to me greatly. As it must appeal to most who harbor great regrets."

"You mean the girl you killed in Saskatoon."

Delaney flinched. "Claudia, yes. It wasn't that I hated her. It wasn't that she made me angry, that if I saw her I would fly into a murderous rage. She mildly annoyed me, she and her little dog. And since I, as a newfound Magical Girl, had suddenly fallen into a position where law and society no longer constrained me, mild annoyance meant cause for murder. Because in my nihilistic worldview, nothing mattered, nothing governed the universe. Do you understand?"

"I understand that's totally psychotic."

At first, Delaney seemed about to protest, but her shoulders slumped. "Yes. Yes, it is. But that's the point! Because God exacted divine retribution upon me in the form of that first archon, three years ago. Now I think, if I just went back to when I had Claudia and her dog at my mercy, how easy it would be to simply not kill her. How easy! Because I had no rage, no emotion. No passion. No frenzy. I had mild annoyance. Just as I have mild annoyance at Winnipeg, just as I—no offense—occasionally have mild annoyance at you, love. And since I now know something does govern me, does create meaning in this universe, I have no desire to act on that minor emotion of annoyance—No, emotion is the wrong word, let's see... How about discomfort? Anyway, where was I."

Sloan folded her arms. "Rambling."

"Right, right. So I think, how easy it would be to go back and simply not kill Claudia. The pointlessness is exactly what made it so sinful—I understand that now. But at the same time, killing her was what made me understand. Without a powerful enough sin to turn the eye of God upon me, I could never understand that what I was doing was wrong. Which means... in a way... killing Claudia... was a good thing? No, not good, obviously. Necessary? Something that made me a better person, in the end?"

She turned to Sloan as if expecting affirmation. Sloan had zoned out for most of it. "Delaney. God didn't punish you for killing Claudia. Archons just spawn in these boondocks from time to time. I'm glad you regret murdering some innocent girl. Great, awesome. Keep up the not murdering, Delaney! But this doesn't cut a case for your sanity."

Delaney's brow furrowed. Probably experiencing some of that mild annoyance. "Don't you even think, Sloan love? No. You feel. You see someone you hate and throttle them. You're exactly like I was! Except you can feel stronger emotions and thus need stronger emotions to act. If we slay the archon, do you truly intend to kill Clair Ibsen?"

"Yes."

The murmur of the archon peaked in pitch for a moment and returned to normal. Delaney tapped her foot against the thick encasement of pus the root bled when Winnipeg severed it. "Please, Sloan. Think about what you're doing, okay? If we win here, you'll be healthy, you'll be strong. Why squander that on an act of destruction?"

"She took my city. She betrayed me." Sloan tried not to grow angry. It didn't work. This was the bullshit that always happened. First with her twin sister, then with Clair. Where they got away with all sorts of things, awful things, but because Sloan's sister was blind and Clair was pretty and sociable, nobody batted an eye. Then when Sloan tried anything, anything at all, it was fire and brimstone, hail and plague.

She turned away to signify the conversation was over. Because it was. Clair Ibsen had taken everything from Sloan short of her life. Retribution was justified, the way killing a girl Kyubey slated for termination was justified. As if Delaney had any right to speak! After what she did? Oh, but wait, now she was Miss Moral Exemplar, who THOUGHT about things, so obviously she knew the TRUTH, and who oh-so-regretted what she did except, except maybe it was a good thing after all? Fuck you.

Delaney flung out a hand and caught Sloan by the shoulder.

"Okay, okay sorry, I didn't mean to trounce your feelings, love." She tugged to turn her around, but Sloan remained fixed at the cavern mouth. Winnipeg had vanished, probably on the other side of the archon. "You have every right to hate her. Every right! Kyubey told me what happened. She stabbed you in the back, beat you to a pulp, forced you from your own home. None of that is okay. But. Hatred begets hatred. It creates a cycle, an endless loop. A snake biting its own tail! If you kill Clair Ibsen, will you be happy?"

"No," said Sloan. "I'll be vindicated. That's enough."

"Archons are powerful beings. Odds are high we won't all make it out of the upcoming battle alive. Not to be dour about it, of course! It's mere probability, Kyubey told me as much. I have a simple request. Would you like to hear it?"

"You'll tell me anyway."

"If I die, and you survive, could you forget Clair Ibsen and go to Saskatchewan and take over my cities? They're not Minneapolis, but combined they're enough for a Magical Girl to live happily. You won't have to dwell in misery, and you won't have to destroy yourself for vengeance."

Delaney's hand curled into Sloan's shoulder, the fingers white and lithe. Sloan felt the chill of her touch through the jacket. "Why the hell would I do that."

"Because... it's my dying wish! You have to honor a dying wish."

"You're not dying. You can heal your own severed head, how are you supposed to die?"

"Ugh! You're missing the point entirely—"

Winnipeg's telepathic voice interrupted her. You two. I found something.

Sloan brushed off Delaney's hand. "I'm going down."

Delaney allowed her hand to fall. Sloan surveyed the roots leading to the lagoon and plotted a path before leaping from the ledge. She hit a root at an angle, bounced off, and landed on the same bramble Winnipeg used earlier.

A chill wafted from the black liquid, an aura of negative heat. Her body temperature plummeted instantaneously and wrapping her jacket tighter did nothing. Her insides felt frost-coated, her ribs icicles. Despite the pain, it imbued her with mental clarity. Cold was her natural element, after all.

Sloan glanced over her shoulder, but Delaney remained in the mouth of the cavern. She lifted a toothpick-sized arm and waved.

The primordial expanse of fluid and foliage, all primitive shades of black and overgrowth green, made hunting for Winnipeg difficult. Most things that moved were either throbbing roots or spectral wraiths that drifted through the swampland. The fleshy vegetable mass of the archon heaved and shook. From below it took the appearance of a celestial body, like a moon drawn too close in its orbit and now threatening to crash. Roots flowed from it like a mass of cables, each pulsing with lifeblood, siphoning energy from the tunnels.

The bulb was not submerged in the lagoon. Although it perspired black globules constantly, the room never seemed to fill. A small space beneath it was navigable, and there Sloan saw Winnipeg, perched on a low root and poking her sword at something in the mire.

With a series of cautious jumps Sloan approached, all the while trying to discern the thing floating in the swamp. It was the size of a log, but the black liquid made it impossible to see more. Even when Sloan reached Winnipeg's root, she still had trouble piecing together the amalgam of organic bits that composed the thing. Winnipeg was trying to reel it in with the tip of her katana, but it kept sliding and rotating.

"What is it," said Sloan.

"A girl," said Winnipeg.

The moment she said it the pieces came together and Sloan saw the muddied and mutilated corpse for what it was. Details such as age could only be guessed at, but it was a slight, shriveled body, swaddled in the remains of a sweater. About half the girl's face had been gnawed off, exposing a bare eyeball in a clotted socket, and the mouth hung open in perpetual horror.

Winnipeg finally fished the body and dragged it onto the root. The archon's murmur intensified. The bulb bulged and throbbed above them.

"Think the rat sent someone before us?" said Winnipeg.

"Why just one," said Sloan.

"Perhaps there are more." Winnipeg scanned the area.

"Where would she even come from. We're the closest cities of any size."

"Perhaps she came of her own volition, seeking cubes. And died for her trouble."

It seemed impossible a lone girl—a lone nomad no less, too weak to hold territory even in this barren edge of the world—could make it this far. Besides, Delaney mentioned the archon hadn't been around long. So unless the girl was here concurrent to them...

A thought popped in her head and she scrutinized the corpse more closely. But soon she decided the girl was not Asian, and thus not Omaha. It didn't make sense why Omaha would rush down here and die anyway. Probably she stood a few feet from Sloan, watching the corpse as they did.

"This body is decomposing," said Winnipeg. "I am no coroner, but I would say several days of putrefaction."

"That would mean it's been here since the miasma started, or even before," said Sloan.

"Interesting. Did the rat inform you what causes an archon to manifest?"

"Uh, lots of sin and despair. I figured it had something to do with the oil drills."

"As did I," said Winnipeg. "Do you know why an archon appeared in Saskatoon three years ago?"

Unable to stomach the decayed corpse any longer, Sloan turned away. "Delaney babbled about divine retribution and God and shit."

"So that is how she frames it..." Winnipeg clasped her hands under her chin. "I see. That is how she creates meaning in her life. One of the oldest forms of doing so in human history."

"Huh?"

"Religion. Faith in something greater. I assume you are not a religious person, Fargo. Neither am I. Neither are most Puella Magi."

Sloan got the feeling she was getting roped into another uncomfortable philosophical conversation. While on the one hand she wanted to not do that, to in fact do the opposite and not speak to either Delaney or Winnipeg and just find some way to kill the damn archon, she couldn't muster the same vitriol toward Winnipeg. Both her and Delaney had opened to Sloan, and of the two Winnipeg felt more genuine, more honestly conflicted, most of all because Sloan wasn't even sure what exactly Winnipeg's conflict was, and maybe neither did she.

At the same time, the constant seething of the bulb made Sloan uneasy. "Let's get out of here," she suggested. The murmur grew frenetic, a pounding cackle she tried to blot by clapping her hands to her ears. But the sound refused to quiet, and she realized it was not a real sound, it was a sound in her mind, as though the archon were trying to speak telepathically. She wondered if only she could hear it, or if Winnipeg and Delaney simply refused to acknowledge it.

Winnipeg remained by the corpse, inspecting it. The brackish mire rippled and the roots writhed and twisted. The immense body of the archon emitted a vast rumble. Sloan backed away, but the roots she had used to get beneath the archon were no longer there. The root on which they stood started to sink.

"Let's go," said Sloan.

Winnipeg stood up. A disinterested, almost spacey look had crept over her features. "Oh. So it has finally decided to attack, has it?"

Their root was almost completely submerged. The thick, elastic liquid sucked at Sloan's bootsoles, then rose to her ankles. She tried to lift a leg, but she had to exert considerable force to break free.

Around them burst thousands of gnarled, thorny roots, an indistinguishable mass of sickly green and splatters of tar. The roots surrounded them on all sides, coiling close to entrap them. By the time Sloan was cognizant of the situation, Winnipeg had already launched herself through the briars and disappeared in a flurry of sword strokes and squalls.

Sloan attempted to jump but she had no footing and no momentum and the tar was halfway to her knees. So instead she fell flat on her face, hitting the surface with an audible smack. Had she not grown enough over the course of this stupid expedition to stop fucking up like this? She struggled not to swallow any liquid. The scent of decomposition swelled in her nostrils.

A hand grabbed her collar and yanked her up. "Come on!" said Omaha's voice. "Jump!"

A root swung like a spike-tipped flail. Sloan jumped, bounced atop it, and sprung into the fray.

Chapter 11: Abraxas

Curling columns of roots twisted and coiled in intricate patchworks across the archon's den, each root tipped by a red barb like a scorpion's stinger. A sea of thorns undulated, so dense it was unclear where the roots even began. Trying to make sense of it all had little point.

And yet Delaney teetered on the edge of the tunnel and peered into the mass in search of her companions. Sloan and Winnipeg had simply disappeared, and who knew what fate befell them. Delaney sighed, tried to wear a concerned face. Even when nobody watched she stressed appearances. If she forced the rote motions long enough, eventually they would form habit and then nobody, not even herself, would be able to tell her from the real thing.

At least this time she did have some genuine concern, if not for her friends—poor Sloan, she tried to tell herself, but their icy parting made it especially difficult—then for her allies. She needed their firepower. You can't heal something to death; what an easy world if it worked that way!

No no no, can't you demonstrate a shred of compassion? Sloan is probably being torn apart right now. Sloan's nice, isn't she? She didn't call you a freak or try to kill you, even after the Claudia story. That's more kindness than you deserve! Whether she's nice or not is beside the point anyway. Do good deeds, remember? That's the purpose of a Magical Girl—your purpose! It means saving people. You can do it! You can save them!

"I can save them!" Delaney sprinted off the edge and plunged into the thorny sea.

Moments before she struck the top layer of roots, she tucked her legs under her chin in cannonball position and enveloped herself in a barrier. By folding up she could minimize the barrier and enhance its strength. Thus, when the barrier struck the roots it did not pop, even as thorns pressed pointed indentations into it. She pinballed between the roots, quickly growing dizzy (she had low tolerance for these things), until the bubble ricocheted and fell freely. It hit a liquid surface with a slap.

It was the lagoon. Under the canopy, roots were sparse. Although not sparse enough to be fully avoidable obstacles.

She broke her bubble and instantly formed another beneath her feet as she returned to a standing position. The lagoon exuded an ominous antilight that reflected the roots above, while the immense lower half of the archon's bulb occupied most of the available space. Delaney had landed near the outskirts of the room; she quickly scanned the area for her hapless companions.

It took only moments for a root to uncoil from the canopy and strike with the red-tipped barb. She was so preoccupied she did not even dodge and the barb impaled her stomach. Oh, Delaney! Always getting into trouble with your affable distractedness. You stupid fuck.

No time for self-loathing! The root tried to yank her into the writhing mass above. She wedged her staff against the barb for leverage, unhooked herself, and healed the gaping hole in her stomach before she even hit the lagoon, and she didn't hit it because she summoned a bubble to catch her.

She couldn't have massive plant appendages impaling her all the time, that would be quite inconvenient. Throwing up a barrier to defend against another grasping root, she made graceful leaps from bubble to bubble to delve deeper into the den.

Soon she encountered one of her dear companions, Winnipeg. The girl was engaged in fierce combat against the groping plant tentacles, hacking and slashing with her samurai sword. Personal kerfuffles aside, Delaney respected Winnipeg's technical competence. Of course, Winnipeg's technical competence was the whole reason the Incubator dragged her here in the first place. She had no function other than to provide offensive excellence where Delaney could not and Sloan could not yet, which Delaney considered something of a flaw in the overall plan. It seemed Winnipeg could be employed more efficiently, or else remain uninvolved altogether. Especially since the always-trustworthy Incubator conspired behind their backs to include a fourth girl.

Delaney rode a bubble to the battlefield and waved her staff to summon barriers around the more feisty-looking roots. Winnipeg, ignoring her, headed deeper into the fray. She had adjusted her stroke and could now slice clean through a root with one fluid motion.

"Hello hello!" said Delaney. "I'm here to help. Where's Sloan?"

Winnipeg lopped off a barb that swooped in to strike, flipped over the resulting spray of pus, and ran along the root's toppling spine to cut down two more before they even got a chance to look at her funny.

Perhaps you didn't hear me, said Delaney. Do you know where our dear Sloan's wandered off to?

Four more roots dropped one after another—hack slash chop slice! Winnipeg paused atop a headless creeper and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

I'm busy.

And off to whack more weeds. Delaney sighed.

There's no end to them, dear. We'll need to be more creative if we want to do any direct damage to the archon.

Then get creative. I lack the luxury of standing still to ponder tactics.

You know, if you helped me find Sloan, maybe we'd have enough firepower to free up time for brainstorming, hm?

Winnipeg slashed another root and landed near Delaney, conspicuously forgoing the bubble Delaney placed for her to use as a perch. I don't know where she is. We were separated.

Thank you for answering in a timely fashion! I'll simply have to find her myself. She broadcasted her thoughts to the airwaves: Sloan love, where oh where have you gone?

No use, said Winnipeg. She blitzed back into the battle. I already hailed both her and you. Unless you heard and simply decided not to respond, I believe the archon is restricting the range of our telepathy.

"Ooh," Delaney said. "Our archon appears to have a whole goodie bag of mental tricks! Much more fun than the boring old brute in Saskatoon."

Winnipeg continued to fight despite the obvious pointlessness. She should give up, just like Delaney was going to give up the obvious pointlessness of attempting conversation with a brick wall!

When she turned to search for Sloan, however, she discovered a dense jungle of roots sprouting from the lagoon.

"Winnipeg, I recall Kyubey informing me you had some sort of AoE finisher attack."

Aiyoee.

"A-o-E. Area of effect? Don't you know anything?"

The point of a finisher is that it finishes. I must ensure it slays the foe, else I will be too drained to fight.

Yeah, yeah. But enough of these roots and they'd be drained anyway. Delaney could maintain a bunch of weak barriers for a long time or a few strong barriers for a short time but eventually even she went kaput. Her previous dance with an archon was a dicey affair, so if possible she'd prefer to preserve her strength. Finding a weakpoint now instead of dithering with weeds ad infinitum would go a long way!

She racked her brains. Impenetrable main body of the archon, okay. Obviously they needed the bulb to bloom and reveal something inside. But how?

The bulb both respired and perspired the oil that flooded the lower reaches of the den. Considering new wraiths were born in the sweaty beads that bubbled through the epidermis, Delaney conjectured oil was the energy source the archon recycled endlessly to work its photosynthetic processes, rather than water as with real plants. Ergo:

?CO₂ + ?C₈H₁₈ → Wraiths + Hatred

If they cut the roots feeding it, they could at least disrupt it, but the roots were replaced instantaneously, making the task unfeasible. However! Removing the receptacles was but one option. What if they removed an element of the equation itself?

"Winnipeg! Let's drain the pool," said Delaney.

Winnipeg did not reply. Maybe she did not hear. Oh, well. Emptying the lagoon was mere logistics. Pumping mechanisms were out of the question, as the bulb could pump liquid in immense quantities without depleting it (assuming the chemical reaction occurring inside the archon diminished the total amount of oil, which made scientific sense but not, she supposed, magical sense). A drain, perhaps using one of the tunnels that ringed the den, was more technologically feasible, but it would take a long time for the liquid to siphon completely. Winnipeg had wind magic; perhaps they could suck up the liquid in a vortex, seal it into a bubble barrier, and dispose of it all at once? But that would require extreme magical exertion on both Delaney and Winnipeg's part.

Delaney stooped and slid her staff through the oil. It stuck to the red jewel and dribbled down the shaft, eventually pooling atop her hand. She sniffed it, drew back from the sour odor. A thicker consistency than water but otherwise no spectacular properties.

The pond's surface broke and a wraith emerged, its single hand groping for her. With nary a thought, she brought down her spiked ruby heel, goring it where its eye would have been and sending it sinking back.

Wait a second! If it really was oil...

"Winnipeg! Winnipeg, are you perchance a smoker?"

Is that more combat jargon you wish to berate me for not knowing?

"No, silly, I mean as in cigarettes? Personally I can't stand what tobacco does to my teeth, but—"

I find smoking repulsive.

"I figured you might say that. What about Sloan? This isn't idle chitchat, by the way, I have a practical purpose for asking."

Winnipeg removed two more roots. Did she never tire? I have not once witnessed Fargo smoking.

"Yeah, but we've only known her for less than a day. She strikes me as a smoker, honestly. It would match her aesthetic!"

No response. Delaney wished Winnipeg would just say when she was done with a conversation instead of aborting it entirely. Sure, Delaney had done some not nice things to her, and in fact part of her plan had been for Winnipeg to specifically dislike her (and like Sloan instead), but really. Basic communication, girl!

Did Winnipeg even realize how easy it would be for Delaney to summon a barrier right in front of her path? She imagined the bubble deflecting Winnipeg, knocking the momentum right out of her, the little body losing its grace and bouncing hopelessly toward the murk. The barbs of the roots pouncing, impaling her from multiple sides at once, ripping her body apart, severing her limbs and neck.

No! Delaney knocked a fist against her head, reveling in the dull thunk that signified a brainless skull. Think about good things instead! Like how happy all three of you will be when you defeat the archon. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined the scene, but no matter how she tried she could not muster the same detail as her fantasy of Winnipeg's grisly death. The three of them stood as sketchy figures with no background. If she removed herself from the image things got a little easier, but not enough.

The same wraith from before wrapped a slimy claw around her ankle. She bashed in its cranium with her staff.

Time to spark her dumb self into action and find Sloan. Her bubble skittered over the oil, taking her along for the ride. The den was deceptively expansive. The wiggling thorns had an odd optic effect, cutting zigzag forms through what should have been parallels and perpendiculars. It made it hard to focus; the roots had a hypnotic sway. Could this be another of the archon's perception-altering powers, or simply Delaney acting loopy again? Let's go with the former.

"Sloan love!" She cupped her hands to her mouth. "SLOOOOOOAN LOOOOOOVE!"

Her voice echoed. She squinted to force the diagonal lines into focus, but they were just lines, forms, jittering back and forth devoid of meaning, becoming Mondrian, becoming Pollack (Jackson, not Delaney). This was, this was, this was actually kinda...

She slowed down her bubble and leaned over to catch a breather. Disorientation immediately overtook her and she lost sight of which way was up. She found out when she bent over to vomit.

What felt like all her guts streamed from her mouth into the black pool, leaving her an empty skin with nothing inside. A painful cramp in her voided stomach caused her to grab at herself with both hands. She spat out the acrid backwash and clenched her teeth.

This wasn't just a reaction to the motions of the roots. It was too visceral, too potent. But what...?

The barb! The one that impaled her earlier. She had assumed her magic counteracted the venom. Was that overconfident? Nothing else had touched her. It was the only way the archon could affect her so strongly. Then why did she not see a flashback of critical events in her life, like Sloan did?

A small creature appeared beside her and she raised her hand to strike it before she realized it was the Incubator. Still clutching one arm tight to her stomach she tried to ask what he was doing there, but her mouth was cotton. She lowered her hand on the Incubator's head (all he did was stare), but her fingers passed through and dipped into the oil where he sat.

A hallucination? But why him? Of all the lousy things from her past, why the one with which she could on some level actually identify, maybe even respect? She certainly felt nothing so strong toward him as to merit his appearance in her delusions.

The cracks in the world around her sharpened with encroaching menace. She had a dull recollection of a parallel universe of roots and swamp. Her addled brain fired muted warnings. She had to purge the toxins quick.

She brought her teeth to her wrist and clamped deep. Sickly brown blood seeped, then sprayed, over her dress. She gnawed deeper into the vein until her blood propelled out in a voluminous arc.

A harsh crack in the world came crashing down on her. A root? She barreled aside and plunged into the tar, forcing herself under the surface despite the buoyancy that tried to push her back up. Cracks followed her down; she saw them, though the oil stung her eyes and should have rendered sight inoperable. All she needed was for enough blood to leave her that the effects would wear off, and then she could replenish herself with magic. She applied pressure with her thumb to expel the blood faster, but the viscosity of the oil gummed her wound. She dragged a fingernail down the length of her forearm, splitting herself wide open.

The Incubator swam along in the murk, his fur pure white despite the ooze. Why not Claudia? What was this hallucination supposed to show?

Gradually, the Incubator faded. The cracks faded. She blinked, forcing the oil from her eyelids, and when she opened them again she saw only blackness. She felt faint from blood loss, but otherwise clearheaded. Unsure how far beneath the surface she had sunk, she began to swim upward.

Except something snagged her ankle. She kicked her foot but the thing remained tight, a single strand like seaweed. She tried to unhook herself, but the molasses-like liquid devolved all motion to awkward underwater ballet. It was difficult to even find her foot; it felt as though she had a foot somewhere but it was not connected to the rest of her body. Her fingers groped. Oil seeped into her nostrils. She should have put up a barrier before she submerged. Normally she had the presence of mind for that, but the sickness caused a momentary lapse in clarity. Again placing her in a more compromised position than she was used to. Was this how Winnipeg felt? Funny, considering to Delaney it all posed a minor inconvenience, not an earth-shattering catastrophe. But she was feeling fainter and fainter.

She gave up on finding her foot. The thing around her ankle was attached to something of weight but it exerted no force beyond gravity, and even that was nullified by the buoyancy of the oil. She kicked her free leg and flailed and tried to swim and had no idea if she made any progress at all.

Something tugged on her scalp. It was her hair. Unlike whatever clung to her ankle, this force was actively pulling, and actively pulling her upward. Her body rose and rose, and just when she wondered how far she had left to rise she broke the surface.

Air, functionally unneeded but welcome nonetheless, flooded into her windpipes. She landed on her bubble imagining herself like those birds in soap commercials who got trapped in oil slicks.

"I can't see anything," she told her rescuer.

"You got oil in your eyes," said Sloan.

A hand pressed against her face. When it went away, she could see again. And yep, she looked like a bird in a soap commercial. She quickly filled herself with nice, clean blood and sealed the wound on her arm.

That was close. The first time she felt real danger the entire expedition. She supposed it wouldn't be an archon romp without at least one near-death experience.

"The hell happened," said Sloan. Her right arm dripped oil. "I saw your bubble and then ripples on the surface. Did you—the fuck, how did this get here."

She pointed to the thing clutching Delaney's ankle. It was a small human hand, attached to a small human arm, attached to a small human corpse. The corpse was similarly drenched, but vaguely recognizable as female.

"Is this your friend Omaha?" said Delaney.

"No, Winnipeg found it. How did it get here? Did it... pull you under?"

"Nonsense." Delaney pried the fingers from her leg. "It's a dead thing, it can't do that."

She gave the corpse an unceremonious push and watched it slowly sink. She pulled herself to her feet and clapped her hands together.

"Oh yes, before I forget! Sloan, you smoke, correct?"

Sloan boggled at her. Her machine gun unleashed a salvo of unmanned fire to hold the roots at bay.

"It's a simple question, love."

After a brief pause, Sloan said, "I can't afford to smoke."

Delaney pursed her lips and whistled, except her lungs convulsed and she bent over to hack up some grime. After a few pats on her chest for good measure, she spat cutely. "Patooie!"

"You okay," Sloan asked.

"Dandy." Delaney hooked a thumb onto her tongue and scooped out more gunk. "But this is really important, love! Are you certain you don't have a lighter, or matches?"

Sloan waved her arm to redirect the aim of her gun. A disembodied root, fizzling at a sundered end, slapped against the lagoon. "I don't have jack shit. I need you to help fight. There's too damn many of these things."

Oh, and her hair. She whipped the once-white strands into a ponytail and wrung them over her shoulder. "Sloan dear, that's the problem I'm attempting to solve. Don't you know what oil does?"

It took a few seconds for the realization to dawn with comical eye-widening. Sloan, you can be such a dunce sometimes.

"Shit," she said. "Shit, that's genius! Uh..." Sloan rifled through her coat, her sullied arm smearing oil everywhere. Several upturned pockets later, she slumped her shoulders. "I got nothing."

"Oh, rats!" said Delaney. "And you know Winnipeg's so straightedge. Can't your magic do anything?"

"It's just light," said Sloan. "Random ass magical light only loosely connected to the laws of physics. It gives barely any heat. Like, the tiniest amount—"

Again the epiphany face, although this time Delaney hadn't the foggiest idea why as she puzzled out alternative methods to make fire, wondering if they could gather sticks to do it the neanderthal way (really, you'd think something as elementary as fire would be easy peasy) or else drum up a hitherto-subconscious magical power, or attempt a chemical reaction to cause conflagration (the hemoglobin in her blood had the formula C₂₉₅₂H₄₆₆₄O₈₃₂N₈₁₂S₈Fe₄, surely a reaction creating enough heat for flash point was possible with ingenuity and magical chicanery). But she let Sloan say whatever it was she was going to say.

"Give me your glasses," said Sloan.

"Um, why?"

"Just do it."

Delaney fished into her filthy dress and found her similarly-filthy glasses. Sloan snatched them and daubed a saliva-slicked thumb against the lenses.

"Now paper or something like it," said Sloan as she furiously wiped away oil.

"I don't have any," said Delaney.

Sloan held the glasses to her eyes and squinted. She resumed wiping. "The map, gimme the map."

"The map." The map? "Oh! The map!"

She had kept the map of Williston in a safe place, partially to remember where it was and partially because she was paranoid of Winnipeg finding and destroying it. She daintily lifted a leg and slid a finger into her ruby heel to pop it from her foot. Tucked snug under the insole were the folded pieces of her dear map.

"Now tell me, love, what do you need this for?"

"To burn it."

At Sloan's statement Delaney retracted her hand. "What! But, but it's my map!"

"If we win this fight we won't need it anymore. Stop fucking around and give it!"

Did Sloan even realize the effort it took to find a detailed print map of a backwater hick town in rural North Dakota? How many archives, how many bureaucratic labyrinths Delaney plundered to procure this one map, which served them so well despite Winnipeg's rather rude defacement? And now Sloan wanted to burn it? And she was so testy, too!

Delaney thought to voice her opinions when Sloan seized her wrist and wrenched the paper from her hand, ignoring her indignant shriek. Once the paper had been pried from her fingers, however, Delaney no longer felt so attached and let Sloan off with a minor harrumph.

With one hand holding the crumpled pieces of map and the other holding the glasses, Sloan positioned herself precariously on the bubble, squinting her eyes and measuring the distance between the two seemingly random objects. She moved the glasses to her face while she extended the map away from her, and then pulled it back close.

"Excuse the intrusion, love, but what is it exactly you are doing?"

"Ever fry ants?" said Sloan.

"Ants."

"You know, with a magnifying glass."

"I thought that was something rustic children did, but only in nostalgic movies."

Sloan shut one eye and bit her lip. A vague glow emanated from the hand holding the glasses. "In fact I never did it either. Before Minneapolis I lived in Arizona. Lots of sun all the time. Sometimes I thought about going out and frying ants, but it was always too damn hot."

"Um, okay!" said Delaney.

"The point is, same logic here. You take a glass, focus light through it, and shit gets hot." The aura engulfed her hand in light. Delaney shielded her face and cast a glance over her shoulder to check how Sloan's gun was holding up in the constant war of the roots. She applied a few bubbles to aid the defense.

She didn't have the heart to tell Sloan her scheme lacked scientific feasibility. Ignoring the suboptimal use of non-prescription reading lenses as a substitute for the uniform regularity and superior convexity of a magnifying glass, the laws of entropy meant no matter the focusing power of her lens Sloan could not create heat that exceeded the temperature of the heat's source, i.e. the orb of light in her hand. And since the orb gave off little heat, by Sloan's own admission and Delaney's observation, this was an exercise in futility.

At least she thought that until a small charred mark appeared on the tip of the map. The mark spread, the map bending and decaying as if animated in stop motion, the red lines of Williston contorting and ultimately dissolving into nothingness, the town becoming effigy, an erasure in facsimile. But it made no scientific sense! Entropy—

Delaney, you idiot. The powers of a Magical Girl were specifically harnessed to combat entropy. Their magic was emotion transformed into literal power. Sloan's belief in her ability meant more than the scientific processes guiding it, as she literally traded chunks of her soul for a desired outcome. Hence a Magical Girl's most vital attribute: Creativity.

(And the capacity of their gem, of course. Delaney had no doubt this minor act of combusting a paper cost Sloan more than the machine gun had in the past ten minutes.)

The second the map caught flame Sloan shut off her light and tossed the glasses back to Delaney. She cupped a hand around the inchoate flicker, gently blowing and protecting it from the airless air that surrounded them. The fire grew; more of Williston was seared away.

"Wow, love! Amazing!" Delaney clapped her hands with the wet thwack of oil.

Sloan's eyes did not leave the flame. She bent close, almost singeing her nose, her lips pursed to feed it with oxygen. Once the map lit up like a torch, Sloan held out her arm and let it drop.

Delaney, who was drenched in the stuff, basically caught fire instantly as an inferno detonated around them. Flames spread to Sloan's similarly-drenched arm and she staggered back with a grunt of surprise. Before either of them became charbroiled, Delaney flooded them with blood and enveloped them in a protective bubble.

The bubble ascended. Sloan staggered back, checking the damage (she had lost a good part of her sleeve) as Delaney coalesced the bloody runoff and added it to the shell of the bubble around them. Leaving them spic and span, no oil, no blood. Their clothes had not fared well, of course. Apart from Sloan's sleeve, the hem of Delaney's gown was a series of burnt strips that flittered around her legs. It was always the worst when your clothes got ruined. It was so difficult to mend magical apparel if you lacked the appropriate skills.

Fashion later, Delaney! The flames spread across the surface of the lagoon. Pillars of smoke rose into the cavern, swirling among the roots. The archon loosed an arrhythmic squeal that seemed less pained than annoyed.

"It worked," said Sloan.

"I know! Very good, love." Delaney inspected one of her long white gloves, which had been rendered basically worthless. Finger by finger she removed it. The other glove was okay, so despite the asymmetry she left it. No point in wastefulness!

Something landed atop the bubble with a boing. It was Winnipeg, crouched low. One hand held the katana while the other smoothed her skirt due to her compromising position directly above them.

What's all this, she said.

I set stuff on fire, said Sloan.

"Oh, just get in here already." Delaney waved her staff and made her bubble semipermeable. Winnipeg's body sank through until the blood no longer supported her and she plopped between them with a splat.

She quickly rearranged herself (shame! Delaney loved seeing dear Winnipeg in undignified positions) and shuffled to Sloan's side to stare onto the hellscape below.

"The fire is having an effect already," said Winnipeg.

A true statement! The roots abandoned their previous interests and roared through the air, attending to the main bulb, beating back the flames with invertebrate slaps. A root near their bubble wagged back and forth as fire enveloped it, until it went rigid and sank into the flames.

"The bulb," said Sloan.

She pointed. At first, Delaney could not see what Sloan indicated, but as the motions grew more pronounced it became clear the bulb was opening.

By now the entire cavern was filled with smoke, but the archon remained visible through sheer immensity as it shuddered and woke and its leathery black skin peeled into four vast petals. Although the bulb had been only black on the outside, its inner skin swam with exuberant color: reds, greens, blues, oranges, yellows, polka dots, stripes, plaid. Sloan wasn't sure but she thought the colors changed as she looked.

Delaney's bubble rose above the bloom, giving them a better vantage. The petals reached to the walls of the den. At their center was a dark depression in which nothing could be perceived. From it rose the flower that had adorned the top of the archon.

Until the archon fully bloomed, the flower remained unchanged. But once the petals (or skin flaps, or whatever—Sloan didn't know dick about plant biology, and she doubted the archon did either) settled, the flower changed. Not with any transformation sequence or visible mutation. One moment it was a flower, and the next Sloan had to rub her eyes to make sure she saw correctly, because all at once it became something else.

Delaney rolled onto her back and laughed hysterically. Sloan and Winnipeg glanced at her once and turned back to the archon. The flower's stem was now a long, thick neck, adorned with technicolor feathers, swaying hypnotically. The head was unseeable behind a strange mask that at first had a Picasso vibe, all empty eyes and scarification, but soon its features arranged into a semblance of structure, becoming...

Clair Ibsen? Her face, at least, and a pretty stunning likeness. Sloan was more impressed than anything. Unlike her prior hallucination, it was obvious the mask was mere mimicry. Just Clair Ibsen's stupid face openmouthed like a grouper, her same bleach white skin and platinum hair hanging in gangly strands.

Sloan crossed her arms. "Let's kill this thing already."

"I assume it takes a different appearance for you than me," said Winnipeg.

"Ditto for Delaney," said Sloan.

Delaney stifled her sniggering with a hiccup and climbed to her feet, wiping the corners of her eyes. "Oh my. Sorry, dears. But if you could see what I see..."

"Whatever it is, it's a distraction," said Sloan. "Let's unleash some heavy duty firepower into it, see if it takes damage now. Once we get an idea of its abilities, we can figure a better plan. Keep in communication."

Delaney ahemed and affected a more serious tone. "It blocks telepathy if we move too far apart."

"We'll deal as we go," said Sloan. "Pop the bubble."

The bubble popped. The three girls dispersed like spores and descended on a rising coil of roots. Sloan concentrated on sticking a landing and managed to succeed without even impaling her foot on a thorn.

Winnipeg landed on a nearly parallel root. Together they dashed toward the archon's masked head, blasting and slicing at the roots that tried to batter them back. Blood bubbles deflected attacks from the sides.

The four petals trembled and spewed millions of tiny pollen particles into the air. Delaney shouted somewhere not to breathe. It was tough, given the excitement as everything verged toward climax, but Sloan bit her lip and tried to close her lungs, tried to subsist on soul energy as she bounded from root to root. The allergens clotted her eyes; her vision dimmed despite its magical perspicacity.

Ahead loomed the archon. Winnipeg and Delaney were out of sight; only the archon existed, only Clair Ibsen. Sloan reached the end of one root, hurled herself into the air, and blasted with as good as she could give. The light tore through a few flaming roots and battered the face with a tinny twang before bouncing off in every direction.

The face stared at her, unharmed, unblinking.

Yet Sloan had committed to the attack fully. She now hung at the zenith of her leap, defenseless and unable to maneuver. Her decision, in hindsight, hadn't been very tactical, but she was saved when a gust caught and dragged her. Winnipeg soared past like a ballerina, one leg bent at the knee and the other straight, and behind her swirled a cyclone of fire funneled from the lagoon in a massive column.

Winnipeg pointed her katana. Her cyclone curved and smashed into the archon's mask. For a moment it looked like the attack dealt a critical blow, but with one tremendous shake the archon cleared the flames, revealing the same Clair Ibsen face with features altered to fury.

Clair Ibsen unhinged her jaw. From the void within spewed a thousand dazzling shards. Winnipeg threw up a hand to defend her Soul Gem and Sloan had a mere moment to do likewise.

What felt like fifty jagged knives dug into her body. She gasped the breath she had shored against the pollen as the blades plunged deep and diced her innards to ribbons. One gored her through the cheek; she tasted iron blood. Hard as bone, it knocked against her teeth until she yanked it out.

It took her only a moment to identify the spade-shaped, blood-drenched object. A seed. The archon implanted them with seeds.

Still sailing on Winnipeg's current as it cycled the perimeter of the den, Sloan tore furiously at the seeds lodged in her chest and stomach. She devoted part of her mind to her gun to fight the roots, but it was tough to focus as she clawed frantically.

"Oh dear." Delaney rode by atop a small bubble. "That looks bad."

"More incoming," said Winnipeg.

The archon/Clair Ibsen spat another volley. A bubble ballooned to catch it.

"Hm, now let's take a looksie at these things." Delaney drifted next to Sloan and examined the seeds still stuck in her skin. Before she made any progress, a root shot from the bramble and ran her through. The bright red barb poked out her chest, spilling blood down the front of her gown, and reeled her back. Her legs hung uselessly as she disappeared into the thicket. The bubble she erected to protect them burst.

"Shit," said Sloan. She extricated another seed and looked for Winnipeg. She was nearby, alternating between removing seeds and lopping roots. "We need to regroup!"

The seeds implanted in Winnipeg erupted in unison. Before Sloan could react, her own seeds burst. Ten or twenty wiry vines coiled to quickly bind her arms and throat. The barbed joints dug deep and forced her to gasp for air, only to suck in a mouthful of spores. Her eyes bulged, her hands clenched into useless fists, her legs kicked as the wind dispersed and dropped her.

The vines sliced into her jacket and skin like razor wire. The image flashed in her mind of her school field trip to a packing plant and the way the workers used metal wire to cut thick blocks of cheese with morbid effortlessness. Sloan had refused to watch.

She twisted in midair. Evasion, or even movement, was impossible. Where did she leave her gun floating? Too late. A root rose up, its red barb poised to impale.

An invisible force yanked her out of the way. She sailed through the roots that struck at her, her body propelled beyond her control.

Omaha's tiny voice whispered: "Don't worry, I got you!"

Get these things off me, said Sloan.

Omaha dropped onto a petal that was still aglow like a multicolored strip of tarpaulin. Sloan went invisible and the world faded to a bleary and unclear vista. Omaha entered her view, wrapped in a long cowled cloak.

We have to be quick. Omaha set Sloan down and materialized a long scythe in one hand. She looked like a grim reaper. Even her gaunt face added to the aesthetic. The archon can surely sense us even if it cannot see us.

She swung the scythe and deftly severed the vines around Sloan's body. Sloan rolled over and gasped for air. Thousands of small lacerations covered her, she was a wreck.

I only have basic curative magic, said Omaha. And it'll take too long to work. You'll have to bear it.

Sloan could handle pain. Her soulless body dampened it. Given time, she would regenerate naturally, although not within the frame of this fight—finding Delaney was paramount. And Winnipeg, shit. The archon scattered them with remarkable efficiency.

Omaha, we need to find the others. You go for Delaney, I'll get Winnipeg.

Omaha flinched as a root roared overhead. She kept one hand like a vise on Sloan's wrist. Why should I go for Delaney? You need her to heal you, you should find her.

Delaney is more important. You can move undetected, you have the better chance. Don't argue.

Okay. Omaha nodded. Her cowl bobbed and covered her eyes. She reached into her cloak and retrieved a pendant on a necklace. Take this.

Sloan seized and examined it. It was Winnipeg's Soul Gem.

I could only carry one of you, but I needed to make sure the other wouldn't die. So I swiped Miss Dufresne's gem.

Smart, said Sloan. The roots gathered closer and the Clair Ibsen mask seemed to look their way. Sloan wondered what Omaha saw the mask as. Let's move.

Omaha gave a surprisingly warm smile. Okay! Good luck, Sloan.

She let go. Omaha melded into nothingness; Sloan returned to the visible world. Red-barbed roots careened from every direction, but Sloan was ready to fight and ready to run. As the roots converged she materialized her machine gun and jumped like a corkscrew, spewing light in a three-sixty-degree torrent. The roots in her immediate vicinity fell squirming.

Wincing away the pain and ignoring the blood drizzling down her jacket, she sprinted down a root and peeled her eyes for Winnipeg. She wondered about the pollen she breathed and hoped no wonky mindfucks would screw her. The whole world seemed a cluster of nonsense, from the roots to the smoke to the gaudy colors to Clair Ibsen's face, but she was pretty sure that was all stuff that was actually happening. At least, she hoped so.

Winnipeg. Delaney. Where you at?

No luck. If either girl was in a state to respond it would be miraculous. At least with Winnipeg's Soul Gem she could be certain one of them wasn't dead. Wait. If Sloan had her gem, that meant Winnipeg was unconscious and had no way of hearing her. God dammit.

She danced from root to root. When she felt cheeky she levied gunfire at the Clair mask. No effect, even when she attacked the feathery neck instead of the face. But each hit registered a solid, corporeal plink, unlike the bulb, which had absorbed hits altogether. A concentrated attack from her and Winnipeg might be able to—

There! Deep in the bramble, between columns of smoke and backdropped by fire: an unmistakable flash of lavender. Without hesitation, Sloan plunged. She skated down the roots in search of the small purple scrap, only doubting if she had seen anything at all once halfway down and the fire on the lagoon raged like hell rising to grasp her.

It was hard to see. Everywhere was surreal imagery. She shoved a hand to her eyes and blasted herself with a beam of light, repairing the pollen's damage immediately. The trick worked for a few seconds, but soon more spores dulled her vision. Her fucking kryptonite, she needed her eyes. They were the best thing about her, and this stupid fucking archon knew exactly what to counter, since the spores seemed to have no other effect. Or was it psychological? Was the blurred vision in her mind, did the other girls suffer different afflictions, each tailored to their perceived strengths? Nobody else had complained they couldn't see.

Lavender scrolled across her periphery and disappeared between two roots. Winnipeg, or the archon fucking with her? Luring her deeper...

Fuck it. She would solve her problems the way she knew best: blasting them to bits. She dove the direction Winnipeg fell and obliterated the roots in front of her with her gun. As the way cleared, she saw a girl's small limp body stuck to a root, mouth agape and eyes dim.

Sloan landed beside her, yanked her arms to pull her free, and with a dose of magic to make her weightless hoisted her onto her back koala-like. Winnipeg's head nestled against the crook of Sloan's neck and her arms hung down Sloan's front, the pencil-thin wrists bound by one of Sloan's hands. The machine gun clenched in the other, Sloan assessed her position. She was deep in the seething nest of roots. Thorns thronged her, poised to prick with debilitating toxin.

The way she had come, above, was completely closed with roots. She instead followed the path of least resistance and dropped down deeper.

"Wake up Winnipeg," she said. If she stayed on this route, she would eventually drop into the fires. She needed Winnipeg's wind magic by then, but the girl was totally knocked out. As Sloan prodded her, she realized Winnipeg was still wearing her Magical Girl outfit even though her magic was inactive. No—not her actual outfit. A close enough replica to deceive at first glance. Winnipeg had reconstructed her uniform for civilian wear; was that dedication or insanity?

She obliterated a root and hellfire roared up to greet her. Already in free fall, Sloan angled for a low-hanging loop of thorns and barely managed to hit it, her balance precarious.

"Wakey wakey Winnipeg." She jostled Winnipeg's head with her own.

Winnipeg groaned, stirred. Her body trembled against Sloan's back. A foot kicked spasmodically and jabbed Sloan in the thigh. She sputtered a little. Blood formed on her lower lip in a squash-colored bubble and burst.

More and more roots emerged. "Get your shit together quick, sunshine, we gotta bounce."

"B... buh..." One eyelid flickered open and drooped lazily.

Sloan swept her gun across the enemies. "There we go, come on now."

"Buh, box... Box..."

Sloan persisted with gentle pleading and her most maternal tone (which was not very maternal). A barb lashed out and she scrambled aside to evade it, nearly toppling headlong off her constantly-shifting platform.

"Box... open the... box..."

"There's no goddam box," said Sloan. Was this just-woke-up-with-a-concussion talk or a delusion incited by the thorns' poison? Sloan knew nothing about Winnipeg's past, had only the barest conception of how a box might factor into it.

"What's in... the box..."

The root on which Sloan stood became too unstable. She bounded onto another, which afforded even less space than the previous. "Nothing's in the goddam box," she said.

Winnipeg's hand seized Sloan's shoulder. "There's gotta be something in there!" A strange terror quavered in her voice.

"Why," said Sloan. "Why's something gotta be there." She fried another root.

"It's the reason," Winnipeg mumbled. "It's the reason in the box. The purpose..."

"That makes no sense." Confront her on her bullshit, force her to realize the absurdity. Wake her from dreamland.

"If there's nothing... I need to know... the box... Open it..."

"THERE IS NO BOX."

She scanned the area. No more convenient roots. The nearest docile one was way in the distance, and the hostile ones sought a lapse in her concentration, an opening to exploit. The fires raged and the smoke made identifying the closest enemies difficult.

"Has to be in the box... the reason for why... why I'm..."

"Winnipeg, don't wax philosophical on me—I need you to DO THINGS."

"The reason!"

"THE REASON IS WE DIE IF YOU DON'T!"

From a smoky plume a hitherto-unseen root lashed out. Sloan barely had time to register the attack and raised her gun to deflect the blow. The stinger crashed through the gears and machinery, destroying the well-oiled parts. The impact sent Sloan staggering—

—Into open air. She fell.

"WINNIPEG!"

A blast of wind erupted outward. The fires were swept away, caught in the whorls like threads of orange silk, lighting the gathered roots like fuses as fast-acting flame raced into the cluster above. Gravity ceased its pull and Sloan found herself suspended, no longer gripping Winnipeg but Winnipeg gripping her.

Winnipeg's eyes reflected the flames caught in the whirlwind. "What did I babble," she said.

"Nothing worth worrying about. Let's hit that fucking thing with everything we got."

Winnipeg nodded, a ghastly pallor to her carbuncular skin but the familiar determination not lost among it. The wind screeched a death-whistle as it heaved them through the air and toward the outer edges of the cavern. Winnipeg relinquished Sloan and seized her katana in both hands, channeling her energy as the wind propelled them around the lair's circumference. Fires twisted like sunspots on the surface of a star galaxies away as Sloan and Winnipeg soared centrifugal, gaining velocity, gaining momentum. The gordian knot of roots churned and watched.

"Is this your finisher?" Sloan shouted. The wind swallowed her voice, so she repeated: Is this your finisher?

Pah! said Winnipeg. My finisher will be the last thing you see in this fight, rest assured. We must remove the archon's mask and reveal its true form before I use it. Now hold on.

Sloan wrapped her arms around Winnipeg's waist. Her coattails buffeted her legs.

By the way, Sloan said, I got something for you.

She held out the necklace with Winnipeg's Soul Gem. The purple stone was mired but not incorrigible. Winnipeg nodded and allowed Sloan to slide the necklace over her head.

Now we ascend, said Winnipeg.

The wind shifted and launched them skyward. The roots angled their thousand barbs to impale. In an imperceptibly quick slash, the roots fell apart and Sloan and Winnipeg passed through a clean and blustery channel. The bramble corrected for the cavity but by the time it even began to move they had burst back above the archon.

The archon faced them. At first the Clair Ibsen mask seemed to have lost most of its realism, but as it eyed them its features resumed a lifelike quality, brow furrowed and mouth twisted into a sneer.

No sign of Omaha or Delaney. But this was as good a chance as any to dent the thing's armor.

We hit it hard at the same time, said Sloan. We break the mask and then hope your finisher lives up to its name.

It will, said Winnipeg. Are you prepared?

Sloan let go of Winnipeg. Another gun materialized in her hands.

Let's fuck this bitch up.

She squeezed the trigger but held her magic to charge the attack. The barrel of her gun churned, whirred, and grew translucent with accumulated light. Pain welled inside her as she drained thick chunks of her soul to build it stronger and stronger. Her arms and legs quivered uncontrollably; blood spurted from her open wounds. Clair Ibsen's face leered as it expanded its mouth into an apocalyptic void.

The moment it spat another volley of seeds Sloan released her magic. The gun roared with a mammoth spark that surged through the air and incinerated the seeds en route.

For a brief moment the archon Clair Ibsen watched with dull apprehension, perhaps even fear—a sight that swelled Sloan with vindication as she rolled back from the recoil.

The orb struck the archon. At the moment of impact the orb collapsed and all light was sucked out of the cavern. Absolute darkness. One second passed, two seconds. Then the light flared in a tumultuous eruption. A horrific roar accompanied the spreading particles as the archon lurched back with a vast bristling of its feathered throat. A billion tiny lines spread across the Clair Ibsen mask like the craquelure of mummification.

The next moment, Winnipeg whipped her arm horizontal across the mask. Clair Ibsen split in two, her mouth cut with a Glasgow smile. The two halves spread in opposite directions, afloat sluggishly, as if physics itself was staggered by the attack.

Clair Ibsen shattered.

A blast launched Winnipeg backward. Both she and Fargo danced like rag dolls through the air, arms and limbs turned to jointless slabs of meat. Fargo struck the wall first, followed by Winnipeg.

Winnipeg groped, caught Fargo's ankle, anchored herself. They fell in freeform plunge until Winnipeg's magic buoyed them, at which point they righted themselves in midair and let go of one another. Winnipeg faced her enemy, now bereft of the face of Stewart Wibaux (no doubt Fargo had seen Minneapolis; Winnipeg wondered what form it took for Regina-Saskatoon). Bit by bit they had peeled away the archon's distractions. Now they knew its true face.

The archon—the real archon—had a serpentine head, bedecked with a pileated crest of so many vibrant shades of gray it seemed as though there had once been color, sapped by eutrophication. A curved beak of pure ivory jutted from its face, adorned by scrimshaw arabesques, harsh swirls of no immediate meaning. Above two tufts of feathers, where eyes should have been, static crackled.

This was its true face. It had to be its true face.

Winnipeg lacked the stamina or soul to continue fighting if this were not its true face. With a deep puncture wound in her back and lacerations across her skin, stoically sealing pain became less and less tenable. She had rationed power for her finisher; it needed to work now.

She raised her katana. Her finisher required a five-second charge time. In magical combat five seconds was virtual eternity and the windup served as her otherwise infallible finisher's sole downside. Even Fargo's attack that fractured the archon's mask took only half the time. But if Winnipeg could pull it off...

"BOURRASQUE—"

The archon opened its beak and loosed a nerve-shattering song. The soundwaves traveled as a visible pulse and knocked Winnipeg and Fargo back against the wall. Great chunks of earth cascaded from the ceiling.

Fargo grabbed Winnipeg and dove away from a falling boulder. The energy around Winnipeg's katana dissipated and the attack went unfinished.

They rebounded and lost control in the air. Winnipeg used magic to fight against their schizoid trajectory, but the petals swirled beneath, vivid oranges and greens, so freakishly colorful in an otherwise colorless realm that it stirred nausea. The walls of the den rumbled and quaked as the petals curled upward. No—not curling. Spreading. The petals were becoming the walls around them. The vibrant pigmentation bled from the petals onto the ashen surfaces. The transformation happened with torpid slowness and yet seemed to happen all at once; the walls and fires stripped away until all sense of direction disappeared and they entered a nebulous dimension of tropical clown colors. The only distinguishable object in the entire semipermanent haze was the archon itself, a column of feathered neck that extended from a wrinkle in the world.

From similar wrinkles sprouted the archon's countless roots. There were even more now, the endless coils clotting and blocking the view of the archon proper, although not the painful expressionist garbage that surrounded them. Or perhaps the world had grown smaller—and the archon, in changing the colors of the walls, had altered them in a way Regina-Saskatoon said was within its power.

"Ooh, what an interesting development!" said Regina-Saskatoon herself as she melded out of the background and encased the three of them in a protective bubble. "It must be truly desperate. It's trying to change the miasma despite our counteractive presence. A dire gambit indeed!"

"It's working," said Winnipeg. No trace remained of the previous den; all was now color.

"Where did you come from," said Fargo to Regina-Saskatoon. This bubble was much smaller than the last. They pressed together in the tight confines.

Regina-Saskatoon donned a wan smile. She did not look good. In addition to the numerous half-healed wounds that coated her body, her uniform had gone to tatters and her hair, normally brown, had developed several strands of gray. Dark bags underlined her eyes.

Yet the Soul Gem on her shoulder remained flawless.

"Funny story, that," she said. "I remember being dragged by a root having all sorts of delusions—and then presto! I was free, something severed the root. I regained my senses just in time to observe your attack on the archon's mask. Truly stunning teamwork and coordination!"

Roots pounded against the bubble. It bulged with wet squishes. Blood drizzled from the weakening walls onto their heads.

"No time for prattle," said Winnipeg. Regina-Saskatoon seemed like she might literally break into pieces at any moment.

"Winnipeg's right." Fargo's tall, lanky body contorted to fit in the bubble. Her neck craned at an awkward angle. "If the archon can fuck up spacetime we're dicked."

"We have exposed its true face. Now is time to behead the snake." Winnipeg jabbed a finger against Regina-Saskatoon's chest to get her attention and she lolled her head in response. "I need you to shield me long enough I can charge my finisher."

"Your finisher can cut through all these roots AND the archon?" said Fargo.

Winnipeg's first impulse was to give a resounding and unwavering yes. That single affirmative word, with no explanation or qualification: the absolute confidence in and understanding of one's ability that defined everything admirable and impressive to human beings. The kind of response she would have given a thousand times in a thousand different contexts because it was so easy to simulate confidence simply by acting without thinking.

"I cannot be certain." She closed her eyes and exhaled. The archon was no longer visible behind the thick knot of roots. "I—"

A root struck the bubble and sheared it open. In a wash of blood they toppled into formless subspace, beset on all sides.

Regina-Saskatoon laughed and swung her staff wildly at nothing.

Winnipeg, said Fargo as she forced the roots back with her gun. Use your finisher to take out the roots. I'll kill the archon.

When I use my finisher I'm out of the fight, said Winnipeg. I will be unable to do anything until I have cubes.

Fargo grabbed Winnipeg's arm. Trust me. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's blowing shit up.

A whole host of thoughts crowded Winnipeg's mind at once. Calculations, projections, assumptions, assessments. Damage outputs versus defensive fortifications, potential unknowns and known unknowns. And somehow a lingering distaste at the thought of anyone but her performing the coup de grâce, a disgust at her own relegation to a support role that her rational side quickly squashed. Fargo excelled at unloading high offensive damage onto immobile and undefended enemies, either single target or against mobbish clumps. And Winnipeg excelled at, what did Regina-Saskatoon call it, A-O-E attacks, slaughtering numerous enemies at once either through her wind magic or her finisher, ON TOP of her strong single-target offense. Both could deal the damage necessary to kill the archon, but of the two only Winnipeg could clear a path to it in the first place. The strategy was inarguable. She would stand aside and give Fargo the opportunity to end.

She wheeled on Regina-Saskatoon and slapped her in the face. "Wake up and quit giggling. I need a barrier around me for five seconds, do you think you can manage even that?"

The roots closed in tight. Regina-Saskatoon attempted a serious face and saluted. "Alright! Here goes!"

The world around Winnipeg became red, muting the motley outside. On the other side of the barrier, Regina-Saskatoon held aloft her staff, the arm visibly palpitating.

A root lashed out and gored Regina-Saskatoon through the back. Winnipeg stopped wasting time and raised her katana to channel the energy for her finisher. Fargo slammed against the outside of the bubble, propping her back against it as she warded off encroaching roots.

The katana gleamed a fluorescent neon as energies buzzed around the tip. The power coursed through Winnipeg's veins. She poured her everything into the attack, Fargo stripped away, Regina-Saskatoon stripped away, the roots and petals and world stripped away, until everything became one white-hot blear.

"BOURRASQUE..."

The roots perhaps sensed her power and battered the barrier to strike at her, to disrupt her concentration, and perhaps that accounted for the dull rhythmic thump in the back of her skull. But they could not stop her. As the final word formed, nothing could stop her.

"DENOUEMENT!"

The barrier broke and she unleashed her finisher. Winnipeg burst into a hundred whispery copies of herself, each composed of wind but taking her form, with sinew, muscle, structure, pulse. A squall shredded through the roots as the one hundred Winnipeg clones fanned out in a circular pattern. Each dragged her katana through plant matter and virulent ooze, each sliced, shredded, sheared with her same finesse, her same prowess, each a dollop of her soul and a howl of zephyr.

Roots dropped in every direction. They spouted white pus and squealed as they thrashed their worthless thorny limbs and fell into orange oblivion below. Winnipeg's facsimiles spread out toward the ends of the arena, each leaving a swath of destruction until they butted against an unseen wall and bounced back in dissipating puffs.

As fast as the attack took to charge, it ended. The clones ran out the end of their microcosmic souls, extinguished the little life with which Winnipeg had nourished them. Their sparks fizzled one by one until the wind died completely and the real Winnipeg drifted among a gaudy backdrop.

All energy left her. Her fingers could not even muster the strength to retain her katana, and the blade drifted from her hand as she fell. She had no breath left; her eyes threatened to close completely. She could not feel her own heartbeat, even as all sense folded in on itself and left only herself to feel.

Debris and dead roots, some still twitching, drifted alongside her. Not a single root was spared. Only the archon remained, a monolithic obelisk of pinions that presided over the wasted land.

A small blip on the other side of the world sped toward the archon: Fargo. Her jacket billowed behind her as she soared through the asteroid belt of pruned roots, the barrel of her gun awhirl and burning. It was all up to her now.

Winnipeg bumped into something, changed direction. She revolved in midair, unable to see the archon or Fargo anymore, unable to control her flight. Her turn was slow and lateral. She saw what she had bumped: Regina-Saskatoon, a bloodied mess interspersed with flecks of white, either skin or bone. Her eyes were empty, her mouth slightly open. One arm missing entirely.

The gem fastened to the brooch on her shoulder had shattered.

Winnipeg's uncontrolled revolution continued until again she faced the archon and Fargo. The timing was impeccable, as at that moment Fargo unleashed her attack.

Wave after wave of pure light bombarded the archon. The light flared out and repainted the walls, drowning the orange and green with all-purifying white. The fabric of the dimension began to shatter before the archon did, or not so much shatter as fade; through the walls osmosed images of earthen rock, of a real world somewhere that maybe on some plane of existence overlapped theirs. The archon lit up along its thin tubular body with the effulgent cannonballs force-fed it by Fargo's gun. Its tricks stripped away, its roots, its limbs, its everything, the archon was not so strong. Winnipeg clenched her fist, felt blood vessels return to her veins. She perhaps could still stand to fight herself.

But allow Fargo that glory.

She revolved again. Regina-Saskatoon was now a small motionless dot in the distance. Winnipeg did not see the archon finally die, did not see what spectacular explosion or implosion or conflagration destroyed its body. She did not see much of anything as the light from Fargo's gun swallowed the world. She did, however, hear the beast roar with a final, tragic scream, a scream corporeal in its absolute despair, a scream surprisingly knowing, devoid of animalism, a scream that lamented the end of life rather than a primal instinct of survival.

Then the scream ended. And the light ended. And Winnipeg hit the ground in a small dark cave.

The dregs of the miasma wafted away with the scream's last reverberations. Winnipeg rolled onto her back, but everything was dark. She flung out an arm and felt gravel through her fingers. Real gravel. Real earth.

The roof collapsed and buried her in dirt.

Chapter 12: I HOPE YOU DIE IN A FIERY DEATH

Light—real light—leaked from the narrow aperture in the ceiling. Even in a depleted haze Sloan recognized it as the rays of early morning. Early morning. They entered Williston the night prior. Everything they had done they did in the span of a single night. Unreal: the images and events that replayed as she untangled the strands of neural matter inside her skull.

The archon was dead. The miasma shattered.

With a heave Sloan sat up and a thick layer of dust cascaded off her body. Every bone and joint ached. A dull pang, like the throb of a Soul Gem gone tilt, slushed in her blood. She fished her pockets for her gem. Its yellow luster was deeply tarnished. She needed cubes.

Good thing the entire cave twinkled with them. Small black squares caught the daylight and refracted infinite diamond sparkles. She sifted the dirt and came up with six or seven.

After a few seconds of purification her thoughts cleared and she remembered her companions. She lurched to her feet and powered through dizziness as she scanned for Winnipeg and Delaney.

"Hey," she said. The word scraped her esophagus. She swallowed hard and spoke again. "Where are you."

Something in the darker reaches groaned. Sloan staggered toward it. Her boots and pockets swished with sand. She considered shedding her jacket but a wintry chill pervaded the cave and she felt exposed without it.

Amid the cubes she found a body and fell to her knees before it. She turned it over and immediately reeled back. Was this—No, it was the mystery corpse from beneath the archon. So it had not been a deception, but a real girl. Sloan's head pulsed too much to think more.

The something groaned again, closer. Sloan called out. Her voice cracked. Her lungs rattled with dirt as she crawled toward another half-buried form. She had to get very close and squint and brush off soot before she identified it as Winnipeg.

As Sloan excavated, Winnipeg twisted and coughed. The gem strung from her neck was almost black, but cubes already surrounded it. Thin streams of grief crept into them.

"You okay?" Sloan said.

Winnipeg suddenly shot up, causing a miniature avalanche. She shook herself like a dog, and although she swayed she remained upright.

She rubbed her eyes, blinked, coughed again. "So it's over," she said. Her sheathed katana clattered at her side. Was she still using magic? She had a replica of her uniform as civilian clothes, but also having a mock katana seemed ridiculous.

"You should turn off," said Sloan.

Winnipeg shook herself again. For a moment they stood in the dark, saying nothing. Cubes twinkled; nothing else moved.

Then the realization dawned on Sloan. They did it. They did it!

"We did it!" she said.

Winnipeg looked at her. Her face was wraithlike in the darkness. She stared, stolid; and then, bit by bit, her features softened and a wide smile broke over her face.

"We did," she said. "We did."

Sloan had no idea what else to say, how to communicate the elation welling up inside her, the pure unadulterated joy that blossomed in her soulless body, so she swung her arms around Winnipeg and squeezed her tight.

Winnipeg's arms went taut at her sides and her entire body tensed. Sloan had no idea whether a hug was the right thing considering Winnipeg's character but fuck it, she felt like hugging something. Even if Winnipeg lashed out or broke away or said something mean, who gave a shit, they did it, they won, they killed the archon, the ordeal was over, they finally fucking worked together and accomplished something and oh my fucking god did they really do it.

After a moment, Winnipeg pressed her dirty forehead against Sloan's shoulder. Her trembling hands reached up and dug into Sloan's back.

"Yes," she said. "We did."

"Winnipeg," said Sloan. "Holy shit you were great. Your finisher..." She tried to convey what she had seen, Winnipeg's massive attack, the wind clones, the roots—but the words caught in her throat, too many thoughts surged in her head, she could think of nothing.

"Erika," Winnipeg whispered.

"What?"

"I think..." Her voice was so tiny. "I think you can call me Erika." Her wide eyes stared into an empty beyond.

Sloan released Winnipeg—Erika—aware she had been permitted something no one had been permitted in a long time. Erika herself seemed shocked. She scratched at the stiff tall neck of her lavender vest, now gray with dirt. She shuffled her feet.

"Then, uh, call me Sloan," said Sloan. Aware this option had been on the table all along and it was Winnipeg's prerogative to take it. But Erika nodded with a sincere bob of her head.

A long pause.

"Okay," said Sloan. She straightened her back and scanned the cave. "Let's find Delaney."

Erika scratched her neck again. "She's dead."

"Dead." Sloan blinked. "No, she'll heal herself. She must be buried." She fell by the mound, shoved her hands under the dirt, and scooped away handfuls.

"I saw her," said Winnipeg. "Her gem. Shattered." Her old brashness crept back into her voice. "I saw it before you killed the archon."

Sloan tore into the earth. She considered asking how certain Winnipeg was. But it was obvious Winnipeg was certain. Still Sloan dug. The ground was soft, easy to sift. She would at least find the body. She owed that much. Funny, though. The knowledge of Delaney's death did not impact her heavily. A word blipped through her mind: Acceptable. The word soured her mood more than the death did. She had not particularly liked Delaney, had not trusted her, had disagreed with her batshit philosophy and pseudo-religion, but she was still an ally. She deserved better than callousness, although Sloan was never one to sob at a funeral, and she had seen plenty of suburban girls pass in Minneapolis, girls whose names now eluded her. But ambivalence only bent before the overwhelming joy of victory.

(Delaney's death seemed morally right in a sense. Sloan did not want to think about it like that and felt like an asshole for thinking about it like that anyway.)

Her hand struck something. She wrapped her fingers around it and identified it as an arm. She pulled hard and the arm came out surprisingly easily, probably because it was not attached to anything. She ogled the severed limb like an artifact from a prehistoric dig.

"I guess she is dead."

"It is probably for the best," said Winnipeg. "Both for herself and her future acquaintances."

Sloan said nothing.

After some thought Winnipeg added: "She was a sick woman, but she may have been human nonetheless. Such is all our state."

Sloan could think of no better eulogy. They stood in silence for another moment, as if the world were now composed of mere moments, each tick of the clock an event.

"Let's clean our gems and find a way out of here," Sloan said.

Erika nodded.

Sloan crouched amid a field of cubes. More than enough for purification, as Kyubey promised so long ago. Well, the rat bastard didn't lie. She scooped a handful and enjoyed their tactile sensation. On the upturned palm of her other hand she perched her Soul Gem and moved both hands close together, cubes and gem side-by-side. The grief began to leave her, its ribbony streams so playful and carefree. Like visible music, sheets of trebles and time bursting into animation. She folded her legs beneath her and contented herself to watch the process unfold.

Then her gem disappeared.

She blinked. She turned over her hand. It had been there, right before her eyes, and now it was gone. She stood up and turned to Winnipeg.

"Did—"

Something sharp and curved slashed both of Sloan's hamstrings in one motion. Her legs buckled and she plummeted with a strangled yelp.

Winnipeg drew her katana only for something to cleave off her arm above the elbow. With unperturbed reflexes, her left arm lashed out and snatched the blade from her severed right arm as it descended. She swung in a spinning attack with a windy pulse. Dust and cubes billowed into the air.

For a moment, Sloan made out a girl-shaped outline in the dust. Then the cloud cleared and all went invisible again.

Sloan tried to thrash her legs but they refused to cooperate. Without her Soul Gem she could not transform. Her hands clawed into the dirt to pull her forward but only slipped through sand.

"What is this sorcery." Winnipeg was remarkably calm.

"Another Magical Girl, she can turn invisible, she's been watching us the whole time—"

Winnipeg kicked up another plume of dust and danced across the cave in a flurry of one-handed strokes. Whether she swung at random or somehow detected Omaha's presence, Sloan could not tell. Winnipeg pivoted as though she knew the location of her opponent, but the blade hit nothing.

"She's got a scythe." Sloan hoped that helped.

Maybe it did. Winnipeg varied her style, crouching lower. She kicked up dirt with quick flicks of her feet, an adaptive strategy except Omaha adapted too because no more did the dirt draw faint outlines in the darkness. Winnipeg breathed with labored gulps of air. Her magic could whip a tornado through the cave, and then Omaha would have difficulty keeping hidden. But Omaha waited until their magic was all but extinguished.

"Omaha, stop," said Sloan. "Whatever Kyubey told you, you don't have to do this."

"Ha!" Winnipeg spat a globule of blood and swung again. "This is a trained killer."

God DAMMIT, Sloan had seen this coming, she predicted it perfectly. And what had she decided? If they could take an archon, they could take one girl? You stupid fucking idiot Sloan, you absolute most idiotic idiot to ever be a fucking idiot ever.

"There's no reason for this, Omaha!" Her voice sounded worthless, castaway. Pathetic.

Winnipeg backed into a corner and slashed again. Her forehead glistened with sweat. The gem around her neck pulsed with dangerous blackness.

"She's trying to tire you," said Sloan.

"YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT, YOU FUCKING IDIOT?" shouted Winnipeg. Bloody spittle flew from her lips.

"We need, we need, to keep calm," said Sloan. Pointlessly. Pointlessly and she knew it.

"AURUGHURUGHGH!" Winnipeg launched a blast of wind through the cave. Sloan shielded her eyes.

As the dust subsided, Winnipeg raised her blade overhead. Wispy energies, black and weak, gathered around it. Her eyes blazed with fury. Blood streamed from the stump of her arm, blood streamed from her mouth.

"You don't have the energy," said Sloan. Reverting to nothingness, reverting to a stain on the underbelly of an empty prairie. Unable to stand, unable to do a thing but watch as her friend—her friend—

I will not lose, said Erika. Her voice teemed with desperation. I will NOT LOSE!

"BOURRASQUE... DENOUEMENT!"

The invocation of her finisher unleashed the meager magic gathered around her blade. As before, Erika split into a multitude of Winnipegs, each composed of wind. Far fewer now, but enough to fill the tight confines of the cave. The Winnipegs hacked and slashed in pantomime of the frenzied breathlessness the real Winnipeg, the real Erika, each bashing their brains against the wall until they disappeared with a fizzle. Their decayed, zombielike forms crossed every available inch with vicious strokes. A blade raked Sloan's back. Dirt rained upon her.

The attack waned, howled, and ended. The wind went dead; stagnation took its place.

The real Erika, the sole remaining Erika, dropped to her knees. Her necklace was black as obsidian. She planted her katana in the ground beside her.

"Got her," she spat. "Got the bitch dead." Her left eye twitched and her bloodstained lips curled into a smile.

"Erika," said Sloan. She tried to pull herself on her elbows toward the kneeling form. No matter how hard she tried, she made no progress.  It was like a nightmare, a terrible nightmare, forced to watch helpless on an unseen conveyer belt—could she be dreaming?

"Cubes, get the cubes!"

Cubes surrounded Erika, beckoned with their glimmers. Erika regarded them, spat a hoarse chuckle, and unbelievably extended her hand. Yes, yes, a little farther! Sloan tried to shout but a mouthful of dirt constricted her throat.

Winnipeg scooped a handful. Her laugh deepened.

Clinging to a rock jutting high in the wall, Omaha reappeared. She unlatched from her perch and landed before Winnipeg, scythe in hand. She did not swing or attack or speak or do anything except stare blank, pitiless.

Winnipeg's eyes turned from the cubes to the girl before her.

"Cubes, cubes," said Sloan. As though by transforming the word into chant she could imbue it with the magic she did not possess and make it do more than words did.

Erika's smile died. Her eyes went blank as Omaha's. The cubes fell from her tiny hand and her hand fell to her side.

"ERIKA," said Sloan.

"...Oh..." said Erika.

Omaha stepped aside as Erika fell facedown in the dirt. Without ceremony, as was typical for those taken by the Law of the Cycles, Erika disappeared.

"ERIKA," said Sloan. But Erika was no longer there, nor her katana, nor any trace of her existence save splotches of blood seeping into the soil.

Sloan's hands curled as if to grab the absence.

Omaha turned toward Sloan. Her scythe shined, unblemished. Although she stepped across cubes and rocks, her feet made no sound at all, made only the barest impression.

The blank, empty expression became apologetic. "I'm so, so, so sorry about this..." In her other hand she kneaded Sloan's gem between thumb and forefinger.

"You," said Sloan. "You..."

"I'm sorry this had to happen..."

The crescent blade dangled near her feet, gently swaying with each step like the pendulum of an enormous clock.

Erika... No, no, no, how, how could this be real?

The mound of dirt behind Omaha started to bloat. Distended clumps of soot inflated in doughy sacs. Sloan tilted her head and focused her bleary eyes, unable to comprehend what was happening, unable to understand what magic this was. Unable to see anything but Erika's death...

Omaha let out a small gasp of surprise; the mound burst. Through the exterior papering of dirt rushed a deluge of red liquid—of blood.

Omaha went invisible immediately, but as the blood crashed into her a void appeared in the flow where her body obstructed it. She floundered through the downpour as the room filled, her legs splashing and her invisible body dripping. Sloan hoisted her upper body on her forearms to keep her chin above the line, but the moment the tide washed over her legs the wounds healed and she discovered herself capable of standing again.

From the origin of the onrush rose a fay sorceress in bloodsplattered dress with blooddrenched hair and bloodstained skin. Raising aloft her staff in her one remaining arm, Delaney Pollack cackled with wild-spinning eyes and stepped forth into the sloshing sanguine pool.

"W-what!" Omaha retreated to the edge of cave. "You're not dead?"

Sloan did not understand either. The gem clasped to the ravaged remains of Delaney's gown was smashed into a thousand glittering pieces. But Delaney only laughed.

"I am the modern Lazarus!" she said. "Neither Heaven nor Hell will take me!"

"Th-this can't be happening," said Omaha. "When could you have... I wasn't told... You, you switched your gem with a fake!"

Delaney tilted her head back in another aspirated laugh. Her wet hair slapped against her back. "Excellent deduction! But a trifle too late, dear! Hheh hheh hha ha haaa!" She turned her attention to Sloan. "Love, pass me my arm, will you?"

"Arm." The word plinked against the bottom of Sloan's esophagus.

Delaney brandished her severed stump. "Yes, aaaaaarm. It's sort of a simple concept, love—Oh no you don't." She aimed her staff at the small aperture in the ceiling and sealed it with a rubbery bubble. The dripping outline of Omaha, who had scaled half the wall, halted in its tracks against the same jutting rock used to avoid Winnipeg's final attack.

As Sloan with stunned obedience sifted the bloody waters for the arm, Delaney's voice undulated in a possessed singsong. "Omaha dear, you cannot simply escaaaape. You're going to dieeee... Now get down here, you stupid bitch." Delaney pulled back her arm and hurled her staff at the rock. It twirled through the air and shattered against the stone. In the waters below a single splash accompanied Omaha's descent.

Something clicked in Sloan's head. "Delaney, you can't fight her, you don't have a weapon!"

Delaney admonished her with a wagging finger. "Nuh uh, love. I don't have a weapon for wraiths, true. But meddlesome little salamanders? I have just the thing!"

She brushed back the ruined folds of her gown with a single sweep. From a scabbard strapped to her upper thigh she drew a wavy dirk either naturally red or red from the blood that drowned everything in this narrow crevice. Sloan remembered the knife—Delaney mentioned it during her tale of Claudia and the dog. Seeing the tiny shiv in Delaney's delicate hand resolved none of Sloan's apprehensions.

"She has a scythe, Delaney. You can't fight her with a knife."

"Worry not, love. Without her vanishing act this girl's nothing but a fraud. Am I right, Omaha dear?"

The placid pool made no response. Omaha had not moved in some time, but Delaney's gaze affixed unwavering to where she had landed. Delaney made cautious approach, the dagger agleam and scarlet.

Without warning she lashed out. At the same time a lateral gash opened on Delaney's stomach and her innards tumbled out. The wound healed as soon as it appeared. The pool churned and splashed as Delaney jabbed her dagger down and down and across and all over with a series of progressive shrieks. More wounds opened across Delaney's skin, all healed instantly, slit throats and lacerated torsos, impaled ribcages. Delaney powered through. Her dagger went up and down, up and down, but never did it strike a thing. Even in unfavorable terrain Omaha was slippery.

Sloan was not about to watch another ally die—this time she had functional legs. She forgot searching for Delaney's missing arm and charged. Her arms and legs powered through the pool as she aimed her entire bullet of a body at the disembodied splashing that struggled to escape Delaney's wrath.

She hit Omaha when she expected but not how she expected. Something hard and bony—an elbow?—plowed into her skull and rattled her vision. She threw her arms around the small invisible torso as she tackled the writhing kicking screaming thing with a splash.

Teeth and fingernails ripped at her face. Omaha cried: "No, no, don't do this to me, please, no!"

Sloan turned to Delaney. "Her Soul Gem is on a bracelet on her wrist."

Delaney received the news with inexorable glee as she kneeled beside them. "Left or right?"

"I don't remember, just fuck her up," said Sloan.

"No, no, no, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please no! S, stay back, or I—I'll destroy Sloan's Soul Gem, I have it in my hand right now!"

The threat gave Sloan pause and she drew back. But Delaney snatched the empty air and wrapped her hand around something unseen and about the width of a bone. "Don't worry, love. Your Soul Gem's the last thing she'll destroy."

With calm and collected motions, despite the insanity on her face and her single extant arm, Delaney wrangled with the invisible hand and pried something from it while the dagger waved wildly and uncomfortably close to Sloan's face. Once the object left Omaha's grasp, it reappeared as Sloan's dirty gem, otherwise unharmed. Delaney tossed the gem carelessly and Sloan struggled to catch it. She managed to latch on and quickly bury it in a pocket.

"Now to ruin this bitch."

Sobbing. "No, no, please no, no, no!"

Delaney pinned Omaha's hand. She placed her knee against the arm to keep it down.

With one deft stroke she slashed the invisible wrist. She let up on the arm and allowed it to flounder to the surface. A steady fount of blood from an unseen source added to the pool.

"Hm," said Delaney. "Wrong wrist." She maneuvered for the other arm.

As Delaney groped, Omaha's body forced itself up against Sloan with desperate force. Sloan lifted a little and for only a moment, but the split second was enough. Omaha thrashed out from under her and sprinted past the downward arc of Delaney's blade to the other side of the cavern.

A puff of dark magic enveloped the wound on Omaha's wrist. When the antimatter dispersed, however, the wound sprayed only more blood.

"No," said Omaha, "it won't heal!"

Delaney rolled her eyes. "Oh please, dear. Don't play dumb. As if who sent you forgot to inform you of the magical properties of my knife."

"Magical properties," said Sloan as Omaha backed into another corner. Even when she stopped moving and no longer stirred the liquid around her, the stream from her wrist revealed her location.

Delaney loosed another throaty, arid laugh. "Indeed, love. Any damage my dagger inflicts can never be healed, not even by yours truly! It's such a dinky weapon, it's totally useless against wraiths, but prick a Magical Girl just right and she won't soon forget it. The exact weapon a depraved sociopath like me would have, don't you agree?"

If the depraved sociopath line was meant to be ironic, Delaney made a poor case for herself. Sloan had the moment to realize that Delaney had lived. And Erika died. A bitter unfairness seeped from that simple fact. She remembered the hug between her and Winnipeg, how Winnipeg's façade cracked and something real glimmered for a moment. Delaney had none of that.

"Well, no matter," said Delaney. "Let's annihilate this pest, shall we love?"

Sloan clenched her fists. Despite the savagery with which Sloan had forced Omaha to the ground, she could not bear to watch someone enjoy murder so much. She used her Soul Gem to summon her gun and said, "I'll do it."

"Very well. I still have an arm to locate, after all."

Sloan waded through the bloody pool as Delaney began to drain it into a dense liquid sphere. By the time Sloan neared Omaha, only a thin red layer covered the sand.

Faint sniffling filled the narrow chamber. Sloan pointed her gun. "Show yourself. Hiding is pointless, I can see you bleeding."

"I, I, I, I, I'm so sorry, I, I, I—"

"Shut up and show yourself."

After a mucus-infested snort and a few more stammered pronouns, Omaha appeared. She was folded into the corner, contorting her body as if to cram herself between the rocks. One thick lens of her glasses was cracked and a thousand images of her tear-streaked eye danced on the glass. She cradled her wounded arm. Her pencil-thin legs pressed together at the knees under her insignificant body, more cloak than corp. She avoided eye contact.

"I, I, I don't want to die..."

In the background, Delaney gave a terse, bitter laugh.

The Soul Gem on Omaha's unmarred wrist glimmered with a violet sheen only partially tarnished by blackness. She made no attempt to conceal or defend it. One shot was all Sloan needed.

Her fingers touched the trigger but applied no pressure. Her eyes closed and she exhaled as she tried to drum up an image of Erika to stir her ire. Erika was dead. Omaha killed her. Kill Omaha.

Instead, she said: "Who told you to do this."

She knew who told her. Kyubey. He hired powerful but problematic girls to run an errand for him and kept Omaha on standby to clean up the scraps. Eliminate the archon, eliminate obstinate Winnipeg, eliminate sociopathic Delaney, eliminate murderous Sloan.

Omaha sniffled. She buried her face into the wall. "I, I, I, I, I..."

"Tell me." She knew it was Kyubey. Why harangue the girl over it? End this farce, do Omaha a favor and let her die with a shred of dignity. But Sloan could not. Why? Why was it so difficult to understand her own damn emotions?

"If, if, if I tell you, you'll kill me..."

"If you don't tell, I'll kill you for sure." Stop hesitating. Pull the trigger! Delaney's bemused stare drilled into her back.

Maybe if Sloan heard the words "Kyubey told me" it would be an excuse to spare Omaha, an excuse to shift away the blame. Like, oh this poor impressionable girl has no agency, it's all that asshole rat pulling the strings as usual! That it, Sloan? Are you looking for an excuse to spare her? Are her tears getting to you, her begging? This girl murdered Erika, why does she deserve mercy?

Omaha stammered: "Kuh, kuh, kuh..."

She should have let Delaney handle this. But Sloan decided that would be an even grander disservice to Erika.

"Kuh, kuh, Clair, Clair..."

In an instant everything was forgotten. A new, much more powerful emotion manifested as Sloan surged forward, seized Omaha by the throat, and slammed her head against the rock.

"What was that? What did you just say? Say it again, LOUDER."

Omaha's eyes oscillated with fear. "Kuh, kuh, kuh, kuh, kuh..."

"LOUDER!"

"Kuh, Clair, Ibsen..."

Sloan's grip tightened. A wheeze choked through Omaha's lips as the soft pliable flesh compressed.

"Clair?! IBSEN?!"

Clair Ibsen? Clair Ibsen? Clair IBSEN? How? How could it be her? How how how how how how how HOW could it be her? Of all people, her? HER?

Omaha struggled. Her legs flailed as Sloan yanked her up by the neck. She needed no magic to lift her, the girl was so small and breakable. It couldn't be Clair Ibsen, not Clair Ibsen, that was impossible, it was, it was, it was EXACTLY WHAT SHE DID BEFORE, OH MY GOD IT WAS MINNEAPOLIS ALL OVER AGAIN, THE COUP REDOUBLED, THE PREEMPTIVE REVENGE, HOW HOW HOW HOW HOW HOW?

She had—followed her—helped her—been nice—superficially—on the surface—saved her—allowed her—to kill the archon—and then—at the moment of triumph—rob her of everything!

THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING. THE EXACT SAME.

She unleashed a primal roar and slammed Omaha's limp body into the ground. Omaha's feeble hands wrapped around Sloan's fingers and made a pitiful effort to push them away.

Clair Ibsen! Clair Ibsen sent her! Not even the decency to do it herself! She hired a goon!

"So Clair lets us do the dirty work." Sloan's voice trembled. "Takes advantage of our exhaustion to eliminate us. And reaps the cubes for herself."

Omaha's head bobbed up and down.

"And she justified herself!" Sloan saw it now, Clair Ibsen with all her assistants and sycophants in arrangement, arms waving theatrical to great applause and esteem. "Because we're dangerous! All dangerous Magical Girls, she was simply removing us as her duty to reason and order. That was what she said!"

Omaha's eyes curled upward and spittle drooled down her chin.

"Wait, so Kyubey didn't send her?" Delaney, much cleaner but her gown still in shambles, leaned on her staff behind Sloan. She had reclaimed her arm.

"Clair Ibsen," said Sloan. "Clair Ibsen sent her! That backstabbing, opportunistic BITCH!" She wished she could think of a word more powerful, more devastating than bitch, as though if she could find the right word it would somehow span the entirety of North Dakota and find its way to her in crystal Minneapolis, and even if the word registered as only a pinprick on her finger she would feel it and Sloan would have hurt her.

Omaha's feet padded the ground, her fingers tightened in the sand.

"Well, FUCK YOU CLAIR IBSEN. It didn't FUCKING WORK, I'm STILL HERE, and I'm COMING TO KILL YOU!" She lifted Omaha again and smashed her into things, rocks, walls, whatever. She wanted to break. To pulverize. To avenge Erika, who died because of such a petty, materialistic, empty, pedantic, pretentious, uppity, meretricious, traitorous BITCH.

Fresh tears streamed down Omaha's face. Sloan wrenched the Soul Gem bracelet off her wrist.

"I'M COMING TO KILL YOU!"

She mashed the bracelet between her hands. The metal band bent and flexed as her hands awkwardly tried to crush the jewel embedded within. Omaha sobbed and stuttered the beginnings of words, beginnings with no ends.

"There there love." Delaney placed a reassuring hand on Sloan's shoulder. "Let it all out. Destroy it, feel the catharsis."

Sloan's hands slipped and the bracelet flopped into the sand. She reached for it but stopped midway. Omaha sniffled, her eyes red and puffy, and for a moment Sloan stared with the simplistic but persuasive emotion of rage scouring her body. Her head filled with so many hideous and unhappy thoughts and she realized her gem must be close to overload. Part of her wanted it to overload, to give into despair like Winnipeg. But a shred of her remained that needed revenge on Clair Ibsen, needed to destroy Clair Ibsen.

Instead of the bracelet, her hand snatched some cubes nearby and applied them to her Soul Gem.

Need to not die. Need to stay alive. Need to defeat Clair Ibsen.

Omaha was not Clair Ibsen.

"Sloan love?" Delaney kneeled beside her. "If it's too hard, I can finish her."

Sloan hung her head. "She's not Clair Ibsen."

"Okay," said Delaney. "Sooooooo?"

"She does not deserve to die."

"What? She tried to kill us both! And succeeded in killing Winnipeg. Pretty damning, methinks."

"Look at her." Sloan could not believe herself, or what she was saying. But the rage ebbed and revealed a pylon deep beyond the beach, a small jutting stone of... Compassion?

As they stared at Omaha's tear-streaked face, with her cracked glasses and bleeding wrist and mousy sunken eyes and sallow skin, Sloan realized what it was. This girl was not Clair Ibsen, no. She was another victim, another pawn, which was all anyone was to Clair. Clair found the most pathetic, most insecure, most lonely girl in existence, a girl whose power was to disappear (what kind of wish caused that power, Sloan wondered. What kind of self-effacement manifested that way). Who knew what honeyed words dredged from the depths of Clair's broad vocabulary were so pristinely elocuted to make Omaha think her a friend. Not just a friend but a Friend, a Friend who "never got mad at her" but nonetheless "told her what questions she could not answer."

"Fake tears," said Delaney. "I'm not sold. Much more likely Kyubey's behind this. Notice his conspicuous absence."

Kyubey was a nonentity in Sloan's mind, an abstract concept, a benign god only mildly concerned with the doings of humans. She tried to conceive motivations Kyubey might have for manufacturing such a scenario and could no longer.

Maybe Delaney was right. Maybe Kyubey was behind it. The point stood: Omaha was used. Like a gun, a sword. The mere instrument of another's plot.

"I don't want to kill her," said Sloan.

"This is ridiculous, love. Even if you believe her for some reason, she's dangerous! We'll never know if she's following us. Plotting to assassinate us."

"Wrong. You said the wounds caused by your knife never heal. Which means you robbed her of her power to hide. No matter what she does, how much she bandages it, her wound will bleed and reveal her."

Omaha massaged her wrist and avoided looking either of them in the eye.

"Better safe than sorry," said Delaney. "Kill her and we know for sure she won't harm us."

"Oh yeah?" Sloan stood up. "Sound philosophy, Delaney. Why stop with Omaha? Why not kill anyone else that might harm us, too? Let's go kill all the nomads in the area, and the girls from Calgary, and whoever else we can find that might want to hurt us, too! Let's go kill little dogs while we're at it! Good deeds, right?!"

"She... but she killed someone, love. She killed Winnipeg." After the words "good deeds," Delaney sounded more unsure.

So Sloan pounced. "Fuck you, Delaney. How convenient you showed up only AFTER Erika died. Too bad you couldn't rise from the grave five seconds earlier!"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Omaha ventured to mutter.

"You're wrong," said Delaney. She had almost completely turned away from Sloan. "I had to purify my Soul Gem before I made a move. I was depleted after the battle, if I rushed in without the magic to back it up... It just so happened..." Her voice dwindled, only to surge back as she realized something. "Oh, but now she's Erika, is she? Now she's your friend, right? You knew her for less than a day! Tell me, Sloan love, do you even know her last name?"

"She was a better person than you," said Sloan.

"After all I did for you. After all the times I saved you!"

"Uh oh, Delaney. Is that mild annoyance I sense in your voice? I better watch you don't kill me next."

Delaney balled her fists. The same slight furrow that served as Delaney's sole negative facial tic reemerged with a vengeance. She stared at Sloan as though to shout but when she finally did speak her voice was calm and pleasant, as always.

"I don't feel like fighting about this. Yes, I'm no paragon. I'm awful, really. But I did not want Winnipeg, Erika, whoever she was, I did not want her to die. Please believe that, Sloan. Please believe me."

Things were getting too much. Sloan felt overwhelmed, exhausted. She wanted to sleep suddenly. Omaha, Delaney... Erika... Clair Ibsen. Faces swirling in her head. Thirty minutes ago she waged war against an eldritch plant monster. Thirty minutes ago, Erika was alive.

Shit.

"Okay," she said. She did not want to cry. Anything but that. "I'll believe you, Delaney. But let's just let Omaha go."

Delaney allowed her hands to fall. She nodded, as if it meant nothing either way. "Fine."

With a wave the bubble that sealed the hole in the roof disappeared. The early morning sunlight shone, probably the last day of sun until March as deep winter befell this edge-of-the-world outpost. The sunshine only embittered Sloan. The world mocked her. It mocked Erika.

Blood trickled from Omaha's lip. More streamed from her wrist, which she thumbed anxiously. "Y, you're... you're letting me go...?"

Sloan could hardly face her. "Get out before I change my mind."

"Th, thank you..."

Her feet scampered across the dirt. With practiced agility she scurried up the rocks and slithered over the top of the chasm. Then she was gone, all gone, save a red trickle down the wall.

Sloan knew she made a mistake. The war with Clair Ibsen had begun. Had already begun, before she even went to Williston. Clair was a step ahead of her all along. Why did Sloan expect any different? How was she foolish enough to believe she would appear in Minneapolis with the element of surprise. Of course not. To battle Clair Ibsen she needed to expect every eventuality, predict every outcome, prepare for every possible scenario. Sloan needed craft and intelligence she did not possess, and failing that she needed ruthless brutality. Omaha was not out of the picture. Even if she returned to Clair wounded and defective, Clair would find a use for her. Clair was a female of extraordinary efficiency.

To win, Sloan needed to crush each and every one of Clair's tools, her tricks, her deceptions with unabated prejudice.

And she failed her first chance.

She gave Clair back a weapon, regifted her a piece of her endless armory. But Omaha was not just a weapon, she was a girl, a living human being, abused and deceived as them all. As much weapon as hostage. Another helpless victim held tauntingly in a firing line.

"Fuck this," said Sloan. "Fuck everything." She turned to Delaney. "Let's gather the cubes and get the fuck out of here."

"As you wish, love."

Chapter 13: Wing of Wax

By the time they crawled out the crevice, Sloan wanted nothing more than sleep, long and endless. She did not want to think about Clair Ibsen, or Omaha, or Delaney, or Erika.

They surfaced in the slushy marshes outside town. Sloan slouched toward Williston, its flat structures blandly pointless, chasing a dim awareness of a motel room to which they held the key, a nice bed...

Delaney trudged after her. They did not speak.

They came to a campground of tents like the kind in the hangar. Plaid-shirted men meandered as though this day were no different from the previous, as though their lives had not been saved. They were only marginally more animated than under the miasma's spell. Their eyes flitted toward Sloan and Delaney: ragged, bloody, clothes torn. Sloan wondered if she was even recognizable as female, or if it mattered.

"Watch out," said Delaney. Her hand flopped onto Sloan's shoulder and yanked her back as a metallic gray bus rumbled past. It squealed to a stop, quite courteously blocking their path.

Half-asleep, Sloan swayed back into Delaney and tried not to doze as she waited for the bus to move.

It did not move. A crowd of plaid-shirted men emerged from tarp caves and formed a circle around the bus. Their voices buzzed with masculinity. Sloan had forgotten the male gender existed.

The glass-plated bus door opened with a hydraulic hiss. A bearded man in a ragged jacket emerged. The fingertips on his gloves were worn away and his cherubic face had the air of homeless about it. Nonetheless he had somehow commandeered captaincy of this bus and sauntered down the steps with a broad smile and arms held high.

"Gather round, gents, gather round!" More figures bustled in the bus behind him, shrouded by tinted glass. "Enough here for one an' all, ain't it the truth? Step right up, form a line, nice an' orderly now, ayup. Jess like that."

The plaid-shirted men fumbled through their pockets and retrieved threadbare leather wallets. Gloved or bone-white fingers fished for bills.

"What is this shit," Sloan muttered to Delaney. "Let's go."

But Delaney's hands, placed gingerly on Sloan's shoulder, held firm. "I wonder how much he's asking," she said.

"For what?"

A raucous cheer rose from the dull and muted men whose upraised arms clenched wads of cash. The bearded not-quite-hobo hollered something. Elbows jutted into Sloan's sides.

"How much!" Delaney shouted. Her voice pierced the din with remarkable clarity. "How much are you charging!"

The bearded man swung outward, throwing his arm like an orator above the crowd. His eyes locked onto Delaney and he loosed a gregarious laugh. "Ah-ha! You mosey right along, missie. This ain't business for yer eyes, no sir."

A fuzzed and heaving plaid jacket jostled Sloan aside as she tried to figure out what the man was even selling or why he seemed so familiar. She thought it must be his general similarity to every single man in this entire state, grody and hairy and decked in the same Paul Bunyan apparel, but as he hawked his wares the realization dawned, scattered memories swam to the surface: Fargo, convenience store, late at night, job offer... It was less than two days ago, how did she forget?

The man who first told her of Williston. And he was selling—

The first women appeared in a flock of feathered boas. The crowd went insane, veritably bonkers. They crawled over each other to force their cash in the face of the laughing bearded man, who pulled his cap off to collect payment en masse. The cap soon overflowed.

Sloan had enough. She hooked her hand into Delaney's collar and dragged her away, using her other arm to batter a path. Delaney struggled but gave in eventually.

"Those prices are insane," she said. "That guy must have a stranglehold on the market."

This was the place she saved. These were the people for whom Erika died.

They continued until they reached the motel room. No trail of blood, no Omaha. A quick sweep and Sloan decided the perimeter was clear. She flopped onto the bed and burrowed into the pillow.

Thank god for crippling fatigue, or else she probably would have been unable to sleep. She emptied her mind... emptied herself... melded. Became cognizant of only the plush blanket and pillow, of the pleasant tinkling of grief cubes as Delaney unloaded their hoard onto the bureau.

"Love, pass me your gem, we'll get it spic and span by the time you wake up."

With a vague murmur, Sloan fished out her Soul Gem and tossed it to Delaney. Reckless, but fuck. If Delaney wanted her dead, she was in no state to resist either way.

Delaney did not crush her gem. She set it gently on the bureau, amid the cube mountain. Excess cubes slid down in avalanches and scattered on the carpet. When they collected them in the cave, they estimated at least two hundred. Two hundred cubes. If rationed, that was a three month supply. Three months without fighting a single wraith.

Sloan did not expect to be around another three months. Once she killed Clair, who cared what happened after.

A soothing sensation filled her as her Soul Gem forcibly expelled its grief. The streams were strong, not like the faint trickles that plagued her in Fargo. She nuzzled her head against the pillow and drifted... drifted...

Fingers caressed the small of her back, one comfort among others, so she did not resist as fingertips became hands, pressing deep, massaging. It was easy to forget Omaha, forget Erika as the hands moved to her shoulders, pushed, kneaded frozen joints and rack-tortured tendons. It was easy to imagine the hands connected to nothing. Floating hands, animated by dream logic. She sighed as a too-tight muscle loosened.

"There there love, you'll feel better soon," cooed a pleasant voice Sloan had no trouble detaching from its owner. She felt warm breath on the nape of her neck—a balmy breeze through the boughs—as the springs of the mattress squeaked—birdsong—and another body lay down beside her. The therapeutic hands did wonders to her neck, then wrapped around her shoulders and worked her décolletage. Sleep closed in, blissful, harmonic sleep.

Only when the hands slid a little farther and grabbed something inappropriate (rather, two somethings) did Sloan's eyes snap open. She whirled around on the bed and pushed herself away, her feet kicking as she scrunched up the blankets and nearly toppled off the side.

"What is it, what's wrong love?" Delaney quickly rose to a kneeling position.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I, I'm making you feel better!" Delaney peered at her with too-innocent eyes. Sloan noticed that one eye was blue and the other red. Had her eyes always been different colors? Nevermind, she had other concerns.

"Making me feel better? Making me FEEL BETTER?"

Delaney wrung her hands. "I, I know you and... Erika... developed a bond at the end, and... I know her death hurt you a lot... I just, I just thought..."

"You thought what? That you wouldn't have to pay so much if you settled for me instead of those whores?"

"So, you mean, you don't like girls?"

Sloan stood up and gesticulated wildly. "You are MISSING THE POINT. That fact that you don't understand how fucked up you are is unreal. Erika is dead and THAT is the first thing on your mind? THAT!"

"You act like I did it for ME! I was trying to make YOU happy!"

Words dissolved half-formed in Sloan's mind as she tried to construct them into an argument more coherent than strained screaming. She slammed her hand on the bureau and fumbled for her Soul Gem. She would grab it and her cut of the cubes and leave. No time to waste anyway, she needed to make it to Minneapolis before Omaha and salvage some modicum of surprise. Fuck fatigue. What did Erika say? Magical Girls don't need sleep, don't need food. They just need cubes, everything else is mental. An adage Sloan could live by. Would have to live by, now that her war against Clair Ibsen had officially begun.

She rubbed her eyes as she shoved cubes into her many pockets. They weighed heavy in her jacket.

"Oh no Sloan, don't leave, you're in no state to go." Delaney rushed to her side and held her hands out, not daring to touch Sloan as she tromped toward the door. "Look, I'm sorry, I miscalculated. I thought you'd be more amenable to the advance. Okay? I made a mistake."

"You didn't make a mistake, Delaney," said Sloan. "You are the mistake."

"Okay, okay. Look, don't leave on my account. I'll leave. Stay here and sleep, clean up, whatever. You deserve it more than me."

Part of Sloan wanted to reject her pity out of obstinance, but the other part was still saying PLEASE SLEEP. So much for everything is mental.

She wavered on the blunt edge between spite and sensible, which was just enough time for Delaney to make the decision for her by absconding out the door without another word. She did not even bother to take her share of the cubes, or maybe she never unloaded her share at all.

That left Sloan alone. Alone. For the first time since she encountered Omaha in Bismarck, probably. Funny how she went so long alone in Fargo, and in Minneapolis basically alone, with only tangential human connections with family, peers, with anyone save Clair Ibsen, but now she was alone, truly alone for all of five seconds and she no longer wanted to be alone. She flopped back onto the bed and tried to conjure again the sylvan scene, the tranquility, the alleviation of agony but the spell was broken, the bed revealed itself a hard and lumpy spring-laden contraption, her body ached, and the cubes only did so much.

She closed her eyes and saw Erika's final moment, there one second, gone the next. Truly dead. She curled up with an injustice she barely comprehended, an injustice of the entire Magical Girl system, the entire embryo-to-power-plant ponzi scheme the Incubators ran in this orchard of hell called Earth. She thought she would never sleep again, but she was wrong.

Sloan woke stiff, sore, and with a beleaguered groan. She rolled over as her unctuous mind reconstructed the situation. Archon dead. Winnipeg dead. Delaney and Omaha at large.

The last slant of daylight filtered through the window. She had been out all day and god had she needed it. She worked the gunk from her joints and powered through the stiffness by yawning and stretching. Her fingers excavated eye jam as she peered out the window, no longer as black as in the miasma. A small alley beside a drugstore greeted her. Below, crumpled between garbage bags, lay the corpse from their closet. Winnipeg had dumped him out the window. Sloan would do best to leave before people discovered him.

She needed to keep moving. She needed to defeat Clair, and to defeat Clair she needed to drop all baggage, all emotion. The more she told herself these things, the more true they became.

Her Soul Gem was one hundred percent clear, a perfect gold with the slightest hint of translucence. It always reminded her of fossilized amber, except with no mosquito inside. But her gem now was much better than she ever remembered it being. It glowed. Its effulgence spread over the grief cubes piled mountainous at its feet.

She examined closer. Its brightness hurt her eyes and she needed to look away. When she did, she saw Kyubey staring from the windowsill.

He pushed open the pane and slid through, shutting the window behind him with his tail. Good afternoon, Miss Redfearn!

"You've been gone awhile."

My presence was more efficiently used elsewhere. You three managed to handle yourselves fine without me. Congratulations, by the way! You really exceeded expectations.

"You sent Omaha to terminate us."

Kyubey hopped onto the carpet and snaked his way for the spent grief cubes. It appears Omaha was sent by your old ally, Miss Ibsen. You should know, however, that Miss Ibsen had every intention for Omaha to spare you.

"Of course," said Sloan. "Just like in Minneapolis. So she can act the hero for letting me live, and make me the villain for wanting her dead." She sifted the cubes in search of ones still unused. The entire top layer was spent.

I would apologize for not warning you about Omaha's intentions, or her connection with your old adversary, but my primary goal was the defeat of the archon, and her presence increased the chance of that happening. Miss Dufresne and Miss Pollack, and even you, were considered acceptable losses if the primary goal were accomplished.

"Never change, Kyubey." She reached the bottom of the pile, but every single cube was used. Had her despair been that strong?

Kyubey hopped onto the bureau. The alien mouth on his back began vacuuming up the spent cubes in a process neither mechanical nor biological and which Sloan did not care to watch.

By the way! You'll notice your Soul Gem is in remarkable condition. You could consider it in a supercharged state, if you will. You used far more grief cubes than necessary, but fortunately, cubes do not simply go to waste if they have no more despair to consume.

Sloan examined her gem. "So you're saying it, like, gave me anti-despair?"

In a manner of speaking! Despair and its counteragent, hope, are simply sources of energy for which your Soul Gem is a conduit. Slurp suck shlupp went Kyubey's mouth. He used his tail to sweep them in for greater efficiency. Once the cubes had no more despair to take, they began to charge your gem with hope. This is an extremely rare state, because it's not often Magical Girls acquire so many grief cubes at once!

"I don't feel particularly joyful," said Sloan.

Joy and hope aren't the same thing. You can live a miserable existence but still have tons of hope for the future! Or you can be happy but not hopeful at all—that's generally called complacency. Really, it's difficult even for humans to convert so much hope into raw emotion. I advise burning it off as magical energy.

He sucked up the last few cubes on the bureau and hopped onto the carpet for the stragglers. Sloan regarded the vibrant aura of her gem. "So you mean like, fire my gun a lot?"

That's thinking a little small. With so much power at your disposal, you may even be able to do things you'd be incapable of normally. When Miss Pollack reaped the spoils of the archon in Saskatoon three years ago, she developed many of the abilities she employs now. She was actually only a Magical Girl of middling promise before that! Then there was a Magical Girl in Japan who gained so much magical energy—

He droned on, but Sloan stopped listening. Extreme magical energy... The exact ace she needed for Clair.

She pocketed the gem. No sense dallying. She was filthy, but a shower could wait. She needed to strike fast and with brutality.

"Pleasure doing business, Kyubey," she said as she opened the door.

His red eyes stared. The pleasure is all mine.

Au revoir, Williston, she thought as she embarked on foot down the highway. The remarkable lack of anything remarkable whatsoever would not be missed, and Sloan did not bother to glance over her shoulder for one last memento.

Kyubey was right, it was possible to feel hope and still be miserable. On one hand, she now marched toward Minneapolis to fulfill a dream so long etched into her soul it felt like the culmination of her entire life. At the same time, her thoughts kept tilting toward Erika, who was dead. The word "dead" sprung up over and over and over. Erika was not walking away from Williston. She was not walking anywhere.

She told herself: That's the risk, that's life as a Magical Girl. Nasty, brutish, and short, emphasis on the short. Winnipeg had known what was at stake. At some points she seemed to know better than Sloan herself. So Sloan had to move on, focus on the task ahead.

It's never so simple, of course.

She stuck out her hand and raised a thumb. One side of the highway was clogged with vehicles, but it was not her side. She wished she had taken the time to bathe, since she looked a wreck. When she entered Minneapolis, she wanted to make an impression. Something magnificent, something to behold.

On a lone dead tree beside the road, a single crow cawed and took flight.

Sloan walked.

Once the town shrank to a spattering of silhouettes, a wrinkle on an otherwise level horizon, she heard the whirr of an engine behind her. She stuck her thumb out again and held her breath as she waited for it to either stop or rush past.

A jeep slowed and stopped, although Sloan felt no relief. She recognized it. The passenger side window rolled down and Delaney Pollack leaned over from the driver seat. Both of her eyes were blue.

"Hey, love."

"This'll be the last time we meet, so if you got something to say, spit it out."

"Actually." Delaney unlocked the door and pushed it open. "I was thinking I could give you a ride."

"I'm not going to Canada."

"Winnipeg's territory needs someone to fill the void. You're a perfect fit, the city's big enough."

"I'm going to Minneapolis."

Delaney sighed. A long, exaggerated sigh for dramatic effect. "I know. I figured I'd mention it nonetheless."

"Goodbye, Delaney." Sloan began to walk.

The jeep rolled alongside her with the door ajar. "Wait, wait. Hop in. I'll drive you to Minneapolis."

Sloan stopped. She eyed Delaney suspiciously. The first thought that entered her mind was, naturally, how much a skilled healer/defender would aid her cause. Not to mention that nasty girl-crippling trick with the knife. Of course, to have Delaney's powers meant having Delaney too.

"You have territory."

"I'm not particularly wedded to it," said Delaney. "Look, we can spend all day dickering over this or you can hop in and we get going. It'll be hours before you find someone else leaving town and odds are they aren't going where you want to go. If they pick you up at all! No offense but you look like a maniac, love."

Trench coat, burn marks, covered in oil. Yeah, pretty much.

"Fine," Sloan said. "I'll get in if you answer one question. Why are you helping me?"

"Because you're going to get yourself killed doing something very, very foolish. And I don't want that to happen! Because that's what friends do, right?"

She smiled her sweet innocent smile that Sloan knew meant nothing at all. The answer probably meant as little, and Sloan wondered what she expected by asking. Friends. Did Sloan and Delaney count as friends? Could Delaney count as anyone's friend?

Objectively considered, the benefits Delaney brought as an ally far outweighed her detriments as a human being. And that was what Sloan needed to be now: Objective. Cold. Distant. She had let her guard down and allowed Erika—Winnipeg—to worm her way in. Her punishment for that mistake was swift and severe. Clair Ibsen would exploit any and all connections Sloan had, so better she had no connections. Better she had a companion she was willing to shed at a moment's notice. Better to exploit Delaney's bizarre desire to "do good deeds" just as Clair exploited Omaha.

She climbed into the jeep. Thin snowfall peppered the street, just enough for Delaney to engage her wipers. Calm, melodic music wafted from the speakers as the jeep started forward, and their journey to Minneapolis began.

In a distant land:

Homura Akemi lay on her back on the couch in her living space, her hands locked into a honeycomb and the pendulum tick-tock-ticking in her mind as she thought about Madoka Kaname. Time until their next meeting: Thirty-seven minutes and seven seconds. Thirty-seven minutes and six seconds. Thirty-seven minutes and...

It would be easy, triflingly easy, for Homura to rewrite the rules until Madoka and she were never apart. Or even simply abduct her, place her in a cage, wipe her mind of friends and family and replace it with only her, Homura Akemi, Madoka's devotee and worshiper, her acolyte, her apostle, her servant-master. But that would not work. Homura knew that. Homura could survive with Madoka alone, but Madoka could not survive with Homura alone. That was the truth of Madoka's being, her very essence, and was what constantly awed Homura to begin with. Her compassion, her genuine love for all people and living creatures. To cut Madoka away from the living, breathing world and trap her in a box with the most wretched and undead abomination on the face of the planet would be cruelty beyond measure.

So although it pained Homura, she allotted ample time for Madoka to be with others. In the beginning it had been both her family and her other friends, but now it was mostly just her family. Right now was family dinnertime. Madoka would tell her father and mother and brother about her day, and they would tell her about theirs, all over a warm, homecooked meal. Four laughing, happy people—Madoka brightest among them—gathered around a kitchen table, nourishing Madoka as much with food as with the interpersonal relations that meant so much to her.

It was Homura's duty to forbear these desolate interludes. Usually she scheduled her meetings with the Incubator at these times, but today—

A knock upon her door. Homura shot up. Had Junko stayed late at the office again, had Tomohisa truncated the usual dinner? And had Madoka, of her own volition, returned to Homura to spend an extra half hour before they went wraith-hunting together?

She wrenched open her door and immediately regretted not having checked the peephole first. Quickly she composed herself with her usual aloof expression.

"Tomoe," she said.

Mami Tomoe stood at the door, wearing a yellow tracksuit that only she of all people could make fashionable. Under one arm she held a matching helmet with a brim and visor, and despite the implication that recently she had worn said helmet, her hair remained a perfectly coiffured collection of curls. (Homura did not need the reports of her dolls to know Tomoe was vain enough to waste magic for maintenance of her ridiculous hairstyle.)

Tomoe gave a pleasant nod and smiled warmly. "Good evening, Miss Akemi! How are you today?"

"I'm fine," said Homura.

Parked against the curb behind Tomoe was the garish yellow scooter she purchased when she moved on to high school. On the backseat, wearing a helmet identical to Tomoe's and kicking her feet aimlessly, was Tomoe's young ward, Nagisa. She did not pay especial attention to either Tomoe or Homura, concerned more with her shoes than anything else.

"I am happy to hear it," said Tomoe. "It's been quite some time since I last heard from you or Miss Kaname in much detail. I was worried something may have befallen you, so I decided to pay a brief visit."

Homura narrowed her eyes. "We're fine."

"Well then, would the two of you care to join Nagisa and I tonight? The wraiths have been growing more numerous of late. It would probably be safer if we stayed in larger groups, don't you think?"

"Excuse me, I'm busy at the moment," said Homura. She began to close the door.

Tomoe stepped forward. "Wait, please. I don't mean to intrude. I'm genuinely worried about the two of you. Ever since Miss Kaname transferred here from the United States, you've grown more and more distant. I know we were never especially close friends, but there's no reason to be strangers."

Homura said nothing. She knew Tomoe's real reason for coming. While in the early days Homura attempted to keep the six Magical Girls of Mitakihara in close alignment, several factors had necessitated their fragmentation into three groups of two to maximize overall stability. Homura and Madoka, Tomoe and Nagisa, Miki and Sakura. Tomoe's real problem, which she kept concealed behind her pleasantries and vitreous smile, was that she worried she was being left alone yet again.

If only Tomoe came out and said what was on her mind, Homura might feel some pity for her. Instead, she simply wanted the conversation finished.

"That's what happens when people go to different schools," she said. "They fall out of contact. You still have Nagisa."

At the mention of her name, Nagisa quit puttering her feet and looked up. The bright yellow helmet made her head seem oversized and bulbous and the expression on her face indicated she was none too pleased to wear it. Nonetheless, she flashed Homura a quick smile and then resumed her aimless kicking.

Of the four interlopers whose lives Homura micromanaged lest they become irrational and/or die, Nagisa was the most tolerable. Her biggest problem in life was her dead mother, but pairing her with Mami Tomoe more-or-less fixed that. Her second biggest problem was cheese. If only Sayaka Miki could be placated by consumer commodities, how much easier Homura's life would be. On top of that, in a previous universe during however many cycles in which Homura saw the absolute worst aspects of the other three—derangement, murder, insanity—Nagisa was actually fairly useful, having in occasional timelines chomped off Tomoe's head, delaying Madoka from contracting for a few weeks. All that was ancient history, of course. Homura tried not to attach sentimental meaning to past events. The stark reality now was that if Nagisa or the others regained their memories, they would clamor for Homura's head and consign Madoka to an unfair fate while they acted as if they cared or even knew what Madoka wanted, as if they understood at all what their actions would do to her...!

Homura blinked. The entire time, Tomoe had been talking, and now looked to Homura in expectation of a response. Probably she had said nothing more than inane pleasantries.

"I'm busy at the moment," said Homura.

Tomoe expelled a ladylike sigh. "Very well. I'll not pester you further, Miss Akemi, you have made yourself clear. But do know that I am genuinely concerned for you and Miss Kaname. If either of you ever wish to enjoy some tea at my place, you're welcome anytime. Please pass the message along to her."

"I'll do that," Homura lied.

As she began to close the door again, Tomoe thought of something else. "Wait, Miss Akemi. One final thing. I've noticed that Miss Sayaka Miki seems distressed. I've tried to speak to her and perhaps sound out the problem, but she's rather resistant. I thought perhaps you might have better luck with her."

Homura stood still in the doorway for a while and stared at Tomoe.

"Why would I have better luck than you."

"I don't know. You just seem to have a knack for those sorts of things. Anyway, I'll not keep you any longer, Miss Akemi. Farewell. I hope we see each other again soon."

She turned sharply and returned with elegant stride to her scooter, curls bouncing with each step. Nagisa muttered something to her as she approached.

"No cheese until you finish your homework, Bebe," Tomoe replied.

Nagisa showed how much she cared for this response by donning her biggest pouty face, which Tomoe tactically ignored as she started the scooter and put on her helmet. Nagisa's pout only deepened as the circumstances of their transportation forced her to wrap her arms around Tomoe's waist as the scooter put-putted down the road and rounded a corner.

Homura waited until they were completely gone before shutting the door and returning to her room.

What did Tomoe mean by her parting remark? What reason did she have to believe Homura had a "knack" for any kind of social activity? Could she possibly suspect that Homura was manipulating their day-to-day livelihoods from the shadows, could that be what she meant?

No, no, calm down. You're being paranoid again. It was an off-the-cuff remark, mere politeness, the typical meaningless nicety that comprised Tomoe's lexicon. Or more likely it was simple bait to lure Homura, and by extension Madoka, into the open to fill the voids in Tomoe's pointless life via endless tea parties and cake baking sessions. That was it, that was the subtext, if there was even subtext at all.

At the same time, she knew Tomoe was capable of surprising feats of intelligence. Perhaps she should have the doll Eitelkeit probe deeper. Yes, that was the logical and reasonable solution: Acquire additional intelligence rather than stress over unknowns and possibles. Just as she did in a thousand moribund timelines.

The Incubator emerged from behind the shadow of the pendulum on the far side of the room. He remained on the tenebrous cusp and swayed his tail to the time of the clock.

"You're late," Homura said.

Unblinking eyes gazed in her direction. We decided to wait until after Miss Tomoe's interruption.

"She's gone now. Talk."

Efficient as always, the Incubator rattled off the relevant vital statistics of the day as Homura listened with only tentative interest. Standard number of deaths. Standard number of contracts. Standard distribution of deaths/contracts across the first and third world. Syrian conflict on the rise. Everything in order, everything continuing month-long trends or else explained by a predictable abnormality. Homura paced around her floating bulletin board, upon which the statistics emerged as documents, giving each paper the once-over so her near-godlike mind could process it. As was her custom, she looked over the list of magicides (only 25 today) and gauged their severity. All standard. All normal.

"Very well," she said. The incident with Tomoe had delayed things and Madoka was set to arrive in a few minutes. Homura needed to clean herself up before then. "You're dismissed."

There's one more thing. Yesterday you expressed interest in a follow-up report on the Williston incident, yes?

Williston. The small town in North Dakota. With the infestation and the three girls. Yes, she supposed she had some interest in that.

A new paper materialized before her. She swept it up in a hand and examined it. The infestation was quelled. The fates of the three girls: Delaney Pollack (78.7% chance of survival according to the Incubator's previous report): ALIVE. Erika Dufresne (44.0% chance of survival): DECEASED. Sloan Redfearn (4.1% chance of survival): ALIVE.

"Redfearn is the girl you specifically enlisted so that she could be terminated," said Homura. "She is a high-class magicide risk. Her profile indicates an obsessive desire to murder another Magical Girl. Why is she alive."

A 4.1 percent chance, while unlikely, is entirely within the realm of possibility.

"I am aware." She examined the paper closely. She did not like this. The girl who most needed to die had survived. No, worse than survived. According to the report, she now had a supercharged Soul Gem and was embarking on a one way journey to Minneapolis with the help of the other survivor, Pollack. This was in fact very problematic.

She didn't buy the 4.1% chance. When dealing with probabilities on a global scale, it was of course entirely unsuspicious. Girls sometimes survived far worse chances than that—chances even in the billionth of a percent. After all, somebody does win the lottery. A 4.1% chance was the perfect way to disguise something as improbable before the fact and defend it as possible afterward. And she did not trust the Incubator to be forthright about his intentions.

But when she pulled another paper to the fore and examined in excruciating detail the formulae and variables considered in creating that 4.1% chance, she found the Incubator's methodology infallible. He had not deviated from the standard in any way. The list of variables stretched into the millions, but Homura was able to process them instantaneously. Everything was considered, down to the probability of Redfearn getting into a fatal car crash en route to the city. She searched for some omission. Perhaps the Incubator ignored the impact Pollack, a skilled healer, would have on Redfearn's survival? No, even that was considered. In fact, Pollack's influence was the reason Redfearn had a 4.1% chance and not a 0.0007% chance. (Dufresne, meanwhile, actually lowered Redfearn's chance.)

She reached the bottom of the list after a few seconds of stringent mental processing. By every conceivable measure, Redfearn really did have a 4.1% chance of survival. Which meant her actual survival was pure luck.

The Incubator watched with his same smug expression as she turned to other files. Probed deeper into Williston for some irregularity, some glitch. How did Dufresne die? Law of the Cycles after expending too much energy. That made sense. And Pollack's survival was expected from the beginning. She brought up documents detailing critical events during the battle with the Abraxas archon. Crippling blows dealt by Redfearn and Dufresne, necessary healing and protection by Pollack. Everything added up, everything made sense. It just so happened that a lucky 4.1% chance had screwed up so much.

"You staked the possibility of Redfearn becoming incredibly powerful on a 4.1 percent chance," she said. "That seems unlike you, Incubator."

Indeed! Under normal circumstances, I would never risk so much on such a percentage. Unfortunately, we have fallen severely below energy quotas and have resorted to desperate measures to maximize intake. A 4.1 percent chance was deemed sufficiently low for the reward of bypassing the cost of hiring a Magical Girl to terminate Miss Redfearn. Unfortunately, the risk has backfired. Had our energy production methods not been so extremely regulated—

"You mean that you were willing to gamble on a 4.1 percent chance so Redfearn could be empowered to kill Ibsen and thus create even more energy."

Manipulating Magical Girls to kill one another to increase production is one of your staunchest prohibitions.

"I am aware." Madoka would arrive any minute and Homura grew tired of this conversation. She brought up a paper on the Abraxas archon itself. It was not, as she supposed, created from the oil drilling in the area and the squalid conditions of the town's denizens. It was instead created via magicide. Three days ago, in fact: Lily Cheong murdered Gwendolyn Richards in Williston. Had Homura somehow missed this? Another file came to the fore: Magicides from three days ago. No, there it was, the third entry on the list: Lily Cheong and Gwendolyn Richards. Cause: Accidental killing during a minor argument. A cause that should never have provoked an archon manifestation, and which seemed entirely benign when it was first brought to Homura's attention. What was going on here?

She probed deeper. Lily Cheong had a power that caused all pain dealt to her to be dealt back to her attacker twofold. Gwendolyn Richards had actually been the aggressor, and killed herself by accident... This was becoming complicated, and Homura had no idea how any of it related to Sloan Redfearn. It only deepened her suspicion that the Incubator was planning something. But what?

Her door knocked. She jolted away from her papers—it was Madoka, this time she knew.

"Terminate Redfearn," said Homura. "Hire one of your specialty girls. I don't care about the cost."

As you command. No discomposure in the Incubator's voice, no indication that this was anything other than an expected outcome. Was that his usual stoicism or was she blundering into a trap? Paranoia surged back into her. She needed to break away, to be with Madoka... Madoka would calm her, allow her to think more reasonably and rationally. In the interim the key was ensuring Sloan Redfearn's death.

The door knocked again. Madoka's voice chimed: "Homura? Are you there?"

"Just a moment!" she called as she headed for the door. "You're dismissed, Incubator."

The Incubator had already disappeared.

END FIRST ARC

Chapter 14: A Damsel with a Dulcimer

SECOND ARC: MINNEAPOLIS

Corn flakes again. Wait, no corn flakes, some shitfuck had ate them all and put the empty box back in the cupboard, thanks asshole! Thanks a fucking lot!

"Who fucking did this," said the girl called Bloomington. Her voice reverberated through the house. "Who fucking ate all the corn flakes?"

The house settled with a creak and a moan. In a distant room, a war between Vikings and Eagles raged. Who even lived in this house, Bloomington wondered. Certainly not her family. She scoured the kitchen for leftovers, microwave shit, caloric content of any kind, even motherfucking—she tried to think of a completely unpalatable food—even motherfucking collard greens, she was so hungry.

She checked her phone. Late. Always late.

Ignoring her hunger, she stole through the house to the side window and jimmied her fingers under the wooden frame. Ever try opening a shitty window without getting splinters or lead poisoning? Bullshit, absolute bullshit. But Bloomington had mastered the delicate art. Steady pull, ensure the fingers don't slip. The window creaked open without a sound.

She had one leg over the side when like Jason from Freddy vs. Jason her mom came in waving a carving knife in a series of stabbing motions and screaming ALYSSA RAE COLES GET RIGHT BACK IN THIS HOUSE THIS MINUTE. Bloomington scrammed the fuck out, but her back leg snagged the windowsill and she tripped into the weeds. A rusty half-buried tool jabbed her ribs and she rolled over with a pained oof.

Her mother leaned out the window and brandished the knife. YOU BAD GIRL YOU. DOING THE DEVIL'S WORK! THE DEVIL!

Bloomington pulled herself up and kept clear of the arc of her mother's knife. "I already told you ma, I ain't no fucking whore!" She backed toward the chain-link fence brushing dirt from her parka. In her haste she'd forgot her mittens and the night chill numbed her fingers. She shoved her hands into her pockets and expelled a white breath into the yellow beam of the window and the silhouette of her mother.

YOU AIN'T GOT TO BE PAID TO BE A WHORE. AIN'T NO GIRL OUT THIS TIME A NIGHT UP TO NO GOOD.

"Bye, ma," said Bloomington. She hopped the fence and burrowed her neck in her parka's fur trim. Her mother's curses nipped at her back.

At night, beneath a starless sky, the city grew unworldly. At uncertain distances rose towers, pillars of yellow light, while in the ice-paved streets the buildings could vanish behind wayward puffs of frost-fog. Bloomington shivered even under her layers, the ski cap, parka, jacket, three extra shirts, the burgundy sweatpants from P.E. and the insulated long-legged underwear, the woolen stockings and the thick-soled boots, under all that her dry prune body trembled with an electric spark, her skin brittle ash and the small hairs on her flesh bristling straight. Her nose started to run, which she hated worst of all, because your options for a runny nose were A) Tissue, which you either didn't have or which rubbed the bridge between the nostrils raw, B) Your Hand, which was disgusting and left long streaks along your fingers, or C) Snort It Up, where it went straight to your brain until you had to lie down from the migraine. And if you let it run it dribbled onto your lip and froze into chunky serrated shards.

She compromised by digging her nose into the trim of her parka, transforming into Kenny from South Park. (Ma didn't let her watch South Park, said she'd whip her ass she ever caught her watching that devil show, nevermind was Donny showed her in the first place, but nobody never whipped Donny none did they?) A runny nose was what little kids got. As a senior Magical Girl in the Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area, she could not go in front of the new kid sniffling and shivering.

It took ten minutes to reach where Woodbury lived. Thank god Woodbury did not actually live in Woodbury or they might have a fucking problem. They both lived in Brooklyn Park, which fell under the jurisdiction of neither of them. In metro areas, where territorial borders were transient, girls lived either where their family lived or, lacking a family, where rent was cheapest. As long as they hunted in their own territory, nobody gave a shit where they slept (usually).

Bloomington approached the apartment complex, its walls riddled with graffiti, gang signs, names of local hotshots who flipped coke/crack/weed/pills on the corners and reinvested their earnings into solid gold crosses. In the cold, at least, no loiterers hung around the entrance to ask where she from or if she trynna buy. She sidled into the flickering light over the door and rang the buzzer.

The apartment door swung open and Woodbury emerged in hot pink cotton ball apparel, her normally slight self turned three-dimensional by layers of matching jackets, mittens, and scarves. Bloomington forced down a wave of self-consciousness at her own comparatively clashing winter wear, and then squashed it with self-satisfaction. It was no secret how Woodbury made her money.

"Hiya, Bloom!" Woodbury led the way back down the street. "Geez louise it's cold tonight don'tcha think? Like, brr!" She added an exaggerated shiver for emphasis.

"Yeah," said Bloomington. All Woodbury's money meant nothing because she still lived in the one apartment block in the city where the landlord gave few enough shits to take rent from a preteen. These out-of-town girls lately. Used to be you weren't a Minneapolis girl unless you actually, you know, came from Minneapolis. But Auntie Em hired chicks over the internet, so now they had girls from all over. Woodbury was from Chicago. The other two new girls were Canadian, and who knew St. Paul's deal.

It made Bloomington anxious. Like the old guard was getting phased out. Only Bloomington, Ramsey, and big Em herself were here half a year ago.

"So glad I don't gotta hunt tonight," said Woodbury. Mostly talking to herself, Bloomington supposed. "Ain't you glad you don't gotta hunt tonight? Can't imagine what it's like when the blizzard hits, whaddya do then? You go out and hunt in the blizzard?"

"Not like your soul takes a snow day."

"Ain't looking forward to that but I guess you gotta do what you gotta do. How you doing on cubes by the way? It's been a little touch-and-go out in Woodbury, but I done well enough. Things good at the mall?"

"I manage." Bloomington suppressed the desire to wipe the snot dangling from her nose. She tilted her head so Woodbury wouldn't notice.

"That's nice you know according to Kyubey we're not supposed to really hang out much but I always thought that was dumb, we should really try to work together and keep an eye on each other. Don'tcha think things would be better like that? If we worked together and helped each other out?"

"More likely we'd kill each other."

"In Chicago they don't do it like this. In Chicago they have it all ordered and tiered and there's this hierarchy and you gotta report to your superior officer and they take a percent as tribute or whatever. I thought all that was frankly a load of bull which is why I came here but this is like the total opposite spectrum, I hardly ever see any of you and it was a big surprise when Minneapolis called to say she wanted to talk. You know why she wants to talk by the way?"

They reached the bus stop, a grim bench under a lopsided awning with a little light to look halfway legitimate.

Bloomington fished a pack of cigarettes from a pocket. A click of the lighter, a warm glow, and a satisfied puff to fill her with the nicotine that warded away worse vices. Plus a small flare to defrost her blue lips.

"Not sure," she answered finally. "She said it was a security matter. Citywide security matter."

Woodbury's eyes were galvanized to the cigarette. Bloomington took a long drag, daring Woodbury to ask, to plead, to beg. But she did not ask.

"Citywide security matter sounds pretty serious. You think it's one of those infestations people talk about? With the strong wraiths that take teams of girls to take down?"

Another drag. Denying Woodbury the pleasure of smoking felt better than smoking itself. "Probably a nomad outstepped her bounds. Happens time to time."

"Or, or," said Woodbury, "maybe a turf war? The Chicago girls always talked about conquering St. Louis or Indianapolis or someplace, you think they decided to come here?"

"Probably a nomad."

Woodbury tilted her head quizzically, her nose improbably and infuriatingly devoid of snot. "Like a crazy nomad? Think we'll have to call in a ter, a ter, a whatsit?"

"Terminatrix," said Bloomington. "I dunno. Possible."

"Wow, that's kinda scary," said Woodbury. "Crazy to think there's girls who go around killing other girls. You'd think with as much as we go through we'd, you know, unite? Against our common foe? Why's it always drama and politics and stuff like that?"

Were her eyes fixed on the cigarette or Bloomington's runny nose? Now Bloomington was paranoid. She dropped the cigarette prematurely and crushed it into the slush.

She heard the bus before she saw it. Its wire squeal sliced the night, causing Woodbury to jump. From around an old warehouse it turned, its great glass windows revealing rows of empty seats. The raccoon-eyed driver barely acknowledged their presence as they boarded. Woodbury smiled and asked if this line went to Eden Prairie and the driver told her to sit down.

The bus was as cold as outside.

"So it's just us two?" said Woodbury, since Woodbury had to say something. "What about the others?"

"Hennepin and Ramsey got better shit to do. Anoka says she's tied up."

Woodbury frowned. "I think Anoka's having a hard time adjusting. I'm worried she won't last long."

Worried she won't last long! Like Woodbury was some wizened veteran. "Anoka's garbage. Her power's worthless. I got no clue why Em hired her."

"I wish there was some way we could help."

"Worry about yourself. Anoka'll be gone in a month and we'll get a better replacement."

Woodbury bit her lip. Her cheer drained and Bloomington immediately felt like an asshole for exploiting the fears of an eleven-year-old fresh off contract. But hey, that's life. Bad Magical Girls die, and they do it pretty fast. The sooner Woodbury learned, the better.

The ramshackle housing complexes and boarded-up storefronts gave way to cleaner and better-lit suburbs. Most of greater Minneapolis-St. Paul fell in the above average income bracket, and scuzzy ghettos like theirs were the exception rather than the rule.

When they reached Eden Prairie, Bloomington tugged the cord on the bus. The driver twisted the steering wheel and nearly ran the bus against the curb.

"How far's her house from here?" asked Woodbury as they disembarked. "This is a nice neighborhood, whose territory is this again?"

"Quiet," said Bloomington.

They penetrated the outer ring of whitewashed houses with their Christmas lights and lawn reindeer, each house a flame in its hearth, each house a light in its window. Despite the light, the world was no warmer here than where they came from. Scattered snowflakes fell, but did not stick to the sidewalk.

At the end of an inner coil of road, a wrought-iron gate barred their path. Sharp spade tips topped it. In front stood a sign: EDEN ESTATES.

"Oh shit!" Woodbury covered her mouth to stifle a squeal. "Em lives in THERE? Damn that's crazy, that's so crazy. I knew she had money, but damn!"

"I said quiet." Bloomington did not like to attract attention in this part of town. With a glance over her shoulder she approached the gate's keypad and punched the code.

The gate opened like goddam Jurassic Park, with the same ominous moan. Bloomington slipped inside, keeping her head down and shoulders slumped in a way she knew only made her look more suspicious. If she walked like she belonged she would have an easier time, but the whole gated community gave her a bad vibe. The houses, taller, with more lighted windows, deepened her insignificance and unease. The ostensibly friendly Christmas decorations did not help.

Woodbury seemed not to mind, her head swiveling side to side to take in every identical house, every piece of neon holiday kitsch.

"There," said Bloomington. She pointed to a house alike all the others, with no particular deviation in the quantity of its yuletide cheer. Despite her knowing mentor demeanor, she had only been here once before, after the old Minneapolis got ousted.

"Ooh," said Woodbury as they tromped up the porch. "Nice place!"

"Let me do the talking."

Bloomington took a deep breath and rapped her knuckle against the solid oak door.

A shadow flashed over the peephole. Please be Em. Please not any weird family member. Please be Em.

The door opened. It was not Em. It was a housewife in oven mitts and apron, her ensemble lacking only a hot tray of fresh cookies that, by the smell wafting from the kitchen, they were a few minutes shy of seeing. Em's mother's eyes lit up and her mouth curled into a delighted circle and she said:

"Oh my! You must be collecting for the local charity!"

"No," said Bloomington. Woodbury shuffled uncomfortably and Bloomington glared to enforce the no-talking rule. "We are friends of your daughter. Is she home?"

For a moment the aproned lady eyed them. Her expression betrayed neither scorn nor mistrust. It maintained the same placid politeness with which she greeted them, the same saccharine cherubim smirk etched upon her bubbly features. From somewhere inside emanated the sounds of the same Vikings game that played in Bloomington's house.

"Which daughter," said Em's mother.

Shit. Bloomington totally forgot Em had a sister. She tried to remain calm as she delved deep for Em's real name. It started with a kuh sound. Kuh, kuh, Kelly? Bzzrt, wrong. Cora? Clara? Clara sounded close. Should she try it or—

Woodbury stepped in. "Clair. We're friends of Clair. Is she home, Mrs. Ibsen?"

The nice mask on Mrs. Ibsen's face evaporated into genuine warmth. "Clair's friends! Clair always has such nice friends. Do come in, make sure to wipe your boots on the mat. Clair will be thrilled to see you!"

An oven timer dinged as Mrs. Ibsen lured them inside with offers of chocolate chip cookies. The interior of the Ibsen household remained unchanged since Bloomington's last visit. Everywhere, everywhere were birds. Birds on wallpaper, birds on carpet, birds in paintings, little wooden birds on mantelpieces, live squawking birds in cages. Sparrows, bluejays, condors, falcons, goldfinches, albatrosses, cardinals, kiwis, roosters, parrots, cockatiels, cockatoos, any and all avian species large and small. When Mrs. Ibsen shuffled to the kitchen and opened the oven, a phoenix adorned the cookie tray. A hummingbird pattern covered her apron, her mitts were embroidered with pelicans. She scraped the cookies off the tray with a spatula and placed them on peacock plates which she offered to Bloomington and Woodbury as though the rules of hospitality would be irrevocably violated unless they consumed at least five. In the adjacent family room a focused and balding Mr. Ibsen leaned forward on a goose-print sofa to observe the Vikings throw an interception in pixel-perfect detail on a full 1080p high definition big screen television mounted to the wall between an ostrich-shaped end table and a framed Certificate of Academic Excellence awarded to Clair Ibsen by the Governor of Minnesota.

"No cookies, please," said Bloomington. "We just want to speak to Clair."

Woodbury had already scarfed down three cookies. She started to ask if they had any milk but Bloomington elbowed her hard in the ribs.

"Well, if you insist!" said Mrs. Ibsen. "Our daughters never eat them, so there's nobody else but hubby and me."

Mr. Ibsen grunted assent as his wife ferried him a plate. He shot up with a spastic, malformed groan as the Eagles scored.

With the parents distracted, Bloomington nudged Woodbury and led her upstairs. Deeper into the house, the bird motif grew less pronounced. The tacky paintings and knickknacks gave way to framed photographs of the Ibsen family. Mostly Em. Em at recitals, Em receiving awards, Em looking pretty in front of a nebulous blue background. Very few photos of the other Ibsen child.

A faint classical overture, probably by some dude with von in his name, percolated from behind the featureless door at the end of the hall.

"That's her, right?" Woodbury whispered.

"Best to let her finish," said Bloomington.

They waited. The music transformed from a soothing summer solo to something more frantic, more intense. The violin erupted into an entire orchestra, many instruments at once detectable even to Bloomington's admittedly troglodyte ears: Pounding drums, crashing cymbals, booming organs, screeching clarinets, dying flutes. All harnessed by a madcap conductor, careening off whatever rails into an avalanche valley of jagged rocks. The music exploded in a final flurry of activity, a complete unravelling of order or reason: and then only the lone violin remained, pealing the same summer overture as before, note for note.

Then it too went silent.

A voice from the other side of the door said: "You may enter now."

Woodbury and Bloomington exchanged a glance and Bloomington opened the door.

Clair Ibsen, alias Minneapolis, also known as Em, stood in the center of a sterile white space, between a perfectly made bed and a desk devoid of clutter. She wore her navy prep school uniform, the only color in the room beside her red eyes. The distinctive (external) feature of Minneapolis, which everyone noticed but nobody mentioned, was her albinism. Bloomington had not known it was possible for white people to be albino, but Minneapolis's matching skin and hair left little doubt.

Minneapolis took the violin from her shoulder and placed it and its bow back in its case, which she promptly sealed with careful, efficient motions. She placed the case on the shelf next to her other instruments and at no time established eye contact with her guests.

"Welcome," she said. "Please, take a seat." She motioned to her bed, but Bloomington remained standing. It seemed somehow wrong to wrinkle the immaculate blankets.

Woodbury had no scruples and plopped her ass down. She folded her leg and wrapped her hands around her shoe. "Wow, that was a really great song, Em. Really great! You did it all yourself, right? With magic?"

"Yes," said Minneapolis.

"That's so cool! I wish my magic could do cool stuff like that. By the way, why isn't St. Paul here? I thought she'd be here for sure, she's always around wherever you are."

"I have already briefed St. Paul," said Minneapolis.

Bloomington tapped a foot, but stopped when she realized she was indenting the carpet. "Then brief us and let's get it done with. I got stuff to do."

"Of course. I would not want to inconvenience you more than necessary. Are either of you thirsty? I can procure a drink if needed." Minneapolis kept her head slightly tilted in her well-practiced trick to avoid looking people in the eye. The obvious assumption was she felt ashamed of her red eyes, but Bloomington wasn't sure.

"We're fine. Skip the pleasantries already, we get it. You didn't call us over if it wasn't important."

"Weren't important," said Minneapolis. "The conditional phrase requires the subjunctive tense."

"Okay, Herr Gestapo."

"If I were truly a gestapo, I would not have allowed two girls of your skin tone into my city." Minneapolis shifted her red eyes slightly closer to their direction. "But to the crux of the matter."

"Are we getting a new girl?" said Woodbury. The bedsprings squeaked beneath her.

Minneapolis betrayed the beginnings of a smile. "In a sense." She drifted to her desk and pressed a finger to the keyboard of her computer. The screensaver disappeared and a single image replaced it.

It was a picture of a rundown street in a small midwestern town. The buildings did not grow above two stories. A few rusted wagons, even a tractor, parked on the curb. In the center stood a lone girl, the only human being in the picture. She was crooked, lanky, her back stooped, her scraggly hair hanging in clumped strands. Her eyes watched over her shoulder at the nothing behind her, so as not to see the nothing ahead. Her hands were entrenched in the pockets of the long brown coat that swallowed most of her body.

Of the seven girls in Minneapolis, only three had been around when this girl reigned over the city. Bloomington was one of them.

"Sloan Redfearn." A real name she had no trouble remembering.

"Her moniker of choice nowadays is Fargo," said Minneapolis.

"Who's Sloan Redfearn?" said Woodbury. "I thought Fargo was a movie? Is she one of those, uh, ter, ter, ter—"

"She is not a Terminatrix." Minneapolis remained rooted by the computer, her eyes lost in the image. She had the appearance of a statue, marble rather than flesh. "Sloan Redfearn held the name Minneapolis before me."

Woodbury scratched her head. "So she's... dead?"

"She is not dead. Months ago, I was Fargo's right-hand woman. Our arrangement began amicably and we were close friends. Unfortunately, power corrupted her." Minneapolis turned away from the screen, to the pitch black of her window. Only the jagged limb of a white tree stood outside it, like a crack in the glass. "She became increasingly obsessed with destructive pursuits for her own gain. She used human beings as bait to draw more wraiths. She grew hostile toward her fellow Magical Girls. On one occasion she lashed out and struck me. She struck others. She threatened them if they got in the way of her cubes. Bloomington can corroborate my story, yes?"

"Yeah," said Bloomington. "She was one nasty girl."

"While none of her actions, taken by itself, warranted termination, her downward trajectory could not be denied. She withdrew further and further from all around her. She refused to listen to my advice. She babbled about plans to reduce the girls in Minneapolis from seven to six so she could take more territory for herself. I became concerned. When a nomad appeared from Chicago, Fargo taunted the girl into a duel and killed her without mercy."

"Well," said Bloomington. "That other girl was asking for it."

"Indeed. The Incubator agreed, and after some deliberation decided not to mark Fargo for termination. But her violence had worsened drastically in a short time. If left unchecked, she would eventually descend into full megalomaniacal insanity. I knew I needed to take action before tragedy occurred."

Minneapolis unlatched the window. An icy blast buffeted their faces, but Minneapolis did not flinch. She opened a drawer on her desk and retrieved a single leather glove.

"I consulted the Incubator to ensure my plans were legal under his code for Magical Girl conduct. I made one more attempt to reason with Fargo. When she spurned me, I challenged her to a duel and defeated her."

She slid the glove onto her left hand. She made especial care to put each finger into its proper place.

"My intention was to strip her Soul Gem and deliver it to the Incubator for termination, as is protocol when handling dangerous Magical Girls. But I found I could not. The defeated Fargo, lying helpless on the ground, did not beg for clemency and yet I could not bring myself to kill her. I recalled images of a distant past in which we had been friends. I failed to do what I promised the Incubator. I let Sloan Redfearn go."

Minneapolis extended her gloved arm out the window. In a flurry of flapping wings, a raven the size of an eagle alighted on her arm. Its talons hooked into the leather as it settled its wings and made a tentative caw.

She tilted her ear close to the raven's beak. It swiveled its head nearly upside-down and straightened its pinions.

"My familiar reports no news," said Minneapolis, as though Bloomington or Woodbury had the slightest conception of what constituted news to her. She patted the raven on the head and whispered something. The raven clacked its beak, flapped its wings, and soared out the window. It left behind a few loose feathers, which floated to the carpet.

"So what happened next," said Woodbury. "You know, with the story and all?"

As diligently as she put it on, Minneapolis removed the glove. "Sloan Redfearn fled, almost completely consumed by despair. But she did not succumb. She reestablished herself in Fargo, west of here. And there, the Incubator tells me, she plotted revenge."

"And now she's back?" said Bloomington. "For real?"

"The situation is quite real. Fargo is returning. She has purified her Soul Gem and intends to destroy me."

"And you want us to help you." Bloomington folded her arms.

"Exhorting you to that cause is the purpose of this meeting."

"Yeah, no thanks. I didn't get involved when you ousted her and I ain't getting involved now. Deal with your own shit."

Minneapolis picked up the feathers one by one and deposited them out the window. Despite the obscene chill, she watched the dark void for a moment before shutting it.

"Fargo is a deranged and desperate individual. Do you believe, Bloomington, that once she has dispensed with me she will leave you unmolested? You and Ramsey, being the only others around from her time, stand the most to lose."

"Good luck convincing Ramsey to help either," said Bloomington. "Keeping my head down and staying quiet has gone well so far, I don't see why that's gotta change."

Woodbury, who had remained silent longer than she was used to, looked up. "I think I'd like to help."

"You would?" said Minneapolis. "The offer is entirely voluntary. I merely wish to convey to Bloomington the danger Fargo poses to her. As one who has never encountered this girl before, you are in significantly lower risk of falling within the scope of her unremitting ire. Enlisting yourself to the task of stopping her places you in peril you would otherwise avoid—I wish to make that perfectly clear."

"I think I get it." Woodbury stood up. "Look, you're pretty cool, Minneapolis. Like, you don't get in my hair or meddle with me or anything like the girls in Chicago. I'd rather you be in charge than some crazy bitch who kills people, and if that means fighting, then shit, what else I gonna do?"

The stupid little brown noser. Could Woodbury be more naive? Bloomington watched Minneapolis's face for traces of a smile, but the girl had expressionlessness down pat.

"Woodsy," said Bloomington. She hoped the affectionate nickname might pierce the girl's thick skull. "First rule of Magical Girldom: Don't get in fights with other fucking girls. You got no energy to waste on some bitch who drops no cubes."

"I think this is the right thing to do," said Woodbury. She balled a fist before her hot pink puffball jacket and attempted to look heroic (it didn't work). "Minneapolis has been nothing but kind since I came here. Least I can do's repay the favor."

Bloomington kneaded her forehead. God fucking dammit.

"I am thankful for your faith," said Minneapolis. "I do not wish to dictate orders to my subordinates. The situation in Chicago is exactly what I seek to avoid. It is simply that, to maintain the peace, interlopers must be removed. I do not wish to embroil you in a personal conflict; this goes beyond a mere grudge between Fargo and myself. I fear for the stability of this city if Fargo is allowed to take over."

"The city ran fine enough under her," said Bloomington.

"That is because I managed the city when she, as was quite often the case, refused." Even with Minneapolis's line of sight tilted slightly away, her red eyes dug like daggers. "If you truly believe that Fargo on her own is competent to rule this city, you are deluding yourself."

"Everything you say's got only your personal testimony to back it up," said Bloomington.

Minneapolis shut her eyes and exhaled softly. "Very well. I will make no further effort to change your opinion, Bloomington. As I said before, all contributions to the cause of defeating Fargo are voluntary. Woodbury, allow me to reiterate my gratitude for your support. I'll contact you with further orders once I receive more information on Fargo's whereabouts from my familiar. Until then, I shall detain you no longer. Farewell."

She did not reopen her eyes, emphasizing the finality of her words. Bloomington and Woodbury stood motionless as if to ask whether they should go or not and Bloomington figured yeah they should go, it was clearly what Em wanted and Em tended to get what she wanted.

They snuck out the house without another encounter with Mrs. Ibsen, although they did catch sight of what may have been Minneapolis's sister stealing Sasquatch-like between rooms.

"You're just afraid," said Woodbury as they trekked through the winter wasteland. "We owe it to Em to help her."

"We don't owe her shit. What's she do for us? She works her territory we work ours, I talk to her once a week if that."

"It's not like here in Chicago," said Woodbury. "It's not like here in LA or New York. We got a good thing here."

Bloomington lit another cigarette. The foolishness of youth, rushing headlong into death for no damn reason. She tried to think up more arguments to sway Woodbury back to the smart side, and thought up a ton, but Woodbury made clear her mind was not changing. She skipped down the sidewalk in her cute pink boots humming some tune, totally oblivious what she had signed up to do.

The dumb idiot. Bloomington flicked her light and crushed it. Someone oughtta make sure Fargo don't blast her to bits. She looked around the desolate suburban roadside and grimly noted there was only one somebody around to do that, and that somebody happened to be Bloomington.

Chapter 15: A Broken Coriolanus

The modern miracle of GPS! A handheld device harnesses the power of satellites to detect its location anywhere in the world, and then references that location against an accurate street network to determine the quickest route to anywhere one desires. As a computer lady announced directions from Delaney Pollack's phone (how she missed her dear phone inside the miasma!), she and her best friend Sloan Redfearn blazed across leagues of skinless countryside. Only 12.7 gajillion miles until you take a right turn in Minot!

12.7 gajillion miles of total and absolute silence! While Best Friend Sloan Redfearn stared out the window and refused all eye contact! Where olive branch attempts at conversation fell dead like Erika Dufresne's tiny cold body! You know what they say: an idle mind is the devil's playpen. The platitude proved true for Delaney on too many occasions. Normally, though, when she thought absolutely crazy and depraved thoughts, there was nobody around to act them out upon. Now...

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. So Sloan had spurned her advance in the motel room. Come on, that's totally fair. Totally! You're kind of Grade A Batshit, remember? Sloan's vulnerable state led you to believe you had a chance. You completely misread the situation. You thought death = emotion, emotion = vulnerability, vulnerability = need for comfort, need for comfort = sex. A simple formula that works in many easily replicable contexts, but you underestimated just a bit the DEATH part of the equation, the fact that someone had DIED and that was not normally the best omen for lovemaking? So ultimately all you did was ruin any chance you had, any at all! Fuck you, Delaney! Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck YOU!

But she could only distract herself with self-loathing for so long. Soon her thoughts verged on more sadistic pleasures. Like how easily her barriers could restrain Sloan. Blindfolds, ball gags, leather straps, shiny metal instruments. Images of Sloan's mutilated body, a plaything for Delaney's desire.

God, it was so wrong. Delaney knew it was wrong but thought it anyway, which was all the worse. Once upon a time, she believed sex would bring her redemption. An act of pure love, creating pleasure instead of pain, to counteract the awful, selfish things she had done... and then she learned sex could be just as selfish, just as painful as her other perversions. Thanks, internet!

She checked the phone. The gajillions of miles had not changed. She needed to stop thinking these things or she would do something bad, either to Sloan or to herself.

"If you don't wanna be friendly, love, then let's talk strategy. You intend to roll into Minneapolis, gun this Ibsen girl down, and that's that? You think that'll work?"

Sloan said nothing. Stared out the window. Cried out in muffled pain as Delaney leaned over the shredded ribbons of her back—

"You lost to her before, why do you think you can beat her now?"

More silence. More tightening, more asphyxiation.

"Not to mention there's other girls in Minneapolis. It's a big city. They'll go against you too, hmm?"

A split-open stomach, organs in jars as votive offerings. Delaney wearing Sloan's skin like a jacket...!

"Come on, love, please!" Delaney turned her strained face toward Sloan. "Say something, anything!"

Briefly, an angel of mercy descended. Sloan said: "I'm not talking strategy because I haven't determined it yet."

"Hence the need to talk, love! We have plenty of time to concoct something devilish between here and Minneapolis. We'll knock Clair Ibsen's socks off!" She added a rousing fist pump for good measure.

Sloan did not turn from the window. Her cheek would so leave a smudge. "I have to figure out the strategy. By myself."

Uh oh. That sounded stupid. "And pray tell, why is that?"

She said nothing.

"I do hope you're not pulling one of those 'I gotta do this by myself, I can't take help from nobody' routines. Because frankly, that's really cliché! And also, you're already taking help from me, since I'm driving you."

Sloan unrooted from the window (and yes, she left a smudge). "There's a difference between me telling you what to do and you telling me what to do. Clair did not plan with Omaha to figure out what to do in Williston. Clair knew her plan and got Omaha to do it. She reduced Omaha to a tool."

"The point of a tool is to know its function." Delaney tried not to attach sexual connotations to the word tool and totally failed. "Make me a tool! Please! But know my function. Maybe you're not aware, since I dislike tooting my own horn, but I am a being of exceptional intelligence. I have a mind for science, geography, mathematics—basically any and all disciplines!"

"I let you come up with the plan and boom, I'm the one being used. I'm the tool."

It grew more and more difficult to maintain a smile. "What is it you really want, Sloan love? Do you want Clair Ibsen dead, or is there something more at stake here? Because I'm a smidgeon confuzzled."

Sloan stared forward. Barbwire and oil drills whizzed past her head. "Let me make my goals perfectly clear, then. I must defeat Clair Ibsen by my own merit. If Kyubey himself showed up and told me the cheat code to win, I wouldn't listen. I need to do it."

Delaney nodded, as though this were perfectly reasonable, when really it was dumb dumb dumb. "I see. So you don't have to KILL Clair, do you? You REALLY want to reassert your superiority. Defeat her in a test of wits and power. There's no need for all-out murder, right?"

"No. She must die."

"Mhmm, yes, of course." Delaney considered something else to say, but Sloan returned her forehead to the smudge on the window. Alas, egos were so easily bruised! It would not do for Delaney to force the issue, but no way could she allow Sloan to come up with the whole Attack on Minneapolis plan herself. No offense, Sloan, but you're kinda dumb? Really, Delaney meant that in the least demeaning way possible, a lot of people are dumb, in fact Delaney had not met a single living thing besides Kyubey whom she considered less dumb than herself. But it was true! Clair Ibsen masterminded some shenanigans with Omaha, so Delaney knew she was nobody with which to trifle. And here was Sloan, trifling! Handicapping herself! First allowing Omaha to live, and then refusing to use Delaney (like a tool).

Maybe deep down Sloan did not want to actually kill Clair? Was her subconscious acting up? That would make Delaney's task easier...

Oh dear. Delaney had let the conversation die. Dammit! She did not know how to get someone to talk who did not want to. She practiced so hard to make people like her (smile, say nice things, be an attractive female) and then they up and disliked her anyway! Perplexing to no end. The moment she thought she had consumed enough movies to replicate how NORMAL people acted, some monkey wrench pinwheeled into her machinery and goofed it all up!

(Well duh, Delaney! Normal people don't think such depraved things about their friends.)

Oh, shut up.

A large sum of mental fortitude ferried them to the Minnesota border without a lapse in Delaney's impulse control. Congratulations Delaney! You gained a level in NOT BEING A TOTAL LUNATIC.

However, night had fallen. Blame it on their late start—Delaney had not dipped below eighty since Williston.

"Sloan love, how about a bite to eat? Maybe a little shuteye, hmm?"

They entered a city the name of which Delaney missed in the swift setting of dusk. But it seemed substantial enough to sleep in.

For the second time during the drive Sloan removed her filthy face from the passenger window. Surprisingly she said: "Sure. I don't intend to roll into Minneapolis looking like a slob anyway."

"Fabulous. But of course, food first. Sleep later! What kind of cuisine have you a palate for, love? I'll pay!"

Sloan rubbed her eyes and blinked. She examined the depressing little houses alongside the road. Without warning, she began to laugh.

Another caprice of the unknowable Sloan Redfearn. "What's so funny, love?"

"We're in Fargo."

They stopped at a light which was red although they were the only car at the junction. Delaney consulted the lady in her phone. "I suppose that's true. Is it a problem? We can press for the next town if you like..."

"I don't give a fuck," said Sloan. "It means nothing to me."

They ate at a roadside diner, one of a million anonymous locales speckled across the offspring of American manifest destiny. Sloan ordered a burger and fries. Delaney got a chicken fried steak!

She let the meal simmer before springing her trap on Sloan. "So you've had some time to think about the plan, right?"

Gobble crunch swallow. "Yeah."

"Great! Lemme hear it. I'm waiting to be ordered, commander!" She saluted smartly, treading the line between endearment and irony.

Sloan wiped her mouth on a napkin. "Minneapolis has a population to support seven full-time girls. Bloomington, Woodbury, Hennepin, Ramsey, Anoka, St. Paul, and Minneapolis."

"Makes sense."

"The first five are mostly suburbs, so you get your usual suburban girls: meh potential, little ambition. Glorified courtiers. Either they won't help Clair or they won't be a threat. Some are probably the same girls from when I ruled. If so, I KNOW they're worthless."

"But?"

"But St. Paul's big, so it also needs a strong Magical Girl. St. Paul is an asset most big city girls don't have. A right hand, a strong lieutenant. When I ruled, Clair was my St. Paul. She's definitely found a suitable replacement by now."

"So St. Paul's the one big unknown."

Chew gnash gulp. "One unknown we know about. Clair is resourceful. She gets people to like her. You saw Omaha—expect stuff like that."

"Is Clair really that smart?" said Delaney. She wanted Sloan to open up, and since Clair Ibsen seemed to be her solitary train of focus, it felt like the best approach.

Sloan slurped the straw of her milkshake. "I'll answer that with as emphatic a yes as you like. Do you know what she wished for? During her contract? I want you to guess. Guess what she wished for."

"I assume not a puppy."

"She wished she could feel no despair."

Delaney immediately understood the ramifications of such a wish, but Sloan had such a self-satisfied look that Delaney mimed a few extra seconds of contemplation to allow her fun.

"That means... her Soul Gem never gets tarnished."

"It would've meant that, at least," said Sloan. "Kyubey refused to grant it. We didn't know at the time, or I didn't know, but a wish like that would undermine his whole reason for contracting us in the first place. No despair means no energy. He gave some bullshit reason why he couldn't grant it and settled on a compromise instead."

"Which was?"

"She can never feel total despair. Her Soul Gem gets dirty when she expends magic, or when she has a bad day I guess. But it'll never break like that. She's immune to the Law of the Cycles."

Delaney had to concede it was a good wish.

"Right?" said Sloan. "Nobody ever makes a good wish. It's like an unwritten law, if you're a Magical Girl your wish has to suck. Even if you think you're thinking your wish through, you're seeing it from every angle, you're wrong. Nobody who wants something when they're thirteen still wants it in a year. But that's the thing! She didn't make a wish about something she wanted. She made a wish solely to power up!"

"Pretty unusual," said Delaney. "I'm sure it has precedent, though."

"It makes no sense to me." Sloan's half-eaten burger waved in her hand. "People love her, flock to her. All her flaws are endearing. She's cold, emotionless, aristocratic, and yet she has these glimmers of approachability that make you feel special, like she's only so harsh with everyone else and she's granting you private access into her real self. She never looks you in the eye but it comes off as bashful, not rude. She's an albino, but it only makes her prettier."

"An albino?" said Delaney.

"You know, white hair. Red eyes. I thought only black people can be albino, but I guess not."

"I know what's an albino."

"Point is, she doesn't make sense! She has this high society vibe that should be pedantic and pretentious but—"

Delaney ahemed. "When I asked about her, I suppose I wanted to know about her combat abilities."

"Right." Sloan finished her hamburger with two enthusiastic bites. "She uses music as magic. Plays instruments. That kinda thing."

"So if we wear earmuffs we'll be okay?"

"It doesn't work like that. She alters the world around her with her music, like a wraith miasma. Her raw power is underwhelming, but she does stuff you don't expect. You'll see when we fight her."

Delaney swirled her fork around chopped bits of steak. "I'd kinda like to know before we fight her? It's a little important to prepare for battles like these!"

"I can't be more specific because she's not like me," said Sloan. "She doesn't just shoot you. She'll pull out a different instrument or play a different tempo. She always has new tricks. It's been seven months, I don't expect her to use the same ones she used against me last time."

Delaney liked Sloan's self-appointment as tactical leader even less now that she saw her in action. Vague postulations, unclear descriptions, pointless information. No clear focus. No clear plan!

Oh well. Up to Delaney to surreptitiously puppeteer Sloan's path from the shadows. Which basically everyone else was already doing, and Sloan hadn't the faintest inkling.

"So shall we attack at night, love? Seems to me a quick, direct confrontation is our best hope. The more time we give her to prepare, the more problems we'll face."

"Oh yeah." Sloan seemed to remember the original thrust of the conversation. "Yeah, that. We can assume Clair already knows we're coming. With Clair we have to assume she knows stuff."

"Okay then." This chicken fried steak was not as appetizing as Delaney had hoped! "So we assume Clair knows you're coming, knows when you're coming, and knows I'm coming with you. What do we do?"

"I might have an idea. Gimme your phone."

Delaney shuffled through the pouch of her hoodie and deposited her phone between the plates. Sloan wiped her hands on her napkin and examined the device for a few uncertain moments.

"Okay, now uh, bring up a map of Minneapolis."

Delaney tapped her phone a few times and the backlit display zoomed to the Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area.

"Okay so." Sloan leaned forward. "Clair's territory is the inner part of the city, next to St. Paul, with the suburban girls in a ring around her. A buffer."

"So we have to go through the territories of multiple girls to reach her?"

"Not quite. Clair hunts in Minneapolis, but she lives... here." Sloan poked the screen, which caused it to zoom in, which was apparently not what she wanted because she attempted to un-poke it until Delaney returned it to its previous extent. "Here," Sloan said, not quite touching the screen this time. "Eden Prairie. It's a suburb in Hennepin's territory. You can see it's not as central as Minneapolis."

Delaney spun her phone around and took a look. "You're right, it's not such a long trek. And we'd only have to go through one other girl's territory? If we take this highway..."

Sloan slammed her hand down on the table. The plates rattled and nebulous customers glanced up before returning to their fare. "Aha! But that's the point. That's the most obvious route, from the west. It's the most direct. Which is why it's exactly where Clair would expect us to go. See, see, with Clair, you gotta think one step ahead."

Minneapolis was your archetypal city. You had your nucleus, around which quaintly-named suburbs ("Eden Prairie," "Coon Rapids") clustered in borderless agglomerations. Highways encircled and pierced the center, making assault possible no matter the angle of entry. No oceans, lakes, or mountains; in many ways Minneapolis was too perfect, too textbook, with no distinguishing features at all. Its sole unique trait was that instead of one nucleus, one main city, Minneapolis had two. The less relevant but still major St. Paul had swelled in its mother's womb like a slightly stunted twin. Say, wasn't Sloan herself a twin?

"So," Sloan continued, "I propose we approach this way. From the north, through the territory of Anoka."

The map did not include Magical Girl territorial boundaries, and Sloan did little to elucidate them. Of course, knowing how Magical Girls operate, such boundaries were probably never well-defined in the first place.

"Why Anoka?"

"It's only a slightly longer trip, it's less obvious, and it's where the newest girl in town goes. The lowest rank on the totem pole. If Clair's got her girls on watch for us, we'll see the least resistance there."

Delaney leaned on her elbow. From her vantage, the way they approached the city was the least of their worries. But she supposed she ought to indulge Sloan. She was talking now, warming to the prospect of Delaney as ally.

"Great idea, love! We hit her where she least expects."

Unless Clair, not being an idiot, understood this northern territory was her weakest line of defense and bolstered it appropriately. Delaney found herself in a curious bind where she was expected to predict the actions and thought patterns of a girl she had never met, and for whom her primary source of intel lacked reliability and, let's be honest, intelligence.

A waitress did a drive-by refill on Delaney's coffee.

"Okay, so that's a plan," Delaney said. "We oughtta talk about one other thing, love."

"What's that."

"Your combat abilities. Don't get me wrong, your power is awesome, really cool! Perfect for wraiths. But you have to consider that your machine gun's not so hot for Magical Girls."

Sloan continued to fiddle with the map. "It's fine for that, what are you talking about."

"Wraiths are slow, big, and legion. But most Magical Girls excel in speed, agility, dodging left and right, protecting themselves from strong attacks like the kind wraiths use. It's a totally different game! You can't go brute forcing everything anymore."

A bill had, as if by magic, manifested on the edge of their table. Delaney pretended to look it over as Sloan spent a long time before responding.

"I'll be fine."

Delaney sighed. "Wrong answer, love. I do not think you truly understand what you're getting into."

"I know better than you what Clair Ibsen can do."

Delaney opened her small pink handbag and paid in cash. "Light is a versatile and elemental power. It's a shame you don't put it to better use. Like when you set that oil on fire during the archon fight, remember? That was brilliant! But you never do stuff like that. Do you have a finisher, anything else besides just shooting things a lot?"

"I have a finisher, yeah."

"Great! Tell me about it, love."

Sloan shrugged. "It only works when the sun's out. Which happens maybe two times a year. So who cares."

Delaney considered the therapeutic potential of smashing her skull against the table. "What about other things you can do with light? What if you could move at the speed of light—"

"Look, Delaney." Sloan slid her plate forward and stood. "I know my powers better than you. I know what I can do and what I can't. This conversation is a waste of time."

It took a lot of fortitude not to calmly explain to Sloan why she was stupid and also dumb, but Delaney managed it. "I'm trying to help, love. I'm your friend, after all."

Sloan's visage darkened. Delaney tried to parse the nuanced shifts in her expression, tried to apply all her studies of human psychology to it. What could be the underlying root of this idiocy? Because Sloan, while boorish, was not possibly so dumb as to willfully refuse aid. Nor was she so prideful; had she been, she never would have entered Delaney's jeep at all.

Aha! Delaney knew the issue here.

"You're mistrustful of friends because of what happened to your last friend," she said. "Clair Ibsen's betrayal damaged you deeper than you know. You eschew my help because some part of you still thinks I intend to turn on you!"

Sloan said nothing.

"I'm right, I know it!" Delaney nearly clapped with glee. So rarely did she understand people this well!

"It has nothing to do with my injured subconscious," said Sloan, "and everything to do with the fact you're a fucking psycho."

Now it was Delaney's turn to say nothing.

"Let's fucking go," said Sloan.

They went, ignoring odd stares from the other patrons.

Either Omaha had already returned to Clair Ibsen and told her everything or she would never return. The outcome was out of their hands, so no harm spending the night and ensuring they entered Minneapolis the next day healthy, wealthy, and wise. Sloan was surprisingly receptive to the suggestion, which she explained as a need to "clean herself up" before she faced her archnemesis. Couldn't look like a shabby wreck, after all. An odd vindication, that even one like Sloan succumbed to vanity now and then!

Which left Delaney in a situation not unfamiliar to her: Lying on the bed of a cheap motel. Sloan spent forever locked in the bathroom, causing drought with how long she let the shower run. On one hand, the idea that a thin panel of wood was all that separated Delaney from Sloan's nude form ought to have driven her to unkempt thoughts, but the fact that Sloan was not actually in Delaney's field of vision actually made her much, much easier to forget.

So much for Delaney's own nightly ablution—she would have to wash in the morning. She stretched out on her bed, shoes already shorn, slipping between the dingy but comfortable covers. Despite the friction with Sloan, she had gone another twenty-four hours without a severe relapse to her crazy ways (and also killed an archon, and also saved Sloan's life). Things to be thankful for!

The moment she closed her eyes, a voice invaded her head.

We will probably not have another chance to talk. My employer is growing more watchful of the situation here. She's distracted for now, but won't be for long.

She cracked one eye open. The Incubator stared at her from the foot of the bed.

I can't imagine you have much to say to me, considering in your plans I should be dead by now.

Your life or death is irrelevant to my plans, said the Incubator. Unlike Miss Dufresne, your odds of death were insufficiently high to rely upon its occurrence. But first, congratulations! You performed well, Miss Pollack. You did everything I needed you to do, with only minor setbacks!

Delaney rolled over and burrowed her face in the pillow. Come on, Kyub. Be at least a little honest with me. You sent Omaha to kill me and Winnipeg, didn't you?

I was aware of her presence and intentions. They didn't interfere with my plans, so I let her be. In fact, she has been particularly useful for confounding my employer as to the true nature of the goings-on here.

She glanced up at his beady red eyes. Typical Kyubey. She asks a question, he gives an ambiguous response. Aware of her presence and intentions? Does that mean you sent her or not? She let the matter drop. When the Incubator did not want to answer a question, he did not answer it.

Okay, but you can't be serious when you say you don't care if I'm alive or dead. Sloan is too stupid to kill Minneapolis without me. Whether you want her to or not is a different story, but me being alive is going to affect that.

You being alive will not affect my desired outcome.

She sat up and almost answered aloud, but caught herself. Lies! Total lies. Even if it's unlikely for Sloan to beat Clair Ibsen with or without me, I'm altering your probabilities somewhat. Somewhat! I know I am, I'm not that useless!

You assume I care whether Miss Redfearn kills Miss Ibsen or not. You also overvalue your worth! While your assistance will be valuable to Miss Redfearn, that assistance comes at the cost of depriving her of half the grief cubes dropped by the archon, since you have used those cubes for yourself. The difference between a Sloan Redfearn who is twice as powerful and a Sloan Redfearn who has Delaney Pollack at her side is not particularly relevant. Which was done by design! If I cannot sufficiently assume a variable to occur, for example your death or survival, the obvious course is to make that variable irrelevant. The only person who needed to die was Miss Dufresne, because she would have taken over half of the cubes for herself and left Miss Redfearn with too few to purify her Soul Gem, making conflict between her and Clair Ibsen impossible. But Miss Dufresne's death was assured. Either the archon would kill her, Omaha would kill her, or you would kill her. These combined probabilities gave her a 0.002 percent chance of survival, low enough to be considered a certainty. Thus, I was able to use her death as a vital element of my plan. I do not roll dice, Miss Pollack!

Maybe it was the mention of a zero-point-zero-zero-something chance of something something, but Delaney felt on the precipice of one of the Incubator's statistics lectures, which she did not want to hear. Or perhaps he planned his speech to have that effect on her, so she would be less willing to question his methodology. Or see the central lie all this gobbledygook was meant to conceal.

You know, she said, Winnipeg didn't have to die at all. She was going to give Sloan her fair share of cubes.

I find that highly unlikely, given Miss Dufresne's well-established tendencies and temperament.

Winnipeg and Sloan were pretty similar. Lonely hurt kids. They needed someone they could trust. I conspired to make them trust each other by uniting them against a common bad guy, also known as me. Remember when I trapped Winnipeg with that worm and attacked Sloan in the city hall?

Yes. A pointless deviation from your orders, which were to kill Miss Dufresne only after she helped defeat the archon.

In the bathroom, the shower finally turned off. Delaney would have to end her conversation soon, which she didn't mind, because it was clear the Incubator's sole reason for talking was to confuse her.

Before he left, though, she had a point to make.

It wasn't a deviation. It was an improvement. I created a scenario in which Sloan and Winnipeg worked together to survive, allowing them to build trust. By outing myself as particularly untrustworthy, they would be more likely to trust each other instead. Trust leads to friendship. Friendship leads to not being an asshole, which leads to Winnipeg giving Sloan a fair share of spoils. Then I pretend I'm dead and let them divide the cubes fifty-fifty and everything you want to happen happens except nobody dies. Pretty cool, huh!

The Incubator stared at her.

I recommend avoiding so-called improvements in the future. Your antics were an unnecessary if ultimately benign waste of energy. Furthermore, you of all people should not put faith in your ability to understand the emotions of others. I have millennia of research on human behavior to inform my predictions, while you have little more than a few years of human media to draw upon.

All this telepathy hurt her head. She wished she could open her mouth and really speak. She felt much more free when she spoke with her mouth instead of her mind. I may not be the best human, but I still am one. Which means I'll know more about why they do what they do than you ever will.

I find that claim dubious. We're actually a lot more alike than you think! In fact, you are one of the few humans with whom I find conversation somewhat stimulating, although today you are more banal than usual.

Can this conversation be over now, please?

Okay! As long as in the future you remember not to make risky decisions based on your flawed knowledge of how regular humans operate. When I first began work here thousands of years ago, I made a lot of mistakes for exactly that reason! Treat this as friendly advice, rather than a warning.

Delaney said nothing. Talking to the Incubator was a physically draining experience. It hadn't always been. When she first contracted, he was the only being she could ever really talk to, confess her innermost thoughts and desires. And he fed her such garbage, told her that her dark inclinations were the signs of one on the cusp of true enlightenment, ballooned her already overstuffed ego with his proclamations she was smarter, better than the 7 billion others of her ilk that infested the planet. She had enjoyed it because despite her intelligence she was actually an idiot, or at least naive. Now she overturned his every word in search of hidden meaning, wondered at every misdirection and sleight of tongue, tried to uncover the motivations that lurked behind his blood-red eyes.

Worst of all, like all bad drugs, she still needed him. Needed his promise that what she did here would both save the universe and the goddess that created it from a demon hellbent on its destruction: the thin thread that attached her desperately to her salvation, her atonement. If the ultimate goal of his plan turned out to be a lie...

Wait, one last thing! said the Incubator. As if he had forgotten until just now, although that was obviously impossible. I had to promise my employer I would hire a Terminatrix to eliminate Miss Redfearn. Please keep an eye out and don't get blindsided!

Delaney mumbled an affirmative as the Incubator slipped away, leaving her alone on the bed after the longest forty-eight hours of her life. She fell asleep before Sloan left the bathroom.

Chapter 16: My Neighbors Never Call Police

Blazing down the interstate across a land of a thousand lakes, the skies a gray dome and the sleet swept away by rapid-fire windshield wipers, Sloan saw it: Minneapolis. A vertical city in a horizontal plain. The crystal shard skyscrapers edged closer, their spires reaching for the cloud canopy but unable to pierce it.

"Wow!" Delaney leaned over the wheel and gazed skyward. Synthetic pop music shook the cabin. "This is it, love! Your homecoming. I've never been to a real city. Williston was the first time I left Saskatchewan. I've never seen a tower before!"

She indicated a skyscraper much taller than the others. It had no roof, only unfinished edges of jagged glass and mortar. A massive crane latched to its peak like a parasite.

"That one's GIANT! It's gotta be as tall as the Empire State Building!"

"Wasn't so tall before," said Sloan.

"They're still not done... When it's finished, wow!"

"They call it the Pillar of the Plains."

"So evocative! So dramatic! I love this city already."

Sloan closed her eyes. She had seen this city before—no reason to get hung up seeing it again. Now was time to focus. Every thought, every expenditure of energy must go toward defeating Clair Ibsen.

"Take the next exit." She did not open her eyes. "It'll send us through Anoka's territory."

"Anoka's the weak girl, right?"

"Yes. It's lousy territory—sprawl. Not enough people to justify the size. We stick the worst girls there."

Enter through Anoka. Pierce the heart of the city. Find Clair Ibsen and obliterate her. If Clair had moved? If she wasn't home? If she set a trap? Sloan crafted answers for each possibility: They would ask the new owner of Clair's house where the previous owners went. They would wait outside and prepare an ambush. They would not enter through the front gate but the hidden fence with the hole underneath.

And when they found Clair? When she summoned her violin or her flute or her keyboard or her dulcimer?

Their last duel ended in bitter defeat. But Sloan had not expected the attack, while Clair spent weeks studying Sloan's techniques, tendencies, limitations, weaknesses. And exploited each ruthlessly. Now Sloan had a chance to do the same. She replayed their final battle in her mind, ingrained it to memory. Inner Minneapolis: a dark alley wedged between a pawn shop and a glorified brothel. One of Sloan's favorite hunting spots. After Sloan defeats an irregular amount of wraiths, Clair reveals herself. Sloan's gem is fine overall, but it's the tiny advantage Clair will always expend the extra effort to take.

They exchange words. Sloan does not remember the words exactly, because they're unimportant. Clair transforms. Her white toga billows. She retrieves her first weapon—the trumpet. Like an idiot, Sloan disbelieves Clair can truly be challenging her, and so allows her to make the first move. Mistake number one.

The trumpet blows reveille. Immediately the world changes around them. The alley becomes a mountain pass, the brothel and pawn shop slopes of granite and limestone. Around Clair emerges an army of terra cotta soldiers with clay armor, clay weapons. In ranks of ten to a row they march through the pass, led by a stalwart herald with a fluttering white flag.

Sloan knows the soldiers are fake. The mountains are fake. The pass is fake. Clair does not have the raw power to summon an army out of thin air. But they conceal her as she quickly melds into the ranks, the muffled note of her trumpet the only clue to her whereabouts. Here Sloan makes her second mistake: She plunges into the army. The words they exchanged before the fight made Sloan mad. Normal Sloan can keep her wits. Mad Sloan just does stuff. (In the present, real-life Sloan made a note to keep her temper regulated: Use it as the weapon it can be, but do not succumb completely. Delaney's influence will be key.)

Her machine gun annihilates the clay soldiers in billows of reddish dust. She weaves between them, searching for Clair. Which is when Clair adds her second instrument to the symphony.

It's the drum. Heavy, seismic beats reverberate through the battlefield. They grow in intensity, building upon the military tune of the trumpet. The ground quakes. The clay soldiers tremble and topple, although a few continue their march. Sloan by now is dimly cognizant of what Clair is trying to accomplish, but the problem is Sloan has no defense and so knowing means nothing. Her goal is offensive: find Clair and wreck her before the song completes. (Another mental note: Delaney's barriers will add the defensive component Sloan always lacked, but the issue with Clair is it's not easy to tell what's illusion and what's real. The only way is to judge whether Clair's power is sufficient to do what it appears she's doing. That judgment call will be completely on Sloan, since Delaney has no clue how powerful Clair is; communication will be key.)

Sloan manages to sight Clair just before the drum strikes with a massive thump. The mountains crack. Layers of sediment shatter and pour down the slopes in a dual avalanche, sweeping from both sides into the pass. Here Sloan makes mistake number three, which proves fatal. The previous mistakes were issues of surprise and temperament, but this mistake is simply Clair outsmarting her.

She believes Clair lacks the power to realize two avalanches, and so ignores the rush of rock pounding down on her. Sloan is absolutely right, Clair does not have that power. When the first avalanche strikes Clair and phases through her harmlessly, Sloan is only more certain. She raises her gun, aims, and is about to pull the trigger when...

BAM! The second avalanche, much smaller than the first, crashes into her back. She sails forward, buried by a wave of blasted concrete rocks and shattered bricks, pieces of the nearby brothel Clair has blown apart with the power of her drums. Clair made one avalanche illusory to trick Sloan into thinking both were fake. And she fell for it. The avalanche buries her. Her abraded skin and crushed bones leave her struggling to climb to her feet. By then, Clair has already won. What comes next, when Clair summons her violin, is mere formality.

Sloan decided not to replay the brutality of the violin. It gave little tactical insight.

With Delaney's help, Sloan could deal with her anger, could create more strategic opportunities with barriers. But that left the real issue: she was dumber than Clair. The additional power in her Soul Gem meant nothing if Clair never let herself get hit. Power was what Sloan never lacked, but it was all she had.

Ugh, it was pointless! Clair wouldn't use the same tricks twice, so trying to glean something from the old ones meant nothing. She had to fight on her feet, keep her wits about her. That was the only strategy.

She opened her eyes. They sat at the red light of an arterial street in the northern suburbs of Minneapolis. The Pillar of the Plains loomed in the distance—most likely, it could be seen from everywhere in the city.

"That was some hardcore meditation, love." Delaney tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. "Any epiphanies? Ascend to any nirvanas?"

"No."

Cars blitzed back and forth in the intersection. Delaney whistled her pop music. Sloan catalogued a list of Clair's instruments. Trumpet, drum, violin, piano, guitar, bass guitar, triangle, tambourine, flute, clarinet...

"Oh look, an eagle!"

Sloan glanced where Delaney pointed. Sure enough, a black eagle circled above. Odd to see one in the city, but Sloan had better things to care about.

She settled into her seat, then the realization struck.

"Fuck!" She pulled Delaney's shoulder away from the windshield. "Go, drive! It's not an eagle, it's her fucking familiar—"

Both back doors of the jeep opened. Two black girls poured into the backseat, one from each side, and slammed the doors shut behind them. Sloan, too baffled to react (mistake number one!), gaped as the girl on the driver's side, the older of the two, shoved a gun against Delaney's neck.

"Welcome to motherfucking Minneapolis. Drive, bitch, nice and steady—light's green. Fargo, pull any shit and your girlfriend loses her brains, yeah?"

The younger girl had no discernable weapon but attempted to look menacing (it didn't work). "You two shouldn't have come here. Just to stir up trouble."

Sloan had never seen the kid before, but the older one was familiar enough. "You're Hennepin."

She scoffed. "You forgot my name. I can't fucking believe it. I'm Bloomington, asshole. My partner's Woodbury. And before you ask, she ain't the same Woodbury from before—that one died."

"Hi," said Woodbury.

Sloan had better things to do than remember which middling Magical Girl corresponded to which forgettable suburban territory. She could not remember who the old Woodbury even was.

The jeep lumbered down the road. Delaney's eyes flitted toward Sloan as if to communicate, but Sloan had no idea what.

"Don't you dare try telepathy," said Woodbury. "I'm an ace at reading that shit."

Neither of their assailants had transformed, and Sloan was pretty sure Bloomington's gun wasn't her magic weapon (she used... what? A whip? No, that was someone else). And it wasn't pointed at Sloan herself, but Delaney. Who the fuck were these amateurs and why did Clair send them instead of anyone with even marginal competence? Did they not know a gunshot to Delaney's skull would hardly slow her down? Did they labor under the delusion Sloan gave one shit what happened to Delaney?

In the confined space of the jeep, with nowhere to dodge, it would take Sloan seconds to incinerate them both. She inched her hand into her pocket and clasped her Soul Gem—but waited. Remember, Clair's smart. If she saw you coming, she set up a better welcome committee than the goon squad. And if she expected anything from Sloan, she expected her to act rash and reckless.

"So where we going," she said.

Bloomington leaned between the front seats and looked both directions, as though unsure herself. "Eden Prairie. You got an old friend wants to meet you. But first, fork over your gems."

Hand over their Soul Gems? Like they would actually do that? Clair HAD to have a better plan than this.

"I'd rather not," said Delaney. "My soul is a beautiful and important thing, you know?"

Bloomington jammed the gun deep against Delaney's throat. "You want a bullet in your brain instead?"

"Considering that would not kill me, yes. I'd find it much preferable."

"It'd put you in a nap you ain't waking up from. Look, we're not going to smash your gems. I'm only in this to stop some stupid ass war breaking out in my city. We got the drop on you, admit it. Give up and go back to—"

With a casual and undramatic flick of her wrist, Delaney twisted the wheel and launched the jeep off the road, over a curb, and into a long glass storefront. Bloomington fired her gun and splattered the entire left side of the jeep with Delaney's blood but it was too late. The tire hit something and sent them airborne. Sloan's seatbelt pinned her to her seat as they corkscrewed into a wall of shelves. One of the two assailants soared between the seats and out the windshield. She bounced against the ground and out of sight as the jeep screeched to a halt on its side.

Blood ran down Sloan's forehead, although she didn't recall hitting her head. Oh wait, it was Delaney's blood dripping from her half-missing skull above. Books and papers settled. Through the empty windshield, Sloan made out a life-size cardboard cutout of William Shakespeare, a speech bubble extending to deliver the message CLASSICS 25% OFF!

She fumbled for her seatbelt, her entire world turned sideways. Her hand slipped twice before she disengaged the button and released herself. She crawled through shards of glass to escape the overturned jeep.

The crash left her remarkably lucid. None of the disorientation of a concussion, or even the dizziness of three corkscrews through a bookstore. It must be the pain-dampening effects of her overcharged Soul Gem.

A teller in a green apron hopped a toppled bookshelf. "Oh god! Someone call an ambulance!"

"No ambulance," said Sloan. More people thronged around her. Shit Delaney, did you have to crash in such a public place? "We're fine, no ambulance."

But the teller crouched by the windshield and peered inside. "Oh god, her head! It's GONE!"

"I said no ambulance!"

"She's confused," said another onlooker. "Make sure she's not bleeding internally. Who's a doctor?"

This was bad, very bad. Everyone knew not to involve civilians in Magical Girl shit. That was basic fucking etiquette, dammit Delaney, now cops would get involved, hospitals would get involved—

"RAZZLE DAZZLE!"

In the middle of the bookstore, away from the wreckage, a firework soared into the air, bounced against the ceiling, and exploded in a spectacular array of sparkles. All the faces in the crowd gravitated to the light. As one, they cried OOH and AAH and applauded.

The bookstore transformed into a technicolor disco palace. Additional fireworks popped with luminous hues. An unseen force compelled Sloan toward the lightshow, and although she pinpointed it as magical in nature, she drew closer... Until a blast of violet and celadon sprinkled from the ceiling and she blinked and turned away. Someone wanted to hypnotize her, and it wasn't Bloomington, so it had to be the other chick, whose name Sloan had already—

The girl fluttered between the shelves, transformed into a green tutu with fairy wings that beat with hummingbird intensity. She tapped her tiny shoes together as she waved a magic wand and after literally shouting ABRACADABRA fired a beam of stars and crescent moons at Sloan.

Sloan rolled over the wreckage of shelves and slid behind the jeep for cover as the wayward flecks of astronomy glazed where she'd been with sugary goop. She seized her gem, transformed, and summoned her gun. No clue where Bloomington went, and no idea why Delaney was taking so long to humpty-dumpty her brains back together, but Sloan could swat this little shit, this Woodbury, barely one notch above Anoka on the hierarchy, without help.

The people in the store gazed at Woodbury's fireworks, dumbly zombified. Somewhere, sirens wailed.

Better make this fast. Sloan swung out from the jeep's cover, registered Woodbury's location (hovering above the self-help section), and fired.

Woodbury flicked her wand and turned her space beam at the encroaching field of light. The two streams met in a hyperactive splash of pink and yellow, but Sloan's magic quickly and easily overpowered Woodbury's to surge at Woodbury's undefended body, her jade Soul Gem exposed on the frilly lace around her neck.

Woodbury shouted HOCUS POCUS! A puff of smoke concealed her for a single moment. When it dissipated, four smaller Woodburies took the place of the single Woodbury before. Each Woodbury buzzed away from the attack and zoomed around the bookstore, waving their little wands and yipping stereotypical magic words with chipmunk voices as they fired beams no thicker than a thread.

Sloan dodged one beam only for another to sting the back of her head. She put a hand to the point of impact and drew back a finger with no more than a bead of blood at the tip, but by the time she comprehended the non-threat three or four more beams zapped her at various points on her body.

Fuck this. Sloan fired a turbocharged pulse of light at the first fairy to flit into her vision. The little bitch zipped away with a childish giggle and a trail of magic powder. The other three concentrated their beams on Sloan's back and sent her staggering with a grunt.

"TEE HEE HEE, TEE HEE HEE, TEE HEE HEE," they laughed in unison, their laughter infinitely more annoying than the shitty little beams. Sloan fired, and fired, and fired, and hit nothing but bookshelves.

An arrow shot out of somewhere. Sloan forgot the fairies and regarded the feather-notched shaft growing out of her boot. The shaft erupted into cold, clear ice, forming a block that encased everything from the ankle down and froze it to the floor.

Bloomington appeared in her Magical Girl costume, a plain brown cloak with a hood pulled over her head so only the bottoms of her eyes stood out. She carried a crossbow, a new shaft already in place, and aimed at Sloan as Woodbury's beams drilled into her.

Sloan pointed her gun at her foot and punched through the ice (and her boot, and her bone) with one brief volley. Barely inconvenienced, she charged Bloomington, rolled under the second arrow (her skin went clammy as it sailed past), and slammed her gun against Bloomington's hip.

The metal connected with bone-shattering force. Bloomington's leg caved. Her other leg remained rooted in a vain attempt to keep her upright as Sloan—tossing the gun aside—wrenched the crossbow from her hands, flipped it around, and fired a bolt directly into Bloomington's skull. Bloomington hit the ground, her head encased in ice, until her magic dissipated and the ice and crossbow disappeared. She was unconscious.

The Woodbury fairies wailed. "You hurt her! You hurt her!" One called Sloan a "meanie." A spray of telekinetically-aimed gunfire scattered them, but they regrouped like wasps and resumed their flyby beam attacks. The sirens had grown loud now and Sloan did not want to be caught in this mess by policemen.

Which meant time to cut the bullshit. She picked a fairy and pursued it relentlessly through the store, dipping between shelves to keep on its tail, corralling it toward a corner. The other fairies buffeted her with blow after blow. They focused her legs, tried to knock her down, and just when she had gotten her fairy trapped a beam hit her right on her kneecap and forced her to buckle with an involuntary muscle spasm.

The fairy blew a raspberry as she evaded Sloan's swinging arm, then turned and flew straight into the wall of a bubble with a comical boing. She squeaked in dismay as she realized the bubble had formed around her. Trapped inside, she pounded her fists against the walls. The other three fairies quit pinpricking Sloan and waved their wands to free their companion, but their saccharine streams of high fructose corn syrup could not pierce the blood.

One of the other Woodburies jabbed an accusatory finger at Sloan. The others pouted and fumed. "You can't do that! You can't use barrier magic, you're not supposed to!"

Sloan allowed herself a hoarse laugh. She let her gun float by her side and held up her hands. "Not me."

"Whaaat!" said a Woodbury. "Not you, then—"

Delaney, head fully healed, pounced from behind a shelf and seized the fairy in her hands. The remaining two fled in terror. The fairy squirmed and beat its wings as Delaney cackled madly, raised her gleaming red dagger, and plunged it directly into her throat. A ragged gurgle bubbled from the fairy's lips. Delaney wrenched out her knife, flicking blood across the cardboard Shakespeare's face.

In a poof, the Woodbury copies vanished and wounded one grew back to usual size. She swung her wand into Delaney's eye and levied a sugar shot straight to the cornea. Delaney reared back and Woodbury wriggled out of her grasp. Her wings beat furiously to put distance between her and the madwoman.

Woodbury turned her wand to the spurting gash across her throat and filled it with something sticky and billowy like cotton candy. She sprayed until both the gash and her mouth overflowed, mingling with her blood to create an unappetizing mixture like splattered brains that dribbled down her chin and stained her tutu. Misshapen chunks plopped to the carpet.

It's not healing! screamed her telepathic voice. What the fuck did you do to me, it's not healing!

"Ee hee hee~" said Delaney, one eye firmly shut and spewing pink ooze. "This is why you don't mess with Regina-Saskatoon, dear!" She started cackling.

"Calm the fuck down," said Sloan. She glanced at the shoppers, but they remained under the spell of Woodbury's fireworks.

Delaney ahemed and recomposed herself. She straightened her gown and brushed back her hair. "Sorry, love! Got a little excited."

Woodbury stopped spewing candy at herself and descended a baleful eye upon Delaney. She swirled her wand and in a dark cloud emerged with a completely new outfit, sleek and black rather than frilly and green. Her eyes became catlike and she bared a mouth full of fangs still frothing with pink foam.

A feral, voiceless screech broke as Woodbury rocketed forward, baring long and pointed claws. She made it about five feet before Sloan blasted her with gunfire. She erupted in a blaze of sparks, crashed into Shakespeare, and landed in a curled lump at Delaney's feet. By the time the glow of Sloan's light ebbed away, Woodbury had returned to her civilian clothes, motionless.

"Did I hit her gem?" said Sloan.

Delaney inspected the body, which continued to bleed from the throat. "Nope, still in one piece."

"Good." The fireworks throughout the store fizzled. The civilians blinked and rubbed their eyes. "Grab her and Bloomington. Let's scram and interrogate."

"Excellent idea, love!" Delaney pulled her staff out and waved it to heal Sloan's foot. A bubble formed around each of Woodbury and Bloomington and ferried them to the back exit of the bookstore, well-marked beneath a poster for The Sound and the Fury. "I do hate to abandon the jeep, but alas! I hate worse to run into the police. They're not very fun, you know?"

Sloan wondered what Delaney had done (besides, you know, murder) that caused her to speak with such experience on the matter, but at the moment she cared more about a clean getaway. They pushed open the doors. Whoops, emergency exit only. An alarm blared, but in the general confusion nobody paid it much heed.

In the cold of a back alley, Sloan and Delaney and their unconscious captives squeezed between the dumpsters to put distance between themselves and the store. "It'll be difficult to get around the city without a car," said Sloan.

"Sorry, love! We probably could have circumvented that little conundrum without such melodrama, but you know how I am. An idea popped into my head and I just had to do it!"

And this was the person who wanted to appoint herself strategic mastermind of the expedition. "Look, next time—"

She did not finish. On the rooftop above them stood a single figure draped in a dark cloak. For a moment, Sloan thought it was Omaha, but it was no girl Sloan had seen before—a dull, almost apathetic expression, a lazy eye that tilted off center, muted locks of hair scraggly and unkempt. No surprise she had a costume reminiscent of Omaha and also, now that Sloan thought about it, Bloomington—most girls who styled themselves brooding/edgy/mysterious or otherwise wanted to self-consciously declare frilly princess uniforms as "totally played out" went for the generic cloak ensemble.

Alternatively, it could signal an uncreative clod.

Delaney looked at Sloan and then where Sloan was looking. "And who, dear, are you?" she asked. "Another lackey of Miss Ibsen? Friend or foe?"

The wannabe dark knight said nothing. Her uneven eyes stared.

"Look kid," said Sloan. "Do something or I'm gonna blast you." She hoisted her machine gun and aimed.

Still the girl said nothing. Who the fuck was this? Sloan had to assume Clair sent her. She planted her back foot and squeezed the trigger. A spiral of light surged upward.

The girl did not move. Before her appeared a large silver disc, its surface so burnished Sloan could see her own face in it. The gunfire hit it and rebounded, gaining momentum as it hurtled back toward Sloan.

Delaney seized Sloan's waist and surrounded them in a bubble. The light pelted the barrier and drowned the surroundings in yellow. The moment it subsided, Delaney burst the bubble and both fanned out in search of the mysterious rooftop girl, who was no longer on the rooftop. Instead, she plummeted at them surrounded by a ring of swirling silver discs. Three discs detached from the greater formation and spun at Sloan and Delaney. They ricocheted between the narrow alley walls, their speed compounding. A disc sailed through Delaney's midsection and bifurcated her cleanly. Sloan flung herself against the wall as a disc whizzed past. She felt no contact, but her side split open and her blood flooded onto the garbage.

The girl hit the ground. More discs whipped out and split the bubbles carrying Bloomington and Woodbury. The girls each fell atop a spinning disc, which quickly retreated. One hand gripping her side, Sloan directed her gun, but before she could fire the rest of the discs flipped and rearranged their pattern to block the alley in an overlapping array of circles. Sloan could not even see her target through the bulwark.

Mirrors. A power that counteracted Sloan perfectly. Other barriers she could penetrate with sustained fire, but a barrier that reflected her light back at her—what could she do against that? She confronted the wall of discs in search of a creative solution, the kind Clair would reach in seconds.

But seconds passed and Sloan thought of nothing. No strategy entered her mind other than the overwhelming desire to shoot. As if in recognition of her failure, the discs broke their formation, collapsing in on each other (or merging together) until only one spinning silver circle remained, which followed its master as she scurried up the alley wall and disappeared over the edge, the plates carrying Bloomington and Woodbury sailing alongside her.

By the time all three were gone, Delaney had put herself back together. She waved her staff and healed the gash on Sloan's side.

"Shall we pursue, love?"

Sloan dematerialized her gun. "Let's not blunder into a trap. That girl wasn't here to fight, she wanted Bloomington and Woodbury. Let her have them."

Yes, let Clair have more tools. Let every single one of Clair's lackeys live and fight another day. Sloan avoided Delaney's eyes, because she already knew the subtle condescension she would find there. But Sloan did not want to chase a girl she had no idea how to fight. She needed time to think.

"That girl could use some etiquette lessons!" Delaney led the way down the alley. "Not even a hello or a name!"

The snow fell more heavily than before. Sloan had lived here long enough to read the telltale signs of an encroaching storm: the burly dark clouds, the anticipatory stillness. She pulled her coat around her and followed Delaney, although she moved with intention to overtake her.

"We lost your car, but the plan remains unchanged. Get to Eden Prairie, find Clair, destroy her."

Delaney allowed Sloan to take point with a gracious bow. "Love, that girl's powers specifically countered yours."

"I know."

"The other girl, the fairy—she worked upon your weaknesses too."

"I know."

"We may have to accept that Clair Ibsen has been preparing for this conflict much longer than you think. She didn't acquire these girls overnight, after all!"

"Too late to turn back now." It had been too late for a long time.

Sloan reached the end of the alley and peered around the corner. Emergency response vehicles clustered by the busted storefront. Uniformed officers redirected traffic. In their civilian clothes, Sloan and Delaney easily melded into the crowd.

Chapter 17: Her Pale Fire She Snatches from the Sun

A typical member of the human species, when confronted with the home page of the MagNet message boards, would find what appeared to be a quirky roleplaying site for teen girls. Access to the boards was denied without an account, but if our hypothetical human attempted to create one to join the fun, they would stare baffled at the first step of the account creation process, which required answers to the following questions:

Who contracted you?

Where is your soul?

How will you die?

No multiple choice. Only blank text boxes to confound the quizzical human. He or she may type exploratory answers, under the belief these queries were part of the roleplaying experience. Alas, not so. Without the correct answers (1: "Kyubey", "Incubator", or another name he sometimes used; 2: "Gem", "Soul Gem", or "In a Gem/Soul Gem" [Clair had petitioned the latter to be accepted as correct, because to answer the question as it was posed, the preposition and article were grammatically mandatory]; 3: "Wraiths", "Cycles", or "Law of the Cycles"), our hypothetical human would receive an error message and be forced to start again. The persistence of each human would vary based on attention span and curiosity, but eventually each would give up, shrug their shoulders, and wonder at the fads of today's children. (Assumedly, a skilled enough computer hacker could bypass the firewall, but even if someone cared enough to try, all they would find would seem to be a serious community of hardcore role players.)

We now abandon our typical human, whose experience with MagNet ends at this error screen, and instead turn to a hypothetical Magical Girl, Latin form Puella Magi, who can answer each question correctly. The site to which she now belongs is the largest online community of Magical Girls in the English-speaking world. Account names are almost always city names, even though girls outside Canada and the United States do not use the urban nomenclature as frequently as their North American brethren. A city as a name is simply an effective way to relate all pertinent information about yourself (where you are and how powerful you are) at a glance.

Clair Ibsen signed into her account (Minneapolis). She had two private messages, indicated by a notification pop-up. While she could ignore them, and the slight urgency of the situation might call for it, it was necessary to be thorough in all things. Perhaps one of her good online friends had a quandary of even more urgency.

In this case, however, the messages were lackluster. One was shameless flirtation from Fresno, despite Clair's many previous attempts to subtly convey lack of interest; the second was Hartford, begging for a job. Clair responded to Fresno with a tone that indicated blithe obliviousness toward the (honestly, quite desperate) girl's advances. She responded to Hartford with apologies, as the Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area was currently not accepting new girls in any position. Should an opening appear, Hartford would of course be the first person notified for a tryout.

After proofreading for typographical errors, she sent her responses and returned to the MagNet board directory. She wanted the Help! board, which was near the bottom, so she had to cycle through the other boards first. The News board contained some surprises. Aurora (Colorado) had died unexpectedly; Denver was looking for replacements. The post was made mere hours ago but already had over a hundred replies, with names as prestigious as St. Louis posting resumes. What a model city Denver was. An egalitarian community about the same size as Minneapolis-St. Paul, under the principled leadership of Denver, who doubled as the MagNet site administrator. No wonder she had girls like St. Louis willing to work for her, while the best Clair could manage was Hartford, Connecticut. Clair had made great strides to ameliorate her city's reputation post-Sloan Redfearn, but feared that until the pernicious blot named Ramsey was gone, Minneapolis would remain below Denver in reputation. The other posts on the board were rudimentary. Detroit informing people that no, her city was not some El Dorado of despair, don't believe everything you hear on the news; Honolulu asking girls to please inform her if their family took a Hawaiian vacation during the holidays—accommodations could be arranged to supply cubes for their stay, but only if she prepared ahead of time. Clair found nothing worth posting (she would send Denver a private message later with condolences for Aurora) and continued down the line.

The Selfie board—

"What the fuck is taking so long?" said Bloomington.

Clair settled her fingers on the keyboard. "I believe it integral that all tasks, no matter how minor, are done with diligence. I am being thorough."

"Woodbury is bleeding all over your carpet!"

"Very well. I will expedite matters."

Clair scrolled past the Selfie board (although the most recent post, by the Seattle sisters, piqued her interest), as well as the Therapy board, the Newbie board, the Love board (for girls like Fresno; Clair marveled at the high incidence of homosexuality among Magical Girls, which she likened to the homosexuality of prison inmates, except the incarceration of Magical Girls began at an age where sexual identity was already nebulous), and, spurred by Bloomington's growls, eventually reached the Help! board.

She clicked the New Thread button. For the title, she typed "Looking for information on Regina-Saskatoon". For the body, she wrote:

Hello!

My name is Minneapolis; some of you may already know me. Unfortunately, it appears as of late that two interlopers have teamed up to depose me from my position. I will, of course, handle this minor situation (which poses little danger to either my person or those under my wing) with all due diligence. However, it would aid my cause tremendously if any of you wonderful MagNet users could supply me with information about one of the interlopers in question (the other is a personal acquaintance whom I know quite well). This girl goes by the name Regina-Saskatoon. Any and all information is a great help!

I would ask the Incubator, but he appears to have made himself scarce as of late.

Many thanks and good fortune in future endeavors,

Minneapolis

After proofreading twice, she submitted the post to the vicissitudes of the web.

She swiveled her chair to face her visitors, ready to make amends for her poor hospitality thus far. "Now, we need merely wait for a response. This is the peak hour for online activity among Magical Girls in this hemisphere, so we should hear from someone soon."

Woodbury knelt beside Clair's bed, her hands splayed before her as she coughed and sputtered blood. Bloomington furiously applied and reapplied bandages to the ragged gash across Woodbury's throat, but no matter how hard she pressed the cloth, the blood seeped through and either splattered the carpet or dribbled down Woodbury's chest. Woodbury welled with tears, but only strangled sputters escaped her lips.

I'm gonna die, her mind said. I'm gonna run out of blood!

Most likely, Woodbury would feel more comfortable if Clair replied telepathically, so as not to flaunt the gift of speech. Nonsense. Your Soul Gem will regenerate your internal fluids at a rate necessary to sustain you. It may strain your grief, but we as a collective can surely harvest enough cubes to accommodate your extra consumption. We are a team, after all. We cover for each other when we have a hard time, okay?

Woodbury wiped an eye and made another wretched gurgle. Th... thank you. As Bloomington constricted her windpipe with a bandage, however, she broke into a fresh deluge of tears. How am I supposed to go outside like this! I can't walk around town with my THROAT TORN OUT!

Part of Clair recognized the reassuring power of a caring hand on the shoulder at this tender moment, but she glanced at her trembling white fingers and could not bear to bring such contact to fruition. Woodbury looked up with pleading eyes and Clair diverted her own gaze downward, to the growing red stain in her carpet. She had to concentrate exceptionally hard to prevent herself from convulsing at the sight of such disorder in her own room, her own space...!

We will figure out something, Woodbury. I can pay the rent for your apartment until we learn how to heal you, so you do not have to worry about work in the interim.

Why... why won't it heal?

Clair refreshed the Help! board. Her post had garnered several views but no replies. Hopefully we will learn soon. Perhaps when St. Paul returns with Hennepin, she will be able to heal you.

"Hennepin won't come," said Bloomington. "Neither will Ramsey. Maybe Anoka, but who gives a fuck about her. You're in over your head here, Em."

Clair said nothing. She herself had no idea with what magic Regina-Saskatoon maimed Woodbury. In fact, her sources of intelligence on the matter (she had several) had intimated the same thing: Regina-Saskatoon was irrelevant and questionable to survive the Williston affair, let alone accompany Sloan to Minneapolis. The most either the Incubator or Omaha or Matthis had mentioned of her power was that she healed well and made passable, albeit not infallible, barriers.

And now the Incubator had not shown his face in some time (to be fair, during their last meeting he mentioned further communications would be difficult under the growing suspicion of his employer) and Omaha had disappeared completely (to be fair again, that was her power). Only Matthis remained to perform reconnaissance, and there were limits to the information a magic bird could provide.

Holes in knowledge troubled Clair. The less she knew, the less secure her success. She hoped the Fargo-Saskatchewan Alliance played most of their cards in the skirmish with Bloomington and Woodbury.

A rap on her window roused her from her thoughts. Outside, hovering on a silver disc, waited St. Paul. The misshapen and uneven girl wore a less-than-reassuring expression. Snowflakes stuck to her cloak, unbrushed even after Clair unlatched the window and allowed her entry.

St. Paul bowed her head and wrung her hands together. "Hennepin. Hennepin..." She searched for words. "Hennepin. Will not. Come." For punctuation, she gave a relieved gasp.

"I fucking told you," said Bloomington. She squeezed a bandage too tight and a line of blood spurted from Woodbury's neck.

"I assume she is busy?" said Clair.

St. Paul gnawed her lip. Her lazy eye rolled in its socket as she concentrated on her words. Clair was prepared for patience, however. Patience was bountiful when one simply prepared for it. It was when taken aback that patience grew difficult.

"She. Work. Her game..." St. Paul said.

"She is working," Clair corrected. "Playing her game, is she? Oh dear... The callousness of some girls. I will speak to her personally once I receive a response to my post."

She returned to her computer and refreshed the page. The number of views had rocketed to a hundred. She had two replies as well. A quick response time was a benefit of bearing a respectable name like Minneapolis, as well as her tireless efforts to cultivate all her relationships, even those online.

The first response was from Tallahassee. It read: lol where the fucks vagina saxophone

How droll. Clair would send a request for Tallahassee's immediate ban.

The second response was from Calgary, a much more promising name, not so much due to the reliability of the girl as her geographical proximity to Saskatchewan.

Oh shit regina-SAKASTOON [sic]?!? Dont mess wit [sic] that bitch she one baaaaaaad MG. Bad mojo. Every1 knows she killed a girl but she a QB favorite so no Termx. She fucked in the head ROFL. Crazy strong heals + barriers, nobody knows how she kills wraiths (or girls......) so watch your back? The world will suffer if we lose a beauty like you bb ;DD

P.S. You say she moved out her home turf? Looks like its [sic] time for me to do some good ol fashioned COLONIZATION. kaCHING $$$

Although it did not shed light on Woodbury's debilitation, this information did interest Clair greatly. Regina-Saskatoon was mentally deranged? She previously committed magicide? Interesting how the Incubator glossed over these details in previous conversations.

"Well?" said Bloomington.

"No one so far has explained the properties of Regina-Saskatoon's dagger. However, Calgary informed me that Regina-Saskatoon is renowned as a magicidal psychopath. We're lucky she was unable to do worse to either of you."

Woodbury did not appear to take this as reassuringly as Clair intended. I'm cursed! she sobbed. I'm never going to get better! I'll be like this FOREVER!

Nonsense. Clair closed the web browser. If all else fails, there is a surefire way to nullify any and all magic.

What... what is it?

Kill the source.

Woodbury halted her disgusting chokes to contemplate Clair's words.

"In the interim," Clair continued, "I will pay our friend Hennepin a visit and extol her to at least try her hand at healing you. Drastic measures may prove unnecessary yet. St. Paul, Hennepin was at her usual spot, yes?"

Rather than articulate in spoken words, St. Paul merely nodded.

"Superb. Stay here and keep watch. It's possible Fargo and Regina-Saskatoon may make an attack by night, although I doubt they will be ready to retaliate so soon. Bloomington, Woodbury, you're free to stay as well, or you may return home if you desire. Considering today's developments, I understand if you decide not to continue to fight in this battle."

Clair opened her wardrobe and flitted a finger through her navy school uniforms in search of her best winter jacket. She found it in its rightful place, unhooked it from its hanger, and slid into it, taking especial care with each button to secure it snugly.

When she wrapped a scarf around her neck she became aware the others were watching her. "Don't feel pressured to respond right away," she said. "You may wait until I return. I do not anticipate I will be gone long. Farewell."

"You want us to wait here while you're gone," said Bloomington. "What if your parents show up?"

"My parents know better than to enter this room." Clair opened the door and stepped outside. When Bloomington followed her into the hallway, Clair asked, "Do you wish to accompany me?"

"Fuck that." Bloomington kept her voice low and looked at the other doors as if afraid one might open. "I know what you're doing, Em."

"Indeed, I just told you. I'm going to speak with Hennepin and persuade her to heal Woodbury."

"You planned this from the start. You sent us into a fight we had no fucking hope of winning. You let Woodbury get hurt—wanted her to get hurt—because now she's bound to you, because the only way to heal that gash on her throat is to kill the one that hurt her. You didn't even WARN us about her, god dammit."

"My apologies. I made an oversight. My intelligence was incorrect—"

"Bullshit! How convenient St. Paul just happened to be in the neighborhood to rescue us. How fucking convenient, right? It's almost like you had her tail us to save us in the nick of time. If I didn't know any better, I might say that's exactly what you fucking did. Now Woodbury's hurt, she's tied to your cause, I'm tied to your cause because I wanna help Woodbury, and soon you'll sucker Hennepin too—"

Clair held her arms tight at her sides. "Never, not once did the idea enter my head to purposely hurt Woodbury for such a selfish and petty reason. I made a mistake. A mistake."

"Fuck you. Why have St. Paul follow us? Why not have her attack Fargo the same time we did?"

"One does not play all of their cards on the first hand—"

"Oh, oh! I see, I get it now. We were bait. Send a couple of pawns Fargo's way and see what tricks she got."

To make a direct response to such a question required a lie. Lies disgusted Clair. "If you wish to leave, you are free to do so."

"And abandon Woodbury. Fuck you, Em. Fuck you!"

She swung her fist against the wall and knocked a sizeable dent in the plaster beneath Clair's junior high school commencement photograph. She then made a rather rude gesture and stormed back to the room.

Clair regarded the dent. If Mother asked, she would say her sister did it.

The girl Hennepin did not live in her own territory. She lived in Clair's: Minneapolis city proper, an agglomeration of towers and gentrification, of rising rent and shattered dreams. The Pillar of the Plains stood sentinel in its incomplete glory as Clair rode the bus into one of the hearts of darkness of our world. Girls with the ability to see wraiths rarely liked to lay their head to rest in such a blackened hub, as wraiths constantly slouched toward sources of hope, and a Magical Girl thus was a wraith's most succulent victim. Those who dwelled in such cesspits sometimes woke in the dead of night as a real-life monster dragged her beneath the bed to feast.

Clair had the fortune to preside over a city where her girls had means to live elsewhere, even fledgling Woodbury and novice Anoka. The unsatisfactory thing those girls did to acquire those means was another story. The removal of Ramsey and her wicked business thus remained high on Clair's list of priorities.

But Clair's mind had wandered. The crux of the matter, the point for which she strove, was to emphasize the eccentricity of Hennepin for willfully choosing to sleep in the gelid jungle of inner city Minneapolis.

When Clair once asked Hennepin why she lived where she did, the girl gave only the enigmatic response: "Better ping."

Dusk encroached, although the sheet of solid cloud prompted Clair to check her watch to be sure. She intended to speak to Hennepin before the wraiths grew most active. Tonight she did not have to hunt (nor all week—she had stockpiled in anticipation of her war with Fargo), and intended no deviation from her plan.

Soon she stood in the North Loop before a door at the base of some stairs that delved down like a quarry. Clair took a deep breath, the last fresh air she would receive in some time, and entered.

The dimensions of the room were indiscernible due to the smoke, mostly from cigarettes and hookah but with a spattering of less-legal drugs. Desks lined with computers drifted in the haze, some attended by pimple-faced men with slicked-down hair and Columbine trench coats who screamed obscenities into headsets as they gunned down aliens, space marines, terrorists, counter-terrorists, unarmed civilians, and dinosaurs. Clair wafted smoke from her nostrils and weaved between the men. They hydrated with omnicolored fluids, they dug hands into bags of snacks. They mashed keys with undue ferocity, they clicked with rates best recorded in milliseconds. The lights from the monitors proved the best illumination, as the bare bulbs strung from the ceiling flickered.

She reached a dingier corner of the establishment. Seated at the final computer, crammed between a wall and a rack of peripherals, the girl named Hennepin played, her concentration too rapt to notice Clair.

Clair politely waited for her to finish her match. From the waist up, Hennepin had put extreme care into her appearance, aglow with smartly-applied makeup and fashionable brands. Her short hair had a punky purple streak. She wore yellow-tinted glasses and headphones. But below, she had on pajama leggings and bunny slippers.

A shiny green VICTORY popped up on Hennepin's screen, to correspond to a DEFEAT on someone else's. Hennepin rubbed her eyes under her glasses and took a sip of her water.

She noticed Clair and pulled down her headphones.

"Wondered why my chat blew up." She exited the VICTORY screen and queued for a new game. SEARCHING FOR OPPONENTS NOW, read the screen.

"Your chat?"

"They wanna know if you're my lesbian lover."

"I am a trifle confused."

Hennepin tapped a tiny circle above her monitor. "You're on camera, boss. Twenty thousand watching. Look pretty."

Clair endeavored to always, ahem, "look pretty." "I will disregard your usual jargon and strike at the heart of the matter, as I have no wish to remain here after nightfall. A pair of strong Magical Girls from the west have invaded the city—"

"Whoa shut up, I told you people are watching." She pressed a button to mute her microphone.

"A pair of strong Magical Girls from the west have invaded the city. They slashed Woodbury's throat with a dagger that seems to nullify all healing. As you are the strongest healer in the city, I ask you to see if there is anything you can do."

Hennepin's screen changed and she plunged into a full scale warzone. Her player avatar—an orc or troll—pummeled passerby with a cartoonish club.

"No can do," said Hennepin. Gory game sounds filtered from her headphones. "See this? I'm working. Gotta pay the bills, you know? I got seven sponsors to sate with an eight-hour-a-day streaming quota. Plus twenty thousand adoring fans and their cash money donations to the GamGrill305 Get Paid Foundation. When I'm done, I gotta hunt."

Her orc walloped an elf into the stratosphere. KILLING SPREE, a deadpan announcer intoned.

"This seems a highly unorthodox way to accumulate funds," said Clair.

Hennepin shrugged. "Beats prostitution. Or whatever Ramsey's got Woodsy and Anoka doing."

"My point stands. The attack on Woodbury constitutes an act of war. It is your duty as a girl of this city—"

"Whoa now boss." Hennepin scored a touchdown using an adversary's head as a baseball. "My duty? I signed a contract and nowhere did it say I gotta do jack shit for this city. I kill wraiths, I spread joy. Right now I'm spreading lotsa joy to my loyal subscribers. Oh, and if you want me to do something for you, don't send St. Paul next time? Had her ugly ass stuttering at me, it drove away viewers."

KILLUMINATI, said the announcer.

"Hear that, Em? Your overbearing whiteness has summoned the illuminati. They're here to lynch every girl of color in the city, which happens to be almost all of them. Great going!"

The unfortunate downside to communicating with Hennepin was that half the things she said made zero sense. Clair crossed her arms and exhaled a well-practiced sigh, the kind that indicates patient exasperation. She knew going in that Hennepin would be one of the more difficult girls to sway to her cause, in fact the most difficult barring Ramsey.

"I care little for this selfishness. I hired you for your technical prowess and magical potential, but your general contrariness—"

Hennepin smashed another digital person. "Yeeeeeeeah, no. Not feeling it, Irisviel. Get someone else to find your grail."

"Huh?"

VICTORY flashed on Hennepin's screen. She beamed at Clair, her face smugly shining. "Look at that. I'm the best."

Right. Hennepin believed herself a superior girl. Superior than all around her, including Clair. It emboldened her to demean others, to estrange them, to set herself alone and above. Her every action, her calculated apathy, her non sequiturs, all served a single purpose of bolstering self-esteem, which for a vain girl like Hennepin could only be attained at the expense of others. Clair had Hennepin mapped, much as she had all her girls mapped, knew their desires, needs, and prejudices.

Knowledge enabled control, even if they did not believe themselves controlled—the best form of control.

Clair allowed her stoic exterior to waver. She unfolded her hands, let them fall to her sides. She lowered her head slightly, exaggerated the tendency of her eyes to avoid contact, and thus deferred supremacy to her conversational partner. She twisted her mouth with well-practiced muscle spasms to give the hint of a frown.

"I apologize." She imbued her voice with vulnerability. "I did not mean to pressure you into joining me. I came to you, Hennepin, because I." Tactical pause. "Because I'm frightened. These girls who have invaded the city are powerful. With Woodbury hurt, I need someone to help..." She allowed her voice to taper, allowed Hennepin to fill the void with her own self-aggrandized thoughts.

The overarching thrust of their conversation thus went from initial tension to outright conflict, followed by swift deferment on Clair's part to establish Hennepin as the conversational "victor." From such a standpoint, emphasized psychologically by the word VICTORY confronting Hennepin from her monitor, Hennepin would, ironically, do everything Clair wanted.

Sure enough: Hennepin softened. The leering smugness left her face, replaced by a genuine smile. Because, as Clair knew from her former friend Sloan Redfearn, girls of such personality often affected benevolence toward those who ratified their self-perceptions.

"Okay, okay, no need to cry about it." Hennepin closed her game. "I'll take a look at Woodbury. You guys get all worked up over such stupid stuff, I'm sure it's an easy fix."

Clair smiled. "Thank you, Hennepin."

Hennepin's magic failed to heal Woodbury, as Clair had suspected and desired. Failure, for a girl like Hennepin, was a challenge to her ego, and for those desperate to protect such a fragile thing no challenge could go unmet. Despite Hennepin's lazy way of saying it ("Yeah, I guess I'll see what these girls are about"), Clair knew she had another ally to bolster her ranks. Four down; two to go.

Chapter 18: Apollo Apollo My Destroyer

Night fell, snow fell, and still no Eden Prairie. They traversed some urban fringe, a ventricle of the metropolitan core, skyscrapers and the Pillar of the Plains burning in the starless night. Sloan led them through an alley of frosted cars. The magic light in her palm crept into crevices to terrify rats and wraiths.

Delaney tripped in the snow and landed on thinly-padded knees. Her mouth billowed white breath.

"It's not working, love." She pushed herself up and scampered after Sloan's undeterred march. "We need shelter. Warmth? A place to sleep? A pair of popsicles won't stop Clair Ibsen!"

The thought of another motel churned Sloan's stomach. With Clair's familiar on the prowl (and unseeable in the dark sky), they shouldn't pin themselves to a stationary locale. Too bad Master Tactician Delaney Pollack cared more about comfort than strategy.

"We'd do well to take some time and reassess the situation," Delaney continued. "Clair's revealed three of the six girls she might throw at us—"

"Not three of six. Three of an indeterminate number. Omaha is not a suburb of Minneapolis."

"The point stands. We're blundering into a confrontation, love! Clair has done her homework. She surely has traps set. Not to mention, you've yet to give me a viable strategy for the disc girl. Whoever she is, she won't disappear if we ignore her!"

Sloan tightened her hands into fists. The light in her palm extinguished. "I know."

The street, lit only by vague neon signs, became a cavern of Pluto. Eyeless faces watched everywhere.

"What are you doing, love? I'd rather not tussle with wraiths right now."

Nothing in the sky except falling snow. Could birds see in the dark? She supposed magical birds could. But sight was not Clair Ibsen's forte. More likely, her familiar relied on sound. With this in mind, Sloan summoned her gun and battered down the nearest door as quietly as possible. Which was not very quietly, admittedly.

An alarm went off.

"What! Sloan, have you gone daft?"

Sloan evaporated her gun and slouched down the sidewalk. "You wanted a place to stay." She called a fresh ball of light as they fled the scene.

"You're not thinking rationally, dear. Not at all! You want us to sleep in an abandoned store? Smashing down doors with no rhyme, no reason!"

Great. More fuel for Delaney's incessant whining. Sloan tried to calm herself, but her annoyance with Delaney fermented into faint hopelessness. Maybe Clair really did have the upper hand, preempted her arrival, hired girls to counter her powers, controlled all variables. Sloan lacked control of even her one companion.

But Sloan did not kill a wraith demigod to assault Minneapolis with a negative attitude. Unclutter the mind and achieve clarity of thought, clarity of purpose. She had the power to accomplish anything. She closed her eyes and allowed the rage to boil, simmer, and settle. She hated Clair Ibsen too much to waste any hate on Delaney. Delaney meant well, in her strange desperate way.

The alarm dwindled into a distant peal. "Fine," said Sloan. "We'll find a motel."

All motels are the same place. Only the age, the disuse, the muck changes. One night this deep in the unwanted part of the city cost little. Delaney paid out of her heart-shaped wallet. Which begged the question: for a girl who seemed to live on her own, where did she get her money?

Better not to ask.

Delaney declared her desire for a hot shower, "to thaw." Whatever. Sloan disregarded Delaney's disregard for gravitas and sat on her bed.

Bloomington was unchanged. Her powers potent, but uncreative. Sloan beat her with raw magic. Virtually irrelevant.

Woodbury was annoying, but unthreatening. Delaney may even have crippled her grievously depending on how important shouting ABRACADABRA and HOCUS POCUS was to her combat prowess. Some girls got so hung up on magic words and finisher names they developed psychological dependencies, as though the words themselves were their power. Fatal error.

Silver disc girl was. Something. Reflective barriers. Shit. Think, Sloan. How do you get around the barriers.

She had been thinking the whole damn walk from Anoka County. And thought of nothing. She pounded her wrists against her skull. The girl must have a weakness. No barrier was infallible; all broke given enough force. The issue was Sloan would destroy herself before she destroyed the barrier, thanks to its reflective properties. If Delaney used her own barrier... but a barrier prevented Sloan from shooting. She could not simultaneously attack and defend, even assuming perfect coordination between her and Delaney.

Steam billowed from under the bathroom door. The hiss infiltrated Sloan's inner sanctum, disrupted her thoughts. She got up and left the motel room, wandered beneath the awnings that lined the empty parking lot and pavilion. Kept watch for birds and silver disc girls.

And thought.

And thought.

And thought.

The discs, unlike Delaney's bubbles, defended only one side. They did not surround entirely, unless silver disc girl had yet unseen tricks, a reasonable possibility. But the shape of the discs, flat and round and unbending, indicated their inability to form a complete sphere. Which meant, rather than go through—yes, yes, Sloan was thinking now, problem solving—she should focus on going around. Around the barriers!

A Clair Ibsen strategy. If you cannot overpower, avoid. Delaney's bubbles reflected Sloan's magic too, to an extent. If she placed them strategically, Sloan could angle her light around the barriers.

She pumped her fist and did a little jump and nearly slipped on a patch of ice. It only took hours of concentrated brainstorming, but Sloan did it. She figured out a solution! Nullified one of Clair's arsenal! She had to tell Delaney, before she forgot. She cradled the precious idea in her mind, chanted it to remember: AROUND. AROUND. AROUND. So simple, so elegant! She clomped toward the door of the motel room. When Delaney heard—

Sloan stopped. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down the door and formed a half-frozen pool at its base. Delaney's blood? No. It emerged from a source hovering in midair. An invisible source.

"Omaha."

The girl emerged out of nothingness, her head bowed and her arms twisted in front of her. A sleeve of bandages covered her arm but did nothing to stem the bright red stream. Blood in various states of dryness had found its way onto her stiff-necked blouse, the hem of her dress, the toes of her shoes. She kneaded her fingers against the wound.

"I... Hello, Sloan..."

Although nothing in Omaha's demeanor denoted aggression, Sloan slid a hand into her pocket and thumbed her Soul Gem. She shifted her eyes around the enclosed motel compound for other Ibsen goons.

"How long you been following me."

Omaha scratched the back of her neck with her wounded hand, getting more blood on herself. She realized her mistake and lowered her hand, shamefaced. "Since the fight at the bookstore. I... I made it to Minneapolis before you. I tracked the girls Minneapolis sent for you..."

"So Clair sent you."

"N, no! I didn't mean that. I never went back to her... I swear... I've been quiet..."

Sloan prohibited herself from trusting Omaha, who had a powerful incentive to kill the girl whose magic kept her wrist drenched in blood.

"Then what."

"I, I know you won't believe me, but, but that's okay... I want to help you."

"You're right, I don't believe you. Why would you want to help me."

Omaha bit her lip. Her face concentrated. "I, I, I... You... you didn't kill me..."

"I didn't kill you. So now you want to help me. Excuse me if I don't buy it. Isn't Clair Ibsen your best friend anyway?"

More stammers, more fidgets. Omaha glanced over her shoulder with a sudden stare of paranoia. "No... it's not like that. I knew you wouldn't understand, or believe me. Forget I ever spoke to you..."

She disappeared. Sloan reached out and grabbed where she had stood. Her hand latched onto the edge of a fleeing collar and pulled Omaha back to her.

"Yeah, no. Reappear and talk to me."

Omaha did as bidden, her face flush.

"I, I'm sorry, please let go... I made a mistake revealing myself..."

"Suppose I believe you," said Sloan. Which she didn't. In fact, best to eliminate Omaha completely, finish what she started. Which she wouldn't. "Suppose I believe you, how do you intend to help me?"

She tightened her grip and held Omaha close.

"I, I, I can't tell you."

"Yes you can."

Omaha trembled in Sloan's grip. The small, cold body writhed. A tiny heart pounded in a hollow chest, black eyes widened in their sockets.

Her voice fell to a whisper.

"Sloan... you're in more danger than you know. This is not... this is not merely... There's more at stake than this city. The world, the universe..."

"The world," said Sloan. "The universe." She stared at the phantasmic Pillar of the Plains in the distance. "I care about neither."

World and Universe were Incubator code words that ostensibly meant everything but actually meant nothing. They were words to sway weak-willed girls who sought a deeper purpose than the one their infinitesimal existence allowed. Entropy, thermodynamics, heat death, all a lot of pseudoscientific mumbo jumbo. Delaney had babbled similar things, and now Omaha bought into the hype as well.

"Oh, I should have kept my mouth shut... I've made a big mistake, please let me go..."

"Fat chance. Who fed you this garbage? Kyubey? Or Clair?"

"An emissary of God," said Omaha with odd rigidity.

"Cool," said Sloan. "How's God doing, by the way? Up to any crazy shenanigans? He sure forgot about us down here long ago."

"I... I... Well... God is a girl..."

Sloan regretted asking. God is a girl? Delaney said the same thing, once. Maybe this was a new age Magical Girl religion. It certainly wasn't something Clair would make up. She was too efficient with her lies, too focused to revel in oddities.

With a sigh, Sloan released Omaha. Omaha stared openmouthed as she shuffled against the wall. "Th, thank you..."

"Omaha, please listen to me. I know Clair's your friend. I know you probably have not many friends, so you want to do anything to help her. But come on. This is going to be violent. People will die. I don't want to kill you, Omaha."

Omaha bowed her head. "That's, that's why I want to help you, Sloan. I... I know this sounds creepy, but I've watched you for a long time, and I think I know you pretty well... You don't have many friends either, and the one you travel with... you shouldn't trust her."

"Why? What's wrong with Delaney?" Wait, did she really just ask What's wrong with Delaney?

Omaha's brow furrowed. She raised her eyes to look Sloan in the face. "She is not what she seems. I heard her tell you about the girl she murdered. She acts like she's truthful, but she does that to conceal what she really doesn't want to say. She is wicked, Sloan. You cannot trust her."

"I don't trust her," said Sloan. Immediately she wondered how true that was. All her plans kinda operated under the assumption Delaney helped out.

Omaha melded back into the folds between reality, her body disappearing into the wall and leaving only her blood behind. Enough of it had dropped for a murder scene.

"Think about what I told you. I'm here to help. Be careful—a being beyond your comprehension seeks your death. The time-devouring demon has sent a Terminatrix after you... Be careful..."

The drip-drip of her blood marked her exit along the length of the motel compound. Her voice, already quiet, faded. No footprints appeared in the snow beside the crimson splotches. Soon only the wind and a distant car alarm stirred the snowy night.

Sloan regarded the sky. The last warning rang in her ears. From the odd utterings of demons and unfathomable beings she gleaned the critical word: Terminatrix. The girls Kyubey hired to eliminate the girls Kyubey disliked. Ostensibly, the murderous and deranged ones.

The murderous. And the deranged.

Sloan swung her fist into the steel pole supporting the motel awning. The numb pain traveled up her arm into her shoulder, where the impact was eventually absorbed, although not before she scraped the skin off her knuckles.

The murderous! And the deranged!

That FUCKER. That little fuck! That rat bastard, that jailbait pimp! He promised—PROMISED—that if she went to Williston, if she killed his archon, he would give her the opportunity to kill Clair Ibsen. He had said THOSE VERY WORDS in her apartment in Fargo, and now! And now! Now he sent a Terminatrix! Some opportunity, Kyubey! What specific probability of success constituted an "opportunity"?

Sloan sagged against the pole. Her rage bloated inside her, made it difficult to think, difficult to do anything but silently shriek over the tongue she ground between her teeth until blood rolled down her lower lip. She dug her fingernails into her arms to tear at the worthless flesh inside.

Why did Clair get away with nearly killing Sloan, why did she get rewarded and lauded, but when Sloan returned, returned after SO MUCH SHIT to get there, she could not even CONFRONT Clair before Kyubey sent his Magical Girl assassins to gun her down. Where was the justice! What law presided over this shitty system, who made these rules? Was it enough for Sloan to ask for a little fairness—just a little fairness—to do unto Clair what she had tried to do to Sloan? She wanted to open her own body, dispose of all her innards, resolve herself into a blob of worthless meat. If the celestial sphere set itself against her, was DETERMINED to make her lose at every turn, why not? Why bother? Why let them use her body and soul, enslave her and work her and squeeze her for an extra ounce of energy, just so they could taunt her with relief and trample her when she so much as reached for it?

Her fingers closed around her esophagus. The futility of the gesture defeated her. No matter what damage she inflicted on herself, Delaney would fix her.

Remember, Sloan: The second mistake in your duel with Clair. Getting mad.

Maybe Omaha lied. Clair sent her, not to fight Sloan, but to rile her up. Maybe Omaha was simply bonkers. Whatever you have to tell yourself, tell it. Remain level. No tilt, no slide. Drain the choler. Restore balance.

With torturous slowness her heartrate returned to normal. She licked the skinned knuckles and spat blood onto the patio to mingle with Omaha's. Either way, Sloan had to prepare for the possibility of a Terminatrix entering the mix. Maybe Clair hired the Terminatrix. Ignore the illogic of it, ignore the impossibility (only Kyubey controlled such girls), but accept it as fact so as not to succumb beneath the weight of a universe hellbent on her death.

Back to Terminatrixes, or whatever the fuck the plural was. They rarely associated with regular Magical Girls, so Sloan only had snatches of rumor to form a knowledge base. They took names from the Los Angeles metropolitan area to strike fear into the hearts of lesser girls. They weren't from Los Angeles (nobody was—they didn't call it Where Magical Girls Go to Die for no reason), they had no home, they were nomads. They went where the work went. To take out the borderline murderers, psychos, and slavers.

Terminatrixes were all borderline murderers, psychos, and slavers themselves. Odd and antisocial girls. They had powers bad for wraiths but good for Magical Girls. Usually stuff born from jealousy.

When Sloan ruled Minneapolis and killed a girl from Chicago who wanted to take over, there was talk of Terminatrixes. But Kyubey ruled self-defense: a just murder.

And was Clair Ibsen not a just—No, forget it. Forget it, focus on the realities of here and now. The facts.

Fuck it, fuck the facts. She knew jack dick about Terminatrixes and how they operated in the field. She would ask Delaney. Delaney probably knew a lot about them.

She tromped back into the motel room.

Delaney lay on Sloan's bed, wearing very little.

"Sloan love, let's try some sexual therapy."

A furious scream caught in Sloan's throat. She rasped: "Put your fucking clothes on."

"I'm serious, love!" Delaney brushed back her hair in a gesture Sloan supposed was intended to look sexy. "It's clear you're dealing with extreme frustrations stemming from your lack of close relationships and underlying issues of trust. A moment of passion and innocent lust, in which you love and are loved in return, will help you leave behind your past experiences and forge new ones. Whaddya say?"

"Put your fucking clothes on."

Delaney pulled herself onto her knees and leaned over the edge of the bed. "Come on, Sloan! Have you ever loved anyone before? We could die tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. Do you wish to die empty and alone?" Her dead eyes brimmed with desperation.

"You are a very sick person, Delaney," said Sloan.

"The only thing you have to sustain you is Clair Ibsen. If not for her, you would be nothing. What will you do when you kill her, love? What happens then?"

"Irrelevant." Sloan walked past Delaney's bed and went to her own. She sat on the opposite side, facing a window full of neon nightclub signs. She drew the blinds.

She untied her boots.

"You live only for revenge, love. Can you not see how tragic that is? Why choose to live like that, why? We can leave, Sloan. Go anywhere in the world. Forget Clair ever existed."

Sloan removed the first boot, then the other.

"You have so many advantages I never had. You were born with the ability to feel—why choose to ignore it?"

One by one she undid the buttons on her coat. "You claim you can't feel anything but act like you care about me. Which is it?"

The heater in the motel room did not run, even after Sloan fiddled with the nobs. Well, fuck it. She pulled up the tucked covers of her bed and slid into the heatless pouch, using her jacket as an extra blanket. The pillow was rough and lumpy.

"I have to care, love. I have to try. You're on a path to destruction, and not just of yourself. When I killed my friend in Saskatchewan, the act birthed an archon. What do you think will happen when you kill—"

"Nothing. I am exacting justice. If an impartial god exists, he or she will know the truth. If not, nothing matters anyway. Turn off the light."

She rolled over and waited for the chill to subside. She prayed to Omaha's female god to shut Delaney up. And also to prevent her from doing anything fucking weird, like slither into bed with Sloan or molest her in her sleep.

"If that's how you feel," said Delaney. "Very well."

The light turned off.

"Wake up," whispered a voice.

Sloan rolled over and swatted at the annoyance. The world lacked definition or focus. All remained dark and only silhouettes composed the space around her. Bulges, lines. A nightstand, a bathroom door. The bed opposite hers, where Delaney tossed restlessly.

She rubbed her eyes. If Delaney slept, then who...? A dream?

"You're in danger," the voice whispered. Sloan knew that voice. As her eyes adjusted, she noticed the long dark splotches that coated the floor between the beds, shiny in the lines of light that filtered through the blinds.

An invisible arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her off the bed as a gunshot shattered the window. The blinds clattered and fell. Delaney rose with a shriek. Glass hailed as Sloan cast off the invisible girl (how did Omaha even get inside) and groped for her coat, which had her Soul Gem. The coat was bunched with the disheveled sheets and blankets. She seized a sleeve and tugged and fell back with the coat in her arms.

In the empty windowpane stood an extraordinarily tall figure, despite its hunched back and slumped shoulders. Sloan blinked. A wraith? Its face buzzed with static, beneath which flat and gray skin flickered. It wore no monkish robes, instead a skintight bodysuit—but Sloan had little time to analyze the outfit, for it raised one of its long arms and aimed a silver revolver at her head. The figure drew back the hammer and the barrel spun with a click.

Delaney swung her staff and summoned a bubble around the attacker. She leapt onto Sloan's bed and drew her red dagger. "Hurry and transform. This one's—"

The revolver fired. The bullet pierced Delaney's bubble and sailed into her chest. She toppled off the bed. Sloan rolled out of the way to avoid her.

"Oof." Delaney placed a hand to her heart, but she had no wound, no blood.

"It missed?" said Sloan.

The gun fumed as the figure turned its metallic face toward Sloan. It was not a wraith. The torso beneath the bodysuit was obviously female. A Magical Girl wearing a mask—a mask that imitated a wraith. The figure uttered a low, synthetic growl, like the screech of a dying computer. With jerky, mechanical motions, it placed its hands against its head and snapped its own neck. The wraith mask ratcheted to the side until the entire head turned half a revolution, like an owl or invertebrate, and a new face moved to the front. The face was Delaney Pollack's.

It drew back the hammer of its revolver and aimed at Sloan.

In the time it took for the thing to change its face, Sloan found her gem. She transformed, the machine gun already whirring, and launched a full volley at the masked girl, her rev time shortened by the excess power brimming inside her.

In front of the girl appeared another of Delaney's bubbles. Sloan's magic bashed against it and flew in every direction. Light cut through walls, ceilings, beds, floors, sprayed plaster everywhere. A ray cut through Sloan's knee and another grazed her back.

"What the fuck!" she screamed at Delaney as she took a hard knee among the debris.

Delaney stared back aghast. "I didn't—I didn't!" Her hands gesticulated.

The bubble burst. The figure, its face still Delaney, aimed the revolver at Sloan.

With an inhuman voice, it spoke.

"SLOAN REDFEARN OF FARGO, NORTH DAKOTA. YOU HAVE BEEN FOUND GUILTY OF BREACH OF CONTRACT. YOUR LIFE IS FORFEIT, SURRENDER NOW AND PRAY FOR ATONEMENT. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS PLEASE ASK YOUR DESIGNATED TERMINATRIX. WHICH IS ME."

"I got a fucking question," said Sloan. "What clause in my contract did I breach? Tell me that, robo-bitch!"

"THE QUESTION PART WAS A JOKE. I DON'T ACTUALLY GIVE A SHIT. BEEP BOOP PREPARE TO DIE."

A disembodied splatter of blood rose from beside the bed and reared at the Terminatrix. The Terminatrix promptly twirled her revolver around in her hand and clobbered the air beside her with its butt. Omaha grunted and her unseen body staggered into the closet in a catastrophe of coat hangers.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU. NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT YOU."

"Omaha," said Delaney, as though she only now realized.

"WHAT. OMAHA. OMAHA? THAT'S NOT THE GIRL IN OMAHA. I KNOW THE GIRL IN OMAHA, SHE'S NOT INVISIBLE. WHAT IS THIS VOODOO BULLSHIT, BEEP BOOP."

A few more coat hangers fell.

"WHATEVER. ERROR 404 FUCKS NOT FOUND. GIRL WHO IS NOT OMAHA, I HAVE NO ORDERS TO TERMINATE YOU. BUT IMPERSONATING ANOTHER MAGICAL GIRL IS GROUNDS FOR TERMINATION, SO I SUGGEST YOU VAMANOS AND OPT FOR A NAME CHANGE. NOW MY COOL SPIEL IS RUINED, THANKS TO—"

Sloan dropped her gun, threw her hands in front of her, and summoned a blast of pure light from her fingertips. The Terminatrix surrounded herself in another bubble, but Sloan did not mean to wound—she meant to blind. As the room filled with a single white pulse, she seized Delaney's wrist, scooped her boots, and hobbled for the door, her leg injured but workable.

They burst through the exit and limped into the cold. Delaney favored a bloodied foot while Sloan, hopping, shoved her boots on one after another.

"Heal us," Sloan hissed. "Hurry!"

"I can't," said Delaney. "My magic isn't working!"

Sloan slipped over the ice but forged onward into the blizzard. Her untied boots wobbled. "What does that mean?"

"When she shot me—I can't—Oh god, oh god, this is so bad, love. So bad."

"No bubbles? No healing?"

"I've been trying for the last thirty seconds, NOTHING IS HAPPENING."

Oh shit. Oh fuck. The Terminatrix, her mask, her bubbles... When she shot Delaney, she stole her power.

Sloan glanced over her shoulder. Purblind from snow, she caught a shady figure slumping out the motel door. Sloan swiveled and fired, and another of Delaney's bubbles went up around the Terminatrix. Sloan released her gun and commanded it to maintain its position, suppressing the Terminatrix with endless fire. She seized Delaney and dragged her through the snow.

The blizzard buffeted her face. Her unbuttoned coat flapped around her. The temperature was subzero, a vortex descending on the city. She pressed for the edge of the motel complex, the opening in a horseshoe of double-decker rooms wrapped around the pavilion. The wind beat them back, tried to deny them progress, the elements themselves conspiring against them.

Delaney shouted something swallowed beneath the wind.

"WHAT!" Sloan shouted back.

"SHE'S COMING!"

Sloan looked back. The Terminatrix had replaced her single bubble with three smaller ones, which swirled in front of her to catch the spray of Sloan's gun while enabling forward movement in the form of lithe, acrobatic cartwheels between the barriers. She moved a lot quicker than Sloan and deadweight Delaney.

They limped through the opening of the pavilion and entered the alien landscape of downtown Minneapolis. No sign of human life.

Where do we go, said Delaney, apparently remembering telepathy was a thing.

Sloan led them across the street. She summoned a new gun, which caused the one inside the motel courtyard to disappear, but it had served its function. She aimed at the pavilion entrance, but no sound or movement came.

That's the only exit from the motel, said Sloan. We hold this point until morning if we need to.

She took the opportunity to button her coat. The Terminatrix did not come.

She's finding another way, said Delaney.

There is no other way.

Love, there's emergency exits everywhere, you can't build a place with only one exit anymore!

Sloan wiped accumulated frost from her brow. Delaney hid behind Sloan, her hair pure white, weirdly reminiscent of Clair Ibsen.

A few seconds of waiting and Sloan got anxious. She reconsidered the idea of holding the motel entrance until morning. However, she stood by the tactical concept of maintaining a defensive location. The Terminatrix demonstrated faster mobility in the snow, mobility never being a Sloan Redfearn strongpoint anyway. And given the profession, a Terminatrix probably excelled at hunting girls on the run. But she had stolen a defensive power, not offensive, which meant she lacked the ability to siege.

Good, good, this was the on-the-fly strategizing Sloan needed more often. She mentally patted herself on the back.

On their side of the street, a series of four- or five-story tenements formed a bulwark against the brunt of the wind. Shitty apartments only had two ways in and out: the door and the window. With Delaney watching the window and Sloan entrenched at the door...

She pulled Delaney toward the closest tenement. No clue if it were occupied or abandoned. She tried the glass front door: locked. Easily remedied by a boot through the pane. As she fumbled for the latch, Delaney tugged on her collar. "Watch out!"

Sloan looked back in time to see the Terminatrix pirouette off the roof of the motel complex. Three bubbles spawned before her, which she bounded across like platforms with unreal agility. After the last bubble, she swan dived forward, her revolver aimed at Sloan's head. Sloan seized Delaney and pulled her in front. Delaney's head snapped back and Sloan dragged her inside as the Terminatrix landed near the edge of the street.

The catacomb interior of the tenement had power, which meant people lived here. Woodbury was not around this time to razzle dazzle onlookers, so anything they did was public. Sloan gave zero shits about the propriety of Magical Girl secrecy, but the Terminatrix, more directly aligned with Kyubey, might.

Except as they clattered up the lean stairwell, the Terminatrix sprinted after them. Sloan had still not tied her goddam boots and she hobbled up the steps. They passed the second floor, the third. The confined passage played to their advantage: they only needed to stay slightly ahead of the Terminatrix to round a corner and keep out of her firing line.

Between the third and fourth floor they passed a vagrant smoking on the steps. He lifted a head with a forlorn Vikings hat and Sloan heaved him down the stairs. The Terminatrix collided with him and they both collapsed.

Fifth floor. The stairs kept going but probably to a roof, which was the worst place to go. Good, good, keep thinking about these things, keep understanding possibilities and consequences. Sloan yanked Delaney's wrist and they stumbled into a short hallway of four doors.

She kicked in the first door and a grandmother screamed. "You saw nothing!" Sloan yelled before going to the second door and smashing it open.

The second room seemed empty, a barren square furnished by a single table. Sloan flung Delaney inside and tried to shut the door, but she had mangled the bolt and it only butted against the frame. At the end of the hall, the Terminatrix emerged.

"Stay the fuck there," said Sloan. She covered herself in the doorframe. "I'll fucking shoot, you want civs involved?"

She tilted her head just enough out the frame to check that the Terminatrix had stopped.

"Grandma next door already saw us," Sloan added. "And the vagrant in the stairwell. Police gonna come, you wanna get involved in that shit?"

The Terminatrix said nothing. Only stood there. From the first room, the grandmother made muffled sobs.

"Come on, let's fucking tango," said Sloan. "Let's fucking dance. Let's tear this fucking apartment to the ground, you hear me? I don't give a single fucking SHIT how many fucker apartments I gotta level. Let's fucking do it."

For another moment, the Terminatrix stood in silence. Then, without a word, she slowly backed up, turned, and disappeared down the stairwell.

Sloan settled back with a sigh. The Terminatrix might only be considering a new angle of attack, but at least Sloan had a chance to catch her breath. She pointed for Delaney to watch the snow-streaked window, but Delaney was already there, staring into the storm. Good, she wasn't totally worthless.

"What about the dagger? Do you still have that?"

"I have it."

"But does it work? Does it prevent healing?"

Delaney shrugged. "Omaha still bled, so."

A fair point. Sloan probably should have told her about Omaha beforehand. She tried to remember why she didn't. Oh yeah, because of the sexual proposition. That happened. Sloan quickly forgot it did.

She had better shit to think about anyway. The weather made travel difficult; if they tried to escape, they opened themselves to an ambush. But the police would show up soon too. They could neither stay nor leave.

The grandmother in the adjacent room never stopped crying.

"Um, love?" said Delaney.

Sloan turned. Perched on the window, braving the blizzard, its plumage streaked with snow, sat a large raven that stared at them with beady eyes.

Shit.

Chapter 19: A Visit from the Goon Squad

Sloan aimed at Clair's bird, but it took wing with a caw and soared into the storm before she could fire. She threw down her gun in disgust and smashed a dent in the floor.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." She swung a foot to knock a leg off the table that comprised the room's sole furniture. "We need to move."

"Calm down, love," said Delaney.

"Calm down!" Sloan seized her by the collar. "You have no fucking powers, Delaney! We're stuck on the fifth floor of some fucking apartment in the middle of an icestorm and we got not only a Terminatrix but Clair and her fucking army knowing exactly where we are and the position we're in, and—"

"Watch out!" said Delaney.

Sloan turned in time to take a frying pan to the face. She staggered; her back struck the wall and she slid to her ass.

"I'll knock yer blocks off." It was the old woman from the other room. "Breaking into MY home, shooting guns in MY home, I'll knock you to bits!"

"Please calm down dear, it's a misunderstanding!"

The old woman raised the pan to bash open Delaney's skull, but Sloan leapt up and levied a punch straight to the small of her back. The arthritic thing froze, stood statuesque for a moment, and toppled to the ground. Upon impact she shriveled into no more than a bathrobe.

Sloan massaged her jaw and spit blood.

"We move," she told Delaney. "We blast our way out and regroup."

"Regroup where?"

"Uh." Sloan rammed a fist against her uncooperative, throbbing brain. "Regroup in... I don't fucking know! SOMEWHERE."

Delaney shook her head. "This isn't worth it, love. It's not worth it at all."

"You are exceptionally calm for having NO POWERS."

"Someone must keep a cool head in desperate times. Please, allow me the task of strategizing. I'm useless otherwise. Is that all right?"

"Fine. Fine! Strategize away, Napoleon. Lemme hear it!"

At first, Delaney did not respond. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips together, exhaled, and affected a posture of empty serenity, her body straight and plain. She looked like something from an old Hindu text, an ascetic in repose. The intensity startled Sloan. She warily stepped away to check that nobody snuck up from the hallway. When she turned back, Delaney opened her eyes, which had become a lambent, blazing crimson.

"Our first priority is to kill the Terminatrix. Doing so will restore my powers."

"Excellent strategy," said Sloan. "I never would've come up with that!"

"But you did not come up with it, so the point is moot." Delaney stared at her, the rosy complexion and affable demeanor gone, leaving her skin pure and pale. "We ignore and avoid Clair Ibsen's underlings until the Terminatrix is dead."

"Okay, great. And how do we kill her? She can block and heal anything. I don't even know where her Soul Gem is, if she even has one."

"She has one." Delaney's voice became monotone. It was like she was changing into an entirely different being, a mannequin of thought and ingenuity, a golem constructed solely to conceive and design.

Something like Clair Ibsen.

"The Terminatrix is a Magical Girl. She has a Soul Gem, of course. Furthermore, her having my powers is to our benefit, because I know their counter."

"Enlighten me," said Sloan.

"Surprise. The unexpected. Things that cannot be predicted or planned. Wrinkles in the fabric. The problem is, Sloan Redfearn, you are not a surprising person. You do one thing. You have no further tricks."

Sloan said nothing.

"Therefore I propose two possible solutions. One: You do as I suggested in Fargo and invent new ways to use your power. I have little faith in your ability to do that. Two: Omaha."

"Omaha."

"Omaha was specifically added to this equation as an unknown. Regardless of whether Clair Ibsen sent her to Williston, the Incubator designed her appearance to confound the time-devouring demon who enslaves this universe."

More of this demon shit?

"You may not have realized, but Omaha is the reason the Terminatrix failed to end you in that motel. She woke you, did she not? And distracted the Terminatrix long enough for you to launch a counteroffensive. She has saved you on multiple occasions during your adventure."

Sloan said nothing.

"Unfortunately, in saving you from initial assassination, she also partially revealed herself to the Terminatrix. I doubt we can rely on her to surprise the Terminatrix more successfully than the first time."

"Okay." Sloan cracked her aching jaw. "So you have two possibilities, but both won't work. Great."

"I doubt Omaha will work. I merely posited my doubt in your ability to adapt, not disbelief at its failure should you actually manage to do so. Basically, the onus is on you to conceive a new technique to defeat the Terminatrix."

Fuck you, Delaney. Fuck you so much. Sloan drilled her eyes into the floor and tried to conceive a new technique, a surprising thing that could bypass a bubble of blood and nullify infinite self-healing. A new model of gun, a new way of shooting light. Her arms shivered with rage.

"Worthless! I can't think right now, I can't—"

Hey!

Delaney and Sloan glanced at each other. Momentarily, Delaney snapped from her trance.

Hey! Fargo and the crazy chick!

A telepathic voice, projected from afar. But how far? Sloan checked the window, checked the hallway. Nobody.

Who are you? said Sloan.

Name's Hennepin. Pleased to meetcha! I hear you're quite the handful. Nice job on Woodbury's throat, really shut her up for once. Props!

Hennepin. The voice was unfamiliar, so not the same Hennepin from seven months ago.

What do you want? said Sloan.

Yeah, about that. You see, I kinda want to kill you both? And so do a few other people, who are here with me now. You're on the fifth floor, second apartment, right? Don't bother answering. Hope you're ready to get fucked, kids.

Is Regina-Saxophone there, said another voice. High-pitched, prepubescent: Woodbury. Is she there? If you're there, if you're listening, I'm gonna get you for what you did to my neck. You better watch out!

Sloan motioned to Delaney. It was time to move, while Clair's goons distracted themselves with braggadocio. They must have the apartment complex surrounded. How many were there? Hennepin, Woodbury for sure. Probably Bloomington and the silver disc girl. Plus Clair herself.

Not to mention, a Terminatrix slinking around for an opportunity to strike.

Delaney followed Sloan down the hallway. They crept carefully, checking the corner before descending.

"What will you do," said Delaney. "You cannot possibly fight them all at once."

The point is, said Hennepin, we're coming for you. Prepare your collective rears for a reaming, okay?

"I'll find a way," said Sloan. "I'll get creative." She did not feel particularly creative, but she felt mad as fuck. Felt like annihilating some bitches.

"They'll expect us to come down the stairs," said Delaney when they reached the third floor. "I propose an alternate route."

She tugged Sloan's sleeve and indicated the window at the end of the third floor hallway. Sloan went to it and looked down. In front of the apartment entrance, two police cars blared red and blue lights. An officer in a furred coat shielded a walkie-talkie while maneuvering a lit cigarette masterfully in his other hand.

Across the street, at the entrance of the motel, the Terminatrix waited and watched through her Delaney mask. No sign of Clair or her girls, though.

From down the stairwell filtered the voices of men. Cops. They were getting louder and their footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"Shit," said Sloan. She was holding a rather large machine gun and did not feel like putting it away.

"I can handle this," said Delaney.

Delaney waved a hand over her face. Her eyes changed from red to blue and her cheeks went flush. She assembled an expression of terror, piecing together her features, moving one by one like a checklist. Mouth tilted downward: check. Eyes wide: check. She reverted to her civilian clothes in a flash and scampered toward the stairwell.

"Help, help! There's a girl with a gun!"

As if summoned by magic, two officers emerged from below. The one in front, with a frosty mustache, caught the flailing Delaney in his arms.

"Whoa there, you're safe with us." He nodded to his heavyset partner, who passed them with his gun drawn. "Where's this girl, where did you see her?"

Delaney pressed her body against the mustache cop and aimed her twitching finger down the hall. "Her. Her!"

Sloan barely had time to comprehend what the fuck Delaney was doing, because both cops pointed their guns and shouted FREEZE HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD. Sloan rammed her gun through the window and flung herself headlong down the side of the apartment complex.

Sorry, love! said Delaney. Had to get you out that window. Remember: ignore the others, kill the Terminatrix. I'll help as best I can!

Sloan hit the roof of a police car and rolled to absorb the impact. She slid to a halt on the windshield, next to the baffled walkie-talkie cop. As he struggled with a holster on his belt, Sloan decked him in the face and laid him flat in the snow.

Something in the sky glimmered. She rolled off the car before a spinning silver disc, nearly invisible from the front, split the hood clean in half. Another disc whirred after it, forcing Sloan to dive to avoid decapitation, and a third followed. She staggered to her feet and sprinted through the snow.

Out of the apartment complex entrance emerged Bloomington, her crossbow raised. Sloan wheeled her gun and fired, but a disc flew in front of Bloomington and shielded her. Sloan leapt to avoid the reflected light, hit the side of a tenement, and bounced off.

In midair she sighted the cloaked disc girl on a second-floor balcony, a halo of silver plates surrounding her. She pointed at Sloan and a disc detached from the formation to whiz across the air. Sloan tucked her head under her knees and the disc zoomed inches above. She somersaulted back to earth and stuck the landing in the snow.

"What in the dickens!" shouted Delaney's mustache cop from the third-floor window. Discgirl noted his appearance with a grimace and sent a disc to block the window entirely.

Bloomington leaned from behind her cover and fired an arrow. Too busy landing to dodge, Sloan instead blasted the arrow midflight. Get the fuck out of here, Bloom, she said. You ain't got shit on me.

HOCUS POCUS!

A beam plowed into Sloan's spine with a numb sting of pain. A trail of sparkles sped past her face and forced her to sneeze as she swept an aimless arm at Woodbury, whose fairy costume was marred by constantly spurting blood. Giggling mentally, Woodbury circled with her translucent wings, whipped her wand, and sent another beam Sloan's way.

Sloan already knew Woodbury was more annoyance than threat. As long as she kept Bloomington in her sights, she was no problem either. The real focus was Discgirl. Sloan pivoted her head to watch the discs and rolled against the side of a police cruiser as three embedded the spot where she had been. Sloan instantly assessed Discgirl as not very smart. She sent all three discs to nearly the same spot, when she should have sent only one and fired the others where Sloan might dodge.

The realization gave her confidence. She could outsmart these fucking amateurs.

"Gotcha now," said Bloomington, peeking around the side of the cruiser with her crossbow pointed at Sloan's head.

A policeman—mustache cop—sprinted out the front of the apartment complex and tackled Bloomington from behind. The crossbow flew from her hands while the cop attempted to wrestle her arms behind her back. His overweight partner skidded beside him, reeled at the silver discs dispersed across the landscape, and pointed a gun at Sloan.

RAZZLE *FUCKING* DAZZLE!

A firework sprayed from Woodbury's wand. The cops forgot what they were doing and stared at it as it fizzled in the snow.

Woodbury hovered stationary for only a moment as she directed her firework, but Sloan saw the opportunity. Before she could fire, though, a disc sliced through the barrel of her gun and caused it to erupt in a blast of light that sent her skyward.

In transit, she had time to wonder why Discgirl would aim for the gun and not, you know, Sloan herself. Sloan could imagine the thought process, because it was one she might have made: Gun going to shoot. Destroy gun. Don't even think to hit the person—

She landed in a dumpster. A fucking dumpster. Writhing atop solidified trash bags, she kicked her way upright. Her face twitched beyond control as she plucked something filthy from her hair and discarded it.

"BEEP BOOP," shouted the Terminatrix, making her move now that the cops were incapacitated. "ALL OF YOU, CEASE AND DESIST. YOU ARE INTERFERING IN THE OFFICIALLY SANCTIONED TERMINATION OF SLOAN REDFEARN. FOR YOUR SAFETY, I IMPLORE YOU GET THE FUCK OFF THE STREET WITH YOUR BULLSHIT LEST YOUR NAMES WIND UP ON MY LIST NEXT."

"Who the fuck," said Bloomington, "are you?"

Sloan pulled herself to the edge of the dumpster and watched for spinning discs. A tableau of destruction spread from the apartment complex to the motel entrance: Two crushed cop cars, three cops in various states of consciousness, a field of half-buried silver circles, streaks of blood (mostly Woodbury's), a smoldering flame where her gun exploded. One car's sirens continued to blare. The Terminatrix and Bloomington, amid it all, stared each other down. Woodbury hovered nearby. But Discgirl, where was she?

"WHO AM I?" said the Terminatrix. "I AM A ROBOT PROGRAMMED TO SLAY CRAY BETCHES. ASSEMBLED IN A MAQUILADORA ON THE BORDER OF MEXICO, I CROSSED THE TORTILLA CURTAIN UNDER SONORAN HEAT AND DEVOURED THE HEADS OF GILA MONSTERS TO ABSORB THEIR VENOM. FROM THE COYOTE I LEARNED WILES, FROM THE TORTOISE I LEARNED DETERMINATION, FROM THE CACTUS I LEARNED HOW TO BE A PAIN IN THE ASS. I MET ANCIENT NAVAJO SHAMANS AND SMOKED BOATLOADS OF PEYOTE IN A FUCKING TEEPEE OR ADOBE HUT OR SOME SHIT. IN THE THROES OF DRUG-INDUCED STUPOR I SAW MY SPIRIT ANIMAL: MECHAGODZILLA. HE SAID: KILL THEM ALL. MY PURPOSE KNOWN, I WANDERED DUSTSWEPT INTO THE CITY OF ANGELS, THE CITY WHERE MAGICAL GIRLS GO TO DIE. I SAW THE ANGELS, AND THEY TRIED TO DRAG ME STRAIGHT TO HEAVEN, BUT I WAS TOO MUCH A PAIN IN THE ASS FOR THEM. FROM THOSE BLOODSOAKED STREETS I STOLE MY NAME: SEPULVEDA, THE BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS. I EMERGED FROM THAT HELL ON EARTH BETTER—FASTER—STRONGER—HARDER!"

At the last word she struck an acrobatic pose, her arms and legs bent at sharp angles, her head tilted dramatically as flames smoldered behind her as though the scene were choreographed from the start. Bloomington stared, speechless.

Sloan vaulted out the dumpster, summoned a new gun, and fired. Her holy bolts rained, a glorious legion of luminous needles that caught the sirens and reflected rainbows across tenement walls. Bloomington and Woodbury scampered behind fallen discs while the Terminatrix, maintaining her pose, formed a bubble around herself. Sloan catapulted straight for the bubble, sticking one foot in front of her with the jagged edge of the heel angled at the fore. If she hit the bubble with something sharp...

Her foot sank. Deeper and deeper her leg disappeared as the semipermeable membrane strained to its limit. Just a little more and the bubble would—

SPROING. The bubble snapped back. Sloan sailed the way she came, hit a wall, and hit the ground.

The Terminatrix burst her bubble and casually strolled toward Sloan. Sloan had landed hard, the pain sharp even through the dampening effects of her magic. She fumbled through the snow as the Terminatrix aimed her revolver.

"BEEP BOOP. NOTHING PERSONAL."

A silver disc plowed vertically through the Terminatrix's torso. Sloan shambled away as after a pause another disc severed the Terminatrix's neck, removing her masked head cleanly. A third took off the arm holding the gun; a fourth removed both legs. Disc after disc formed a crisscross of clean red lines until the entire body gave out in a cascade of meaty sections.

The bloodied discs shivered and shuffled together, transforming into one disc that turned horizontal to catch Discgirl as she dropped from above.

Discgirl stared at Sloan with the same dumb expression, as though incognizant of what she did. The pieces of the Terminatrix settled with squishy noises. Delaney said the counter to her magic was surprise. Well, that was surprising.

"Who the fuck are you," Sloan said.

Discgirl opened her mouth and stammered: "Suh, suh, suh, suh, suh—St. Paul."

Of course. St. Paul, Clair's right-hand girl. No wonder she was an idiot—the easier for Clair to control. Like Omaha. Like Sloan herself.

Did St. Paul fuck up when she diced the Terminatrix and saved Sloan? Or did Clair for some reason order—

From the disc she stood upon, St. Paul drew an identical disc and spun it in the air beside her. "Juh, juh, gem. Give me. Gem."

The remains of the Terminatrix quivered. Wait—the Terminatrix had Delaney's powers. Which meant...

Sloan tilted her ear toward St. Paul and cupped a hand over it. "You'll have to speak up, kid. I can't understand you."

St. Paul's expression darkened. She clenched her fists and creased her brow. She breathed deeply: "Juh. Juh. Juh. GEM. Juh-em. GEM."

"What?" Sloan yelled like an old person.

St. Paul flushed violet. "Juh. Juh. Juh. Juh. Juh. Juh. Juh. Juh—"

With one graceful swoop, the fully-formed Terminatrix flipped out from under the edge of the disc, kicked St. Paul in the gut, and landed legs spread above her. Her Delaney mask gazed into St. Paul's doofus eyes.

"BEEP BOOP. YOU HAVE INTERFERED WITH AN OFFICIAL FUCKING TERMINATION, YOU SHALL BE RESTRAINED FOR YOUR OWN PROTECTION."

She placed her revolver against St. Paul's neck. It took Sloan only a moment to realize she did not want the Terminatrix to have the powers of both Delaney and St. Paul.

Sloan slammed her gun against the Terminatrix's metal head. The Terminatrix cried with a surprisingly unaltered voice and Sloan threw herself on top of her, groping her throat before she could defend herself with a barrier.

"Surprise, motherfucker!" Sloan needed to find the Terminatrix's gem and smash it to smithereens. She fumbled her fingers across the sleek leather bodysuit in search of a pocket, a decoration, anything that might hold a gem. St. Paul had cut the body to pieces, though. Where could it be that wasn't already hit?

In the corner of her eye, Bloomington appeared with the crossbow. Sloan rolled to the side and held the Terminatrix's writhing body as a shield. It caught three of Bloomington's ice arrows around the spine, the ice instantly spreading.

"Woodbury, NOW!" said Bloomington.

Four Woodbury fairies zipped out of the air. Each seized one of Sloan's limbs and like the armies of Lilliput pinned her down. They mentally groaned as they struggled to force ankles and wrists against the snow.

Fucking shit, thought Sloan. Deal with one girl and the next one blindsides her. Clair had not even shown yet—or Hennepin, Ramsey, Anoka, or any other girl Clair might keep on psychological payroll. Sloan flexed and fought against the fairies as droplets of their blood pattered her coat.

Bloomington leaned over her and trained her crossbow at Sloan's face. St. Paul rose and blinked. The Terminatrix, body partially encased in ice, made jerky motions and screamed in the dial tone of old internet.

"Do we kill her," said Bloomington. "Her gem's in one of her pockets. Do we kill her, or bring her to Em?"

St. Paul considered her words as though they were the quadratic equation. "Uh. Um. Hm. Uh. Em. Em said—"

"I wouldn't kill her, if I were you." From the entrance of the apartment complex emerged Delaney, hands clasped and serenely composed. "Unless you would all like to lose your throats like your friend the fairy."

The Woodburies beat their wings and gurgled snarls. Their expressions twisted from cherubic to demonic, eyes red, skin pitch, nails yellow and sharp.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. Their mental voices buzzed in headache-inducing unison.

"Don't do it," said Bloomington. "Woodbury, don't fucking do it."

With her ruby heels, Delaney brushed aside the dazed cops. "I would apologize marring you irrevocably, Woodbury, but you were rather ugly to begin with, so..."

A ghastly screech filled Sloan's mind as the four Woodburies released her and soared for Delaney. The instant of freedom, Sloan swept her foot and knocked Bloomington's legs out from under her. As Bloomington fell, Sloan launched up and levied a punch straight to the face of an unsuspecting St. Paul.

Delaney drew her dagger and swung as the fairies zoomed around her. "Run, love!" she shouted. A fairy plowed into her stomach and she staggered backward. "Run, and be creative!"

Bloomington had already risen, while St. Paul clutched a bloody nose. Sloan nodded. Without powers, Delaney's purpose was distraction. Sloan could not afford to fight while Clair and possibly more girls arrived.

So she ran. She sprinted through the snow, over the cop cars, and down the street. Ice arrows sailed past, trivially evaded by the heightened reflexes of her supercharged Soul Gem.

As she whipped around a corner and blocked Bloomington's line of sight, Delaney's voice said:

Please, love! Be creative. I'm sorry to fail you...

Sloan had more pressing issues to worry about. A narrow alley stretched before her, shielded above by balconies. With less snow underfoot, her speed increased. She cleared overturned cans of garbage with nimble leaps, spurred by the secure thump-thump-thump of her feet.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She glanced over her shoulder. No Bloomington, no St. Paul, no Terminatrix.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The alley twisted like a helix. Dumpsters and trash stuck to the walls. A man stood upside-down from the bottom of a balcony as he smoked a cigarette. The sky stretched beneath her and her feet clattered against the ceiling.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The buildings curved inward, their bricks bent and sloped. Two figures appeared in the distance.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It was not her feet that made that sound. It was a drum. One of the two figures sat at a large contraption. Before the white hair and white toga came into focus, Sloan knew who it was.

Revealing herself so early would prove a fatal, fatal flaw. Sloan whirred the barrel of her gun. She closed her mind to the illusion that contorted her path. Clair died here, and everything ended.

It was not a drum Clair at which sat. It was a pipe organ, a grandiose cephalopod of solid brass tentacles that reverberated with the baritone thump as Clair rhythmically dropped one hand on the leftmost keys. How did Sloan confuse an organ for a drum? What did she look like, a music connoisseur? It made no difference. Sloan refreshed herself on the mistakes to avoid:

Don't get surprised.

Don't get angry.

Don't be a dumbass.

Right. Sloan's gun revolved at full speed. She stayed her power to watch and react to Clair's tricks. Clair only had one instrument currently, and another figure beside her, a girl in a lab coat with a collar that went to her ears. Keep in mind the variables. Expect other girls.

Clair slammed her hand on the organ keys and held it there, allowing a gonglike blast to hang loud and long in the air. Sloan skidded to a halt as a vast depression opened between her and Clair. The pit yawned black and bottomless. Was it real? Depended on how deep it was, Sloan decided. No way could Clair open a truly bottomless hole. But a pitfall, concealing a spike trap—totally possible.

The organ echoed into silence. Clair waited until the note died altogether before raising her eyes from the keyboard.

"Hello, old friend."

Sloan glanced over her shoulder to ensure Bloomington or St. Paul hadn't followed. She regarded the lab coat girl, a tall Asiatic chick with a broad grin. Nobody Sloan had seen before. The lab coat suggested healing powers, or science or some shit, but it could be aesthetic only. Either way, Clair had obviously prepared some way to stop Sloan's fire, or else she would never open herself to the danger.

"Hello, Clair."

The lab coat girl flicked her wrist in a sloppy wave. "Hiya, Fargo. I'm Hennepin."

That left only Ramsey and Anoka unaccounted for. Either or both could be waiting in any of the misshapen windows on the twisted alley walls.

"So's the plan to end this here, Clair?" said Sloan. "Cuz I'm down. Getting tired of waiting anyway."

Clair's eyes wandered. "I suppose so. I must inform you, old friend, that your highly illegal actions have distressed the girls under my jurisdiction and led to seemingly irreparable physical harm in at least one instance. I find this rather insulting, if not a flagrant violation of both etiquette and ethics. I would say I expected better of you, but frankly, I did not."

That voice. That fucking voice. So calm, so measured, so mellifluous and pleasant, so pitched and practiced to nestle into an eardrum like the parasite that stings its host with serotonin. Sloan would ruin that voice, wrench her vocal cords out her pulsing throat, then bash that pretty white-haired head into mushy red pulp.

Calm down. Rule 2: Don't get angry.

"You betrayed me," said Sloan. "You acted like my friend and stabbed me in the back. Nothing you say changes that fact."

"Oh, no need to be so dour." Clair pushed her stool from the organ, stood, and nudged the stool back into place under the keys. "Indeed, you should rejoice. Your justified death for the attempted murder of at least six different girls is actually rather important on a universal scale. Your soul shall play sacrifice so a demon may be overthrown."

Before Sloan could respond, Hennepin burst into sharp, exaggerated laughter. "The fuck! A demon!"

It gave Sloan time to think up a real response. When Hennepin finally shut up, Sloan said: "So it was you who shoveled that garbage into Omaha. Demons, Clair? Really? Is this what you've succumbed to? Fucking disgusting."

"It is rather ridiculous." Hennepin made as if wiping a tear from her eye as she held down a wayward giggle.

Clair remained unperturbed. She adjusted the sash of her toga. "I sought to impart some solace to you, an assurance that your death was for a higher purpose. Since you spurn even this final respect to our degraded bond, I find myself under the impression that further talk is pointless."

"Good," said Sloan. "I didn't come to debate anyway."

"Then we shall begin." Around Clair, coiled like a snake, appeared a golden tuba. She placed her fingers on the stops and her lips to the nozzle (or blowhole, or whatever the fuck it was called).

When she blew, a funereal dirge began, somber and sedate. The pipe organ beside her, keys pressed by phantom hands, contributed to the score. Around them the already twisted corridor began to melt, the bricks and windows and balconies drooping and dripping in thick globs of paint, running down to swirl into the great black hole Clair had placed in the center of the battlefield. The congealed liquid ran past Sloan's feet with a viscous tug, but she held her ground and waited for Hennepin to make a move or at least reveal her weapon. The melting had to be an illusion. Clair and Hennepin, in their plain white uniforms, blended into the melting colors; if Sloan changed her vantage she might easily lose them. Maybe Clair picked Hennepin specifically for the color of her outfit. That seemed like such a Clair thing to do.

The song droned. The whirlpool of buildings and windows and features grew thicker, stronger. Sloan realized a new problem: She had no idea where to find another firm surface. Everything ran, everything dripped, nothing was solid. She had to move eventually, but where?

"This is so boring," said Hennepin. Even her voice seemed to melt. It undulated through the liquid terrain. "I have to be up early tomorrow to stream for my fans in Europe. I don't have all day!"

The uncertainty immobilized Sloan. She tried to think of a plan, a clever way to circumvent the terrain. The pull of the liquid matter grew stronger, threatened to sweep her into the pit. If she jumped, relied on midair acrobatics—but that meant she had only one chance...

A horn honked. At first, Sloan thought it was a new instrument, albeit weirdly postmodern and chafing with Clair's typical style, but as it honked again, totally out of time with the dirge, Sloan realized it was a car horn. Here? In the alley?

At the third honk, a veritable blast compared to the first two, Clair flinched. Her fingers slipped on the stops of the tuba and the song shrieked in disarray. The notes lost control and rhythm, the cadences jumbled and decomposed. The liquid stopped flowing. It lost its physicality, disappeared entirely. Solid walls and floors replaced it, no longer twisted. An ordinary inner city alley. The massive hole in the ground shriveled to become an open manhole.

Clair's eyes burned. Her hands writhed over the tuba, until it and the organ vanished entirely. She turned to face the hot pink Cadillac that had somehow crept behind her and Hennepin, wedged in the alley with no room for its doors to open. Its headlights sliced through the fragmented scraps of Clair's pocket reality. Sloan shielded her eyes as a shadowed figure popped out the Cadillac's sunroof and slid down the windshield.

"What is going on," said Clair.

The shadowed figure stepped in front of the headlights. It was a tall black man in a turtleneck sweater, a beret on his bald head. Of everything Sloan had seen that night, this was the most unreal. Was it possible Clair planned this, too? Was it meant to throw Sloan off?

"Uh, hello?" said Hennepin. "Can't you see we're busy here?"

The man in the beret nodded. "Uh huh, yeah, that's cool." He pulled a gun and shot Hennepin in the gut.

He swung the gun toward Clair. No way had Clair planned this—which meant it was Sloan's chance!

She squeezed the trigger of her own gun and sent light in Clair's direction. Clair had already summoned a new weapon, one of those massive violins, a cello. She crouched with the cello in front of her as both Sloan's magic and the beret man's bullet hit it. The instrument exploded in a million wooden shards, but Clair was gone. With a mousey scamper, her slight body dove into the open manhole and disappeared into the darkness.

Sloan sprinted for the opening. This was it, it was happening, she had Clair on the run! Clair without plans and stratagems, without control and power. She skidded for the manhole as a quick ditty percolated from the sewer below, something from a wind instrument. The sound gave her pause, made her consider what augmented reality she might plunge into, and by the time she decided to take the risk, the manhole cover slammed back into place, under the control of Clair's magic.

Sloan tried to pry the manhole open with her fingers, breaking almost all of her nails. The cover did not budge, held fast by Clair's magic. Sloan staggered back, aimed her gun at the cover, and fired. The spray immediately rebounded and caught her in the chest.

She flew back, crested in air, and lost consciousness as her skull cracked against the pavement.

Chapter 20: Justify the Ways of God to Men

Nestled in a sick and silken mist, hidden behind locked doors and armed doll guards in large furred hats, past a floating bulletin board of forms and a pendulum endlessly oscillating, in a shell of a home in a darker corner of a half-fabricated city: Here kneeled Homura Akemi, arms gliding around an orb, watching nebulous shapes slowly substantiate. She warded away thoughts that she ought to do something else, like join Madoka on her nightly wraith hunt. For the first time since she became this unholy abomination, she had called Madoka over the phone and feigned illness. "I'm sorry. I have to stay in bed." Cue fifteen minutes of Madoka's effulgent, benevolent, selfless concern: How serious? Are you coughing? Maybe I should come over and keep you company. That's why you shouldn't spend so much time brooding on windy rooftops (friendly, spontaneous giggle)!

Homura remained very calm and respectfully declined all Madoka offered, and even then she expected to receive a card or baked good next they met. The phone trembling against her ear, she told Madoka to seek out Mami Tomoe and join her for the night. Homura had deliberated whether to entrust Madoka to Tomoe/Nagisa or Miki/Sakura. Both pairs had their cons. Tomoe tended to grandstand around Madoka to fulfill her pathetic need to be loved, while Nagisa was dubiously effectual in combat. But Miki and Sakura had developed some asinine tension as of late, and since neither girl restrained her emotions well while in battle, the odds of a mid-fight blowup or some similar buffoonery were high enough to make Tomoe the favorable option. With Nagisa around, Tomoe would probably act more protectively, but all of these girls had their defects.

As an extra precaution, Homura assigned eight of her fifteen dolls to watch Madoka.

All so she could retroactively observe events happening halfway around the globe in a frostbitten American city. As a swirl of detritus the city manifested in her crystal ball, houses tiny but growing as her vantage zoomed closer. She sped down the sides of towers, down, down, down into the blocks below, down atop a squat, horseshoe-shaped structure: an inn. She swirled a finger to rotate her view toward a particular first-floor window.

Through the window's blinds, only silhouetted lumps could be made out. The two sleeping figures inside were Sloan Redfearn and Delaney Pollack, who had teamed up to murder a girl in this city. Their mission should have failed long ago. Yet it had not.

A lone figure tromped through the snow, to the window. This was the person hired to rectify the situation. One Yvonne Lizondo-Perez, who operated in the Incubator's books under the codename Sepulveda.

Lizondo-Perez, lanky and ungainly, arms too long and head tilted, wore a gray mask like a wraith's face. She boasted an impressive history of successful terminations. Redfearn and Pollack's enhanced powers meant nothing, because Lizondo-Perez could turn those powers against them. Indeed, the stronger the Magical Girl, the more likely Lizondo-Perez's success.

By all appearances, she was the perfect girl for the job.

Homura tapped the sphere. The scene paused. Lizondo-Perez stood motionless at the window, the snow frozen in midair.

"I want you to see this, Incubator."

In the room's thick mist, only the Incubator's eyes remained visible, like an emotionless Cheshire Cat.

I am already aware of what happened.

"Really."

Homura tapped the sphere again. The scene resumed. Lizondo-Perez drew her gun and aimed through the window. She took her time to line up the shot. She fired. The window shattered. The blinds crashed down.

Redfearn and Pollack were surprised but unharmed. Although the bullets from Lizondo-Perez's silver revolver did not wound, a quick fast-forward revealed both Pollack and Redfearn were capable of using their powers, until a second shot struck Pollack. In that time, Redfearn reclaimed her Soul Gem. After a distracting pulse of light, she managed to escape.

The scene froze again as Pollack and Redfearn shambled half-dressed out of the motel. The ensuing chase did not change the ultimate outcome: Redfearn remained at large, in control of her powers, and a serious threat to Clair Ibsen's life.

"Did you see that?"

Miss Lizondo-Perez made an error.

"Did she? With her target asleep, with nothing to distract her, with time to aim, she missed her initial shot? Yvonne Lizondo-Perez is more competent than that."

Errors happen when humans are involved.

"Let's watch again. From the inside."

Homura flicked her wrist and the scene rewound. Pollack and Redfearn ran backward through the snow, reentered the room, and fell asleep as the window repaired itself.

From a new interior vantage, the scene restarted. Redfearn tossed and turned, woke up. She propped herself on one arm and stared at the space between her and Pollack's bed. The instant before the window burst into glass, she fell—or was pulled—off the bed.

The scene paused. Homura said nothing.

It is not unreasonable to assume that when Miss Lizondo-Perez stood in front of the window, she blocked a light that was shining on Miss Redfearn, waking her in time to react to the shot.

Homura rewound again. Zoomed close to the side of Redfearn's bed. Blood coated the carpet. When Redfearn woke up, her lips moved, as if speaking to someone. Pollack, perhaps, in an attempt to rouse her. Except she was not looking at Pollack. She was looking at the blood.

The Incubator said nothing.

Once more, Homura zoomed in. Very close to the side of the bed. Where, from an unidentifiable source, as if a tear had opened in the side of reality, a thin but steady trickle of blood flowed.

"Explain this."

She watched for an instant of hesitation. His face and voice never changed, but his reactions fluctuated by a factor of nanoseconds if something caught him unawares.

He did not miss a beat. It appears to be a large quantity of blood from an unknown source.

"I see that. I am asking what the source is."

Your power exceeds mine. With the ability to view any point in time at your leisure, with near-omnipotence to aid you, you are in a much more likely position to know the answer to that question.

"Unfortunately, that near-omnipotence happens to falter when it comes to things I cannot see or sense. I have a suspicion, however, that this blood comes from a Magical Girl with powers of invisibility. Am I correct?"

It is a reasonable hypothesis.

Homura brushed back her hair. "I am aware it is a reasonable hypothesis. What I am asking you, before I figure it out myself, is which girl have you contracted in this area with the ability to turn invisible?"

Currently, thirty-five girls are in operation worldwide with that ability or a similar ability. Would you like to see the list?

The list appeared, floating, beside the crystal ball. Homura glanced it over and absorbed the names, dates, and places in an instant. Girls from Cambodia, Burkina Faso, South Korea, Bangladesh, Uruguay, Azerbaijan. Four from North America. Of the four, one had never left Guatemala, one was a fresh contract in Sacramento, and one held considerable renown in the competitive Mexico City area.

The fourth was named Omaha.

"This girl has no surname," said Homura.

She was abandoned at a young age. Her adoptive father was abusive and refused to name her. She was kept from contact with the outside world. After she contracted and escaped her domestic life, she took the name of the first word she saw on a highway sign.

"The exact miserable specimen you enjoy shackling to your cause."

Omaha is one of a small percentage of girls who is routinely satisfied with her wish. She considers contracting to be a liberating moment, rather than an enslaving one, as so many girls seem to think.

Homura peeked into Omaha's file. The first few examples of the bizarre tortures the girl endured under her adoptive father were enough to explain why her wish had been, word for word, "I wish I could just disappear."

"This is the girl. What is she doing in Minneapolis?"

I could ask her. I have not collected cubes from her in three days.

It sat wrong in Homura's head. Redfearn and Pollack should have died, but this Omaha saved them. She wondered now if Omaha acted similarly before. If perhaps she saved Redfearn in Williston. If perhaps she were the missing variable to bolster Redfearn's low chance of survival.

With her crystal ball, she could go back and watch events in Williston. But that would take time, especially when attempting to construe the actions of an unseeable girl. Time she could spend. Another day of feigned illness.

But twenty-four hours with Madoka held at a distance while she fell deeper and deeper into a complicated and overwrought plot was more dangerous than allowing the Minneapolis events to proceed uninterrupted. The Incubator knew Madoka's true form. In the past he tried to enslave her, and given just a few moments alone with her, who knew what he'd try.

Homura's first and foremost priority was to protect Madoka.

If her power allowed her the paradoxical ability to watch past times while she froze present time, she could see everything she wanted. Alas, her capabilities had limits. Regardless, it was easy to piece together the Incubator's plan in Minneapolis. By empowering Sloan Redfearn and turning her loose against her most hated enemy, the Incubator sowed the seeds of a magicide that would unleash spectacular energy levels on the city. Doing so would of course sacrifice the girls involved and wipe a metropolis of millions from the face of the earth, but the Incubator's amorality undoubtedly considered those acceptable losses if he met his energy quota.

And since the Incubator loved to scheme, this plan probably had a secondary objective of distracting Homura so that he might get at Madoka. Either way, he won: create an archon in Minneapolis or capture the sleeping goddess who dreamed the universe. Many of the other random details she had already uncovered (such as how Lily Cheong, the girl who created the Williston archon, was now one of the girls stationed in Minneapolis) were probably red herrings meant to confuse her, to cycle her through pointless scenarios, to keep her tied up. The Incubator knew her enough to know her weaknesses. Indeed, Homura felt herself tugged toward this Minneapolis mystery, compelled to bundle each loose end into a neat and cohesive whole. She easily envisioned herself devoting sleepless days to reliving obscure conversations in dismal small towns of the American Midwest.

But she overcame the compulsion. Madoka was more important.

"Faulheit. Sturheit. Lügner. Stolz."

Instantly, four dolls appeared beside her as a snickering congregation of elliptical eyes and shark-tooth grins. They awaited their orders with welcome obedience. Sometimes they appeared with tomatoes to hurl at her instead. Lucky day.

She spoke in German: "Travel to Minneapolis. Kill Sloan Redfearn."

The dolls made mock salutes, their collective giggle an echo in the smoky room. A mushroom puff rose around them; when it subsided, all four had vanished.

Do you think they will be able to succeed before either Miss Redfearn or Miss Ibsen kills the other?

"Yes. They are not easily seen, much like the girl Omaha. As she has already proven, the unseen can do much to alter fate."

Very well. Am I still needed here? I would like to get back to work.

"You are dismissed."

The Incubator vanished.

Homura had made sure the Incubator heard her give her orders to her dolls. Now, she needed only watch his Minneapolis bodies closely. If any of them ran to Pollack or Redfearn and warned that a demoness had sent assassins after them, it would be the evidence she needed to enact stringent punishment. She had a good punishment in mind already. One sure to bend him to her will.

She slithered onto her side, fatigue pervading her. She felt physically drained to be apart from Madoka for so long.

She tapped the crystal ball and changed the scene. Minneapolis disappeared, replaced by a vacant warehouse Homura recognized, a wraith hot spot and a favorite hunting ground of Tomoe in particular.

No wraiths were here. It took Homura a moment to realize they had already been eliminated, but she soon understood the reason for the speedy cleanup: In the warehouse were not three girls but five. All of them: Tomoe, Nagisa, Sakura, Miki, and of course Madoka Kaname. Sakura gestured emphatically in conversation with Tomoe. Nagisa tugged on Tomoe's skirt. Miki bent over in exaggerated laughter while Madoka covered a polite giggle. The aftermath of a successful hunt. Who called Sakura and Miki over? Tomoe? No, it had certainly been Madoka, Madoka who loved her friends, who loved to include everyone, who loved to be around others. Who thrived around others, who blossomed the more people she graced with her ameliorating presence, the more people who felt her holy aura.

Homura froze the screen, unable to stomach their happy laughter. The still image was like something from a Renaissance painting, a supper or passion; Christ around her apostles.

She curled her knees under her chin and rocked slowly back and forth. If Madoka were Christ, Homura was Judas Iscariot, Pontius Pilate, Lucifer all twisted into one. Her sin and her betrayal were great. She understood her actions but could justify them on no plane of morality, only the bizarre and cataclysmic plane of love; she was loathsome, repulsive, degenerate.

But worst of all was the knowledge that Madoka could be so perfectly content without her.

As she emerged from a dry sewage drain, musky with filth and trembling at the thought of bacteria, Clair fought hard to compose herself and recover from the (minor, very minor) setback. Which she could do, she could compose herself. She knew herself rather well, which meant she identified the unpleasant things welling inside her. She was aware she had trouble when her plans did not go as planned. Her awareness allowed her to avoid tumbling into pitfalls. Sloan's escape, while regrettable, did not signal the end or even a reversal of fortune.

True, Clair had hoped to slay Sloan tonight, rally her unruly underlings against the archon Sloan's death would generate, and by morning be on a flight to Mitakihara. But she need only rework her schedule.

First: Regroup with her allies and assess her losses.

Roll call, she projected telepathically. The sewage pipe had deposited her in a generic stretch of urbanity. Where have you all gone? St. Paul, Bloomington, Woodbury.

Em, we're getting the fuck out of here, said Bloomington's voice. Before those police wake up, or the goddam Terminatrix.

Terminatrix? The Incubator had mentioned one of those might appear, but Clair feigned ignorance nonetheless.

Yeah, fuck ass robot bitch. Got in a fight with St. Paul. I froze her but she's thawing out, it makes me nervous.

Take the Terminatrix's Soul Gem. We will bring her back to headquarters.

Fuck that. I ain't doing jack dick to a Terminatrix. I ain't getting my name on no Kyubey list.

We have Regina-Saxophone, Woodbury's voice chimed in. We kill her, right? We fuck her up?

No, said Clair. Worry not, we will restore your throat. However, Fargo escaped. I must interrogate Regina-Saskatoon before removing her entirely.

Okay... Woodbury's tone was sullen. Normally, Clair would avoid killing Regina-Saskatoon altogether. Merely taking her Soul Gem would suffice. But the issue of Woodbury's mutilation complicated matters.

Fuck, said Bloomington. The police are up. Em, we're getting the fuck out.

Clair ambled over a drab, frozen street. She wrapped her scarf tight to keep it from flying off.

Very well. Leave without making a scene. Take Regina-Saskatoon and the Terminatrix and reconvene at headquarters. Understood?

Shit, they calling for backup. We're fucking gone.

Clair stooped her shoulders to gain more traction against the wind and headed homeward.

The others reached her house first, having ridden on St. Paul's flying saucers. She found them in her room, Woodbury painting the carpet a fresh coat of blood, Regina-Saskatoon seated on the bed under the vigilant eye of St. Paul. Bloomington paced by the desk, Regina-Saskatoon's Soul Gem in her hand.

"The Terminatrix is not here," said Clair.

"I told you I ain't touching her."

"I told you to bring her."

"Yeah and you tell me jump off a bridge I ain't gonna do it. Shoot." Bloomington tossed Clair the Soul Gem. Clair had little faith in her hand-eye coordination and allowed the gem to hit the carpet before kneeling to retrieve it.

The Terminatrix isn't here for us, said Woodbury. She just wants Fargo. Which is what we want, too! Why should we stop her anyway?

Bloomington nodded in agreement, and even St. Paul seemed to stare at Clair for an explanation. Clair had her own reasons for wanting the Terminatrix out of the picture, but she could not inform her subordinates. Although she hated lying, she recognized its necessity now.

"I wished to strike an alliance with her to fight our mutual foe." She unwound her scarf from her neck and folded it neatly into her dresser. "However, I begrudge none of you your hesitation, and apologize for asking something you were so uncomfortable doing. It truly was an oversight on my part."

Bloomington shrugged. "Terminatrixes—"

"Terminatrices," Clair amended.

"—Don't work with nobody anyway."

"Uh. Um. Uh. Where. Uh. Um," said St. Paul. "Hen. Hennepin. Where."

"Ah yes," said Clair. From a case on her desk she extracted a hand mirror. She did not consider herself a vain person, but slovenliness in appearance distressed her. Her hair was in disarray; she set about fixing it. "I mentioned earlier that Fargo escaped. I did not discuss how she did so, and what happened to Hennepin."

Oh no, said Woodbury. Hennepin's not dead, is she?

"I cannot say for certain. Shortly after she and I confronted Fargo, a large pink car barreled down the alleyway and disrupted us. A man in a beret emerged and, without warning, shot Hennepin. When he and Fargo conjoined to fight me, I was forced to abscond."

"A pink car?" said Bloomington. "A man in a beret? That's straight bullshit."

The reaction Clair expected. She hoped to end this predictable conversation quickly; she would much rather speak with Regina-Saskatoon. But she could not let her strained relationship with her subordinates deteriorate further. "I assure you, it was quite a real occurrence. I also believe one of us may know the owner of this pink car and the employer of the man in the beret. Am I correct, Woodbury?"

From the first mention of the bizarre event, Woodbury had grown even more inward. She rocked against the edge of Clair's bed.

Oh no... Oh no, she really did it...

"It's okay, Woodbury." Clair attempted to sound reassuring, difficult normally but even harder with her interest in this conversation so swiftly waning. "Tell me, who did it?"

Ramsey. She just bought that Cadillac. She was bragging about it when I last went to... you know... work for her. How could she kill Hennepin? How could she do that!

"Yeah," said Bloomington. "How could she kill a girl nobody spoke to and nobody liked anyway. Fucking unconscionable!"

Clair attempted to look ponderous, although she had already pondered the implications of Ramsey's betrayal at length during her walk back. Tactically, it meant little. Ramsey was a spineless girl, hiding fears under her inflated persona, and also weak. The type of weakness that takes root in a system and propagates to the detriment of the whole. She ought to have, like most of her fellows from the Sloan Redfearn era, died quietly to make room for a more capable replacement. Instead, in Sloan's absence she only coiled her tendrils tighter. At least this betrayal gave Clair the opportunity to oust her.

I don't understand, said Woodbury. I thought it was nice here. I thought girls didn't kill girls here. Now Fargo showed up, and everyone's fighting, and turning on each other, and it's HORRIBLE!

"Ramsey's been around a long time," said Bloomington in seeming non sequitur. "She remembers when Fargo used to rule. I wonder what she knows that we don't."

Yes, yes. Bloomington babbles continued misgivings, Woodbury suspects nothing and laments the chaos. All so tedious and predictable.

"It is no secret that Ramsey harbors dissatisfaction with my rule," said Clair. "I have attempted numerous times to extend an olive branch, but she is committed to petulance."

"And how," said Bloomington, pacing the room, "do we know you really did get attacked by this pink car of Ramsey's? None of us saw it. Maybe you made it up so you could get rid of Ramsey while you get rid of Fargo."

Woodbury sniffled with a spurt of blood from her throat. No... it makes sense. Ramsey always used to say things like, like how she didn't like Em. But I thought she was joking, you know how she is, it's so hard to take her seriously... I'm so sorry, I'm sorry!

The poor creature rolled onto her side. She had made a rather repulsive mess of Clair's room.

"Woodbury, please. You did nothing wrong, considering the circumstances." Clair kneeled beside her and attempted to touch her shoulder, but her fingers hovered as if polarized. "You're distressed. It has been a long day. You have been involved in not one battle but two, and sustained a terrible wound for your trouble. I appreciate all you have done for me and this city, Woodbury. Please, there is no need to cry."

"Stop talking to Woodsy like you give a damn," said Bloomington. "When you gave the order to leave Regina-Whatever alive, you shoulda seen how mad she got. Furious! We had to restrain her."

Woodbury writhed, her neck undulating as strangled, hoarse croaks forced their way out of her throat. It was really quite nauseating.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I know you ordered us to bring her to you alive, but I... I want to speak again!

Truthfully, Clair ought to allow Bloomington and Woodbury to leave, permanently. They had served their purpose as scouts and were now becoming burdens. Woodbury might start having issues with despair soon, and nobody wanted a girl on the brink. Simply unreliable.

"Woodbury, I want you to be able to speak again, too. Therefore, I propose that you go home and rest. Recharge after such a strenuous day. Allow me to interrogate Regina-Saskatoon privately. Once I do, we will find a way to heal you. Is that acceptable?"

A sob cracked in the ruins of Woodbury's throat as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Clair knew waiting until tomorrow was not what Woodbury wanted, but she would accept the verdict nonetheless.

Okay... I can do that.

"Good. As for you, Bloomington, if you do not wish to return in the morning, I understand. I have stressed time and again that this effort is entirely voluntary."

"Yeah, I know," said Bloomington. "And I think I'll take you up on your offer. I'm done risking my life for stupid shit."

She went to help Woodbury to her feet. Woodbury rose unsteadily, still squelching with internal fluids. Clair let her eyes wander so as to not view the spectacle.

"St. Paul, please help them out the window. I'd rather they not exit through the house, given the blood."

Of course, this statement only spurred Woodbury to renewed sobbing. Thankfully, Clair did not have to listen long, as St. Paul carried Woodbury onto a silver disc that hovered just outside the window and carefully piloted it to the ground.

That left Bloomington. While Clair was perfectly content to let silence reign, Bloomington had other ideas.

"You're gonna kill her, you know." Bloomington kneaded her hands together as she turned her back to shield herself from the cold. "Woodbury. She's not doing hot. Now Ramsey's roped into this. Woodbury thinks Ramsey's her friend. Hell, she thinks we're all her friends. She isn't gonna fight Ramsey."

Clair closed her eyes and placed her fingertips together. "You may persuade Woodbury to abandon my cause, if you can."

Outside the window, the silver disc rose with St. Paul atop it, arms out to receive Bloomington. Bloomington levied one last contemptuous glare at Clair, stepped out the window, and descended.

To be perfectly honest, Clair's strategic position had deteriorated. Hennepin lost for certain; Bloomington and Woodbury possibly lost; Ramsey added to the list of enemies. That left only her, St. Paul, and the hitherto-unutilized Anoka, the latter of whom Clair kept in reserve because her very situational powers were rendered useless by Regina-Saskatoon's barrier magic. However, Sloan had undoubtedly lost a much more pivotal piece of her arsenal. Without Regina-Saskatoon, Sloan was nothing. She had developed no new powers, strategies, or outlooks on life during her time in Fargo and Williston. She was the same old Sloan Redfearn. Reasonably, Clair could fight her by herself and still win. St. Paul and Anoka more than made up for whatever scant advantage Ramsey brought Sloan.

No, Clair's chief worry, she thought as St. Paul rose again and stepped through the window, was that the Terminatrix would get to Sloan first. That was impermissible.

St. Paul brushed snow off her cloak and shut the window. A refreshing silence fell over the room.

"I am glad you, at least, will never desert me," Clair said.

St. Paul bowed her head. "Th. Th. Th. Thank. Thank you."

"True friends are a precious commodity I truly do not deserve." Clair regarded the vast red splotch in her carpet and sighed. Sometimes she regretted the things she could never be, although she never allowed this regret to manifest into a more destructive emotion. Instead she found solace in the fact that what she was—basically inhuman—she was exceptionally good at being, unlike those dismal types who betray their own natures due to intemperance or other venial sins. Clair Ibsen was fated to wander friendless for eternity, but her acceptance of that fact made her far more deserving of the celestial position to which she aspired than said position's current occupant, whom her sources indicated groveled regularly in the sink of her own incontrovertible loneliness.

The fleeting feeling of regret passed. Clair steeled herself and turned to Regina-Saskatoon.

"Now, shall we begin?"

Regina-Saskatoon sat on the bed with her knees folded, her sweater streaked with blood, and her dull blue eyes aimed listlessly.

"So you're this Clair Ibsen I've heard about."

"I am the one who goes by that name. And yours? Regina-Saskatoon is a cumbersome moniker, I would prefer a more elegant one."

"Delaney." She tilted her head as if examining Clair in more detail. "You know, you don't live up to the hype. Sloan made you out to be some sort of untouchable goddess, but you're just another clever girl."

"Let us first tackle the key issue that will dictate the direction of our conversation. Can you break the curse on Woodbury's neck?"

"If there's a way, I dunno."

Clair nodded. "You understand, of course, this means I must kill you once our conversation is over. I have given my word to Woodbury I would heal her."

She reached into her jacket and retrieved the Soul Gem that Bloomington had tossed her. A small ruby in an egg-shaped container. With it in Clair's possession, Delaney was helpless.

"That your natural hair color?" Delaney asked.

"Yes. I am an albino. Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

That response merely concealed the true reason, which made Clair curious. Who knew what odd associations this girl might have with albinism.

"Since you cannot restore Woodbury, my interrogative techniques must by necessity rely on pain, rather than mere threat. Were you capable of healing her, your death would be unnecessary, perhaps even inconvenient. I would not need to force you into a state in which you beg for death, where death becomes your only salvation, and offer you that salvation in exchange for answers. I am not, as Sloan Redfearn may have depicted me, a monster. I do not delight in bringing pain. I have done things to bring pain but only for a rational purpose. When I slay you, I will feel a twinge of negative emotion, but not severe enough to stay my hand. I am, you may have conjectured, somewhat unhindered by how I feel."

"Sloan told me you wished to not feel despair."

Clair turned Delaney's Soul Gem over in her hand.

"Surely, given her pitiful understanding of others, she misinterpreted my reason for such a wish."

"I think so too," said Delaney. "She said you did it to power up. Make your Soul Gem incorruptible. But that's wrong. I asked myself, what kind of girl would make a wish to feel no despair? What would she be thinking and feeling when she made that wish?"

Clair stared forlornly forward. The conversation had taken a fortuitous turn. If Delaney believed Clair an overall sympathetic human being, it would make the horror of what Clair was to do all the greater.

At the same time, Clair remembered what Calgary said online about the infamy of Regina-Saskatoon. Delaney was perhaps presenting herself as empathic and thus human to make Clair believe torture would have more effect. She looked the girl over. Her face was flush, but the eyes were dead.

"St. Paul," said Clair. "Run to the kitchen. In the fourth cabinet from the door, find the pots. Take a medium-sized pot and fill it with water. Boil the water. Do you know how to boil water, St. Paul?"

St. Paul stared. "Nn. No. No."

"Place the pan of water on top of the stove. Turn the dial on the stove to the HIGH setting. Can you remember that, St. Paul? The HIGH setting."

"Huh. High. High setting."

"Very good. Once the stove is on, watch the pot of water. When the water bubbles, enchant the pot with your magic. Remember when I taught you how to enchant items?"

St. Paul nodded.

"Good. Then, turn off the stove and bring the pot to me. Be careful not to spill it. Do you remember all that?"

After a trepid pause, St. Paul nodded. "Y, yes. Yes!"

Once St. Paul left the room, Clair closed the door and turned to Delaney.

"Where were we? Oh yes. I will give you the opportunity to answer my questions without duress only once. Then I shall be forced to inflict harm upon you. Understood?"

Delaney said nothing.

"My first question is simple. Has Sloan Redfearn, upon receipt of the Williston archon's cubes, developed any additional abilities beyond those she used previously?"

Delaney's response at this point did not matter. With some squeamish girls, lies were immediately discernable. But Delaney was not squeamish, she was a dangerous murderer. A sociopath. Sociopaths were exceptional liars. They were confident and charismatic. Clair could not rely upon body language to divine truth from fiction. Instead, she must wait and see how Delaney's story changed once Clair dealt her unfathomable pain.

"I love Sloan," Delaney said. "I really do. But let's face it: the girl's a clod. She can't for the life of her conceive anything more than running and shooting. She could have all the power of all the archons in the world and that wouldn't change."

A reasonable answer. It may, perhaps, even turn out true.

"Very well. Thank you for your cooperation." Words to imbue a false sense of security, perhaps encourage more brazen lies, more easily broken. "My next question. Does Sloan Redfearn have any more allies?"

Delaney stretched as if yawning. "Oh yeah. She's got that one girl, who turns invisible I think? What's her name, Homura?"

Clair's eyes narrowed.

"Omaha."

"Right," said Delaney. "That one. So you know her too?"

Okay. Clair had to concede this Delaney girl was not bad.

Clair stalled for time with a polite cough as she processed Delaney's response. First, Delaney claimed Omaha had sided with Sloan. Such an outcome accounted for Omaha's failure to report after Williston, but an alternative possibility was that Delaney and Sloan killed Omaha and Delaney was bluffing.

The more ominous admission was the mispronunciation of Omaha's name. Clair would very much like to ask about it, but feared that if she did, she would reveal more about herself than Delaney revealed to her.

"My next question is a tad more personal, if you don't mind. Would you mind telling me about the girl you murdered in Saskatoon several years ago?"

A facial twitch. "I don't see how that's relevant here."

"I am simply curious."

Delaney recovered rapidly, as Clair expected. She grinned and said, "I killed a girl simply because I wanted to. I didn't just kill her, either, I got a little sexual gratification out of her body before I did. Nice, huh?"

Calgary had not mentioned rape in her catalogue of Delaney's sins. It was possible Delaney spoke truth, and equally possible she fabricated the event to unsettle Clair.

"I thought about doing the same to Sloan, too," Delaney continued. "Tie her up, get what I wanted out of her, leave her dead and end a lot of people's hopes and dreams at the same time. She's got a certain rugged beauty to her? An aesthetic of deprivation. I love her gauntness, her sallow cheeks. It really stirs the necrophiliac in me."

Clair attempted to remember her next question.

"I know it's not the way this is supposed to go, but let me ask you a question real quick, love. Do you mind if I call you love? It's a quirk of mine, sorry. Anyway, I was wondering, you also seem to have a certain fixation on our emaciated friend. Have you ever thought of, you know, having your way with her? God, just thinking about her cute little shrieks of pain makes me wild, don't you agree?"

Clair's hands clenched. "I have never and do not intend to partake in sexual activity of any sort for the duration of my life."

Delaney gave a girlish giggle. "Beautiful! Simply beautiful, love. A truly Kyubeyesque way to answer a question—by not answering it at all! Don't worry, love"—(she winked)—"your secret's safe with me."

This was highly inappropriate! Clair struggled to overcome the mixture of revulsion and uncertainty that pervaded her. How could this Delaney girl have her at such odds, and so quickly? First the mispronunciation of Omaha and now this, which she had not anticipated in the slightest—

The door swung open and St. Paul rushed in with a pot of water, which sloshed out and nearly seared Clair's skin. "Careful, you brainless oaf!" she snapped.

Immediately, Clair realized her mistake. As St. Paul began to sob, Clair hurried to placate her.

"No, I'm so sorry. That was truly an unforgivable thing for me to say, I didn't mean it in the slightest. I am sorry, so sorry."

It took a full four minutes for St. Paul to quit crying. The girl could grow distressed at the drop of a hat, but piecing her back together took an inordinate amount of time. After a few hundred apologies, St. Paul finally dried her eyes with a finger.

"Here, let's get that pot out of your hands," said Clair. "Place it on my desk, atop the notepad."

St. Paul complied. Clair had arranged in advance the college-ruled notepad to act as coaster, specifically to establish the idea that Clair had not arranged this impromptu torture in advance at all. Now, such entry-level diversions seemed entirely irrelevant. What mattered was that Clair had Delaney's Soul Gem, and Delaney, besides words, had nothing at all.

"What's wrong, love?" said Delaney. "You seem a tad flustered."

The water bubbled and frothed in the pot. St. Paul's enchantment reflected the heat to keep it trapped inside, so the water kept boiling long after being removed from the stove. At least St. Paul succeeded in following instructions.

Clair composed herself. She straightened her jacket and tie. She smoothed her skirt. She gave a cursory check toward St. Paul to ensure no ill effects of the outburst lingered. She balanced Delaney's Soul Gem on her upturned palm.

"I thank you for your cooperation so far, Delaney. While your answers have been forthright and forthcoming, I am afraid I require additional certainty. As such, I shall ask you the same questions again, and also a few questions we did not get the chance to discuss previously."

Clair held her hand over the boiling pot and turned it over. Delaney's Soul Gem fell in with a plop.

Delaney screamed. All her smug intelligence evaporated. Her hands pawed her unharmed body, her legs kicked the air, her eyes twitched in circuitous rhythms. She fell off the bed.

Clair reached into the pot and pulled out the dripping gem.

"I ask again: Has Sloan Redfearn developed any new abilities since acquiring the cubes from the Williston archon."

Still writhing, Delaney shouted: "No you cunt, she's a useless fucking tool, don't you already know?"

Clair dropped the gem into the water. She watched Delaney struggle. After enough time elapsed, she retrieved the gem.

"Does Sloan have any other allies? Is Omaha on her side?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

So she stuck by her story. No doubt it would take more than a little pain to break her. Fortunately, they had all night.

Again the gem went into the water. Again Delaney screamed. Clair wondered whether her neighbors or her parents might investigate, but the storm outside served a nice muzzle to the shrieks.

Clair retrieved the gem. "What has the Incubator told you of Homura Akemi?"

"Who?!" said Delaney.

Again the gem went in. Clair waited twice as long as usual before retrieving it and asking the same question.

"She's a demon," gasped Delaney. "A demon who enslaved God!"

Why did the Incubator tell her that? What purpose did it serve him that this random ancillary component of his plot knew so much?

She decided to ask Delaney. Whether Delaney knew did not matter. The hopelessness of being posed a question you did not know could shatter nerves.

Into the water went the gem. Seconds passed. Out of the water went the gem.

"Why did the Incubator tell you about Homura Akemi?"

For a long time, Delaney said nothing. She only stared helplessly.

Clair sighed. As she began to turn her hand, Delaney cried: "Wait!"

And so Clair waited. "Yes?"

"Do you want to know why the Incubator told me? Do you really want to know?"

"I asked the question."

Delaney shuffled forward on hands and knees. St. Paul stepped to intervene when Delaney placed her hands on Clair's ankles, but Clair signaled all was well.

"I'm going to ask you one thing," said Delaney. "Just tell me if it's true, and I'll know why the Incubator told us both about her. Just let me ask one thing."

"Ask, then."

Delaney took a deep breath. She grabbed, gingerly, at her face, still trembling from the effects of having her soul plunged into scalding water. As Clair watched, Delaney's dull blue eyes began to change color.

"Are you adopted?" said Delaney.

The question took a moment to register. "Adopted? Yes, I am. But how...?"

It was not simply Delaney's eyes that changed. Her hair began to lose its brown luster, the color ebbing away, draining from the roots outward. Suddenly, Clair realized why Delaney's eyes had seemed so dull and dead. Not because of the inherent sociopathy of her personality, but because of the aura of fakeness that persisted around magic one used to alter their appearance.

"Because," said Delaney. "I, too..."

Her eyes were red. Her hair was white.

The strength gave from Clair's legs. She sat hard on the bloodied carpet. St. Paul rushed to her side, but Clair stared ahead, stared at the albino doppelganger.

Selma Smith, alias Woodbury, did not sleep that night. You can't sleep with your neck torn out. It doesn't stop bleeding. If you lie down it gets in your mouth. She tried, she really did, but all she managed to do was make her bed a brimming marsh of her own blood.

She whittled away the night stuffing the gaping hole with tissues, running it under the shower nozzle, crying and screaming and punching the floor and hoping, praying for Em to hurry up and kill the fucking bitch, break the curse, heal her. Please, God. Please let her be healed. Please God please.

After seven hours of this, when the darkness ebbed from the windows and the dull gray of a stormy winter morning replaced it, Woodbury curled up in her corner and prayed instead for death.

Chapter 21: Just HOW High Do You Even Have to BE

An alien noise woke Sloan. Garbled, impenetrable. Her eyes adjusted to dim interior lighting as her other sensory receptors rebooted at the speed of a fifteen-year-old computer. Something warm sagged against her shoulder. Ignoring the ache in her skull, Sloan turned toward it and found sleeping there a topless female no older than Sloan herself with what looked like a dog collar around her neck.

Sloan leapt with a start, lost her balance, floundered back onto the couch, and leapt again. Lacking support, the topless girl slumped against the cushion with a snore.

What the fuck did Delaney get her into this time? Sloan patted her coat to make sure she hadn't been, like, molested or something in her sleep. The buttons on her jacket were in place and her Soul Gem remained in the appropriate pocket, next to her (empty) wallet and her passport with the awful picture. Nothing out of place.

How did I get here, she asked herself. Where was here? What happened the night before? Had she been drinking?

Sloan moved for the room's sole door, only to trip over a second girl, marginally more clothed than the first. A quick glance revealed three others all in similar states of repose. What was this place? Had Delaney—

Delaney lost her powers. The Terminatrix. Clair. But how did that lead here?

Careful not to step on any more girls, Sloan tiptoed toward the door. The alien noise that roused her continued, still incoherent despite Sloan's mostly-regained faculties. She opened the door slowly, hiding behind the frame as she surveyed the dark room beyond. Silver outlines from the scant light of shuttered windows illuminated an entire pile of girls in various states of undress, heaped on sofas, tables, chairs, overturned shelves. A modest chandelier hung uneven from the center. Everything reeked of alcohol, ash, and weed.

In the darkness, two catlike eyes gleamed at her. A girl (fully clothed at that), seated upon a recliner with her legs crossed. Sloan blinked. She had seen this girl before, but the memory was distant. Not Delaney, not Bloomington or Woodbury, not St. Paul or the Terminatrix, not Clair...

It came to her. "You're Clair's... sister?"

Even in the old days, when Sloan and Clair were best buds, Sloan only saw Clair's older sister a handful of times, mostly in glimpses as she dashed Sasquatch-like between hallways of the Ibsen household. Clair and Clair's parents did not mention her much, and when they did, not fondly.

"Yeah, I guess that's what they usually call me," said Clair's sister. "I prefer Lynette."

"Lynette," said Sloan. "So you brought me here?"

"Nah, I just came for the booze." Lynette lifted a tall bottle of vodka. The dregs sloshed. "You come with a date?"

"I asked because I don't know."

"Ah." Lynette took a swig, which she punctuated with a raspy smack of her lips. "That's how you know it's a good night, am I right or am I right?"

Why Clair's sister, of all people? She was not a Magical Girl, unless she kept it a secret all those years. She was too old for Kyubey's contract range. Doubtless the legions of hungover girls strewn about this house (apartment?) were not Magical Girls either. So what did they have to do with anything? A random nomad skirting the city's fringes meant more to the battle between Sloan and Clair than Clair's sister. A Magical Girl and a non-magical one inhabited separate spheres of existence.

"You know," said Lynette, "I thought you were missing? There was noise about that. Missing posters, police and shit. Your family showed up on TV. Or wait, are you the other twin? Shit."

"I'm the other twin," said Sloan. To cause fewer problems. She had forgotten her family still assumedly lived in this city, and that they might have some interest in finding her. Better to leave as few tracks as possible.

Lynette downed the last of her vodka and dropped the bottle over the side of the recliner. "Prep school girls, man. Prim and proper by day, sluts by night. My sister is the sole exception in the history of prep school."

Despite Lynette's cavalier demeanor, Sloan remained wary. Would Clair use her sister against Sloan? Their relationship, as Sloan remembered, was nonexistent. Keeping an eye on Lynette, who reached down and began stroking the hair of a sleeping girl, Sloan made her way across the room, careful to avoid stepping on splayed fingers. More doors branched out, from one of which came the sounds that had woken her.

It led into a bedroom. Atop the grandiose profusion of satin bedding sat two people. One was a black man with a beret, the other an Asian chick wrapped in a blanket. They held game controllers and gazed into a television screen mounted on the wall, where each manipulated a space marine through an alien jungle.

Sloan's tenebrous memories recalled both of these people. Something about a pink Cadillac. It made Sloan's head ache.

One of the space marines died in an explosion while a gruff announcer said KILLIMANJARO. The other space marine stood over the corpse and furiously crouched up and down.

"Sheet," said the beret man. He tossed his controller aside. "You damn good at this."

"Being good at things is what I do," said the blanket girl. "Another?"

"Nah. I just lose."

"I'll handicap myself. Pistols only. You use whatever you like."

"If only you was as good at dodging bullets in real life as in this game."

"Ha. Funny."

Now Sloan remembered. The alleyway. Clair and the other girl, what was her name? Hennepin. Then the Cadillac came and...

"What the fuck is happening," said Sloan.

The pair wheeled toward her. They gaped until Hennepin recomposed herself and said, "Whaddya know? It's Fargo."

Sloan kept her hand in her pocket, wrapped around her Soul Gem. Hennepin seemed docile, but that was no reason to let her guard down.

"You woke up with your clothes on?" said Hennepin. "Lucky. I still can't find mine." She indicated the blanket around her bare shoulders.

Beret man held up a knowing finger. "That what the Boss say. Make sure that girl have no clothes. I ask why, she say just do it. I say okay, and I don't ask no more questions."

"Oh, gross," said Hennepin. "Can you believe it, Fargo? I got undressed in my sleep by this pervert."

"Nah. I had some of the girls do it."

"Yeah, that's easy to believe!" Hennepin rolled her eyes.

"I want to know who brought me here and why," said Sloan. "And where I am and a whole slew of other shit. And I don't feel like waiting for answers."

"Isn't it obvious?" Hennepin thumbed her controller and started the next round. She took an early lead when she dispatched Mr. Beret with a clean headshot. "At least, obvious who brought us here. Come on, Fargo, you're smarter than that. Actually I don't know jack about how smart you are, but I assume you at least got a cerebrum more developed than single-cell protozoa."

"Tell me who brought me here."

Hennepin sighed as she set up camp outside Mr. Beret's spawn point and racked up kills on regular five-second intervals, ignoring the indignant protests of her adversary. "Fargo! You're making me lose faith in humanity. Think about it. What Magical Girl loves orgies, drugs, and glitzy pink cars?"

Sloan was absolutely certain she knew nobody who fit such a description. Unless Delaney? They seemed like things Delaney would like. But Delaney was not an option, she stayed behind to buy time while Sloan fled. The list of people she knew in general was rather short: Delaney, Clair, Woodbury, Bloomington, St. Paul. The Terminatrix. Kyubey, if he counted. Winnipeg... except she was dead.

"Tell me who brought me here," said Sloan.

"Oh dear. You must be an amnesiac." Hennepin sniped Mr. Beret from across the map with a pistol to end the round. "Luckily that grants you plot armor against any and all danger, at least until a critical event jogs your memory and you recall your past as either an extraterrestrial with a powerful message for Earth or the princess of a magical kingdom—"

Sloan ripped the controller from Hennepin's hands, forced her onto the bed, and coiled the cord around her neck. She pulled hard, constricting until Hennepin gasped for breath, her well-manicured fingers groping to loosen the knot.

"If you think I am fucking around, you are dead fucking wrong," said Sloan.

"Aw come now," said Mr. Beret, although he made no attempt to stop Sloan, "that ain't nice."

"Let's try again: Who brought me here."

Sloan pulled tighter. Hennepin's eyes boggled.

"How uncouth!" spoke a voice from behind. "Sloan, why such barbarism?"

Sloan looked up. In the doorway stood a dalmatian fur coat that possibly had a person inside. Hands like a doll's held both sides of the doorframe as the fur coat leaned in a pair of soul-swallowing sunglasses and a layer of powdered makeup. The hair, obviously dyed platinum blonde, streamed down into the trim of the coat until it became unclear where hair ended and coat began. Sapphires dangled from ears and a diamond necklace hung low over the billowing expanse of skinned animal that comprised a torso. Tattooed in cursive across a rare snatch of bare neck was the word J'ADORE.

For some reason, Sloan found this creature both attractive and soothing to be around. She loosened her grip on Hennepin's throat and rubbed her jaw in embarrassment.

"Oh... hey... sorry," she said.

"Don't be so gauche," the fur coat spoke. Its accent was British, except obviously fake. And yet endearing? This made no sense. The coat-person contained so many characteristics Sloan found tacky, and yet something made her incapable of passing judgment. "I understand you survived as a hermit in the wilderness for the past seven months, but really, asphyxiation? That is the most depraved of all fetishes."

"I, uh, what?" Sloan glanced down. Hennepin's blanket had fallen away, revealing her bare upper body. Sloan quickly drew back, allowing the blushing Hennepin to pull her blanket up.

"Such-and-such statistic of people die each year from erotic asphyxiation," the fur coat continued, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. "A real tragedy. I know she is rather scrumptious, but please refrain from fornicating on my bed, I hate having to change the sheets every night."

"I change the sheets, though," said Mr. Beret.

"I hate having to order Carmichael to change the sheets every night." The fur coat glided into the room with her arms outstretched as though surfing. She made a dainty pirouette and landed on her side across the bed. "So Sloaney Sloan Sloan, I see you've awakened! No, let me try again. Sloan, haven't you missed me? I'm your best and closest friend ever!"

Sloan still had no idea who this girl was.

"Uh." For some reason she did not want to offend her, and for some reason she did feel like they were friends. She rubbed her skull. "What... what's your name again?"

"Oh no! She hit her head and developed amnesia. Whatever shall we do, Carmichael?"

"Take her to a doctor," Carmichael offered.

"Feed her a madeleine," said Hennepin.

"I love madeleines!" said the fur coat. She rolled off the bed with all her tails and sleeves flapping. "I'm certain I have some in the pantry. I'll be right back!"

Before Hennepin could say she was joking, the fur coat disappeared.

Sloan nudged Hennepin. "Really, who is she?"

"Fuck you," said Hennepin. "Find out yourself."

For some reason Sloan wanted to please the girl, or at least not disappoint her. It had to be magic. She plumbed her memory for a girl with similar characteristics. Since the other Minneapolis girls had revealed themselves, it had to be either Anoka or Ramsey. But the Anoka when Sloan ruled was already on the way out, symptoms of imminent Cycles, and Ramsey, from Sloan's recollection, was meek and quiet. An Omaha type. She kept to herself and Sloan rarely had cause to call on her. Despite their few encounters, Sloan always held a positive impression of the girl, but she had assumed that was precisely because of their few encounters. The more Sloan had to see a girl, the more she disliked her.

Except Clair. With Clair, only when Sloan stopped seeing her did the hatred fester.

The fur coat sashayed back into the room. "No madeleines, sorry! Only a few eclairs."

"Are you Ramsey," Sloan asked.

Ramsey unleashed a high-pitched squeal. "Yes, yes! That's me! Ramsey! You remembered! I get scared sometimes people will forget."

"Fear not, darling," said Hennepin. "You are très unforgettable."

The true meaning of Hennepin's words seemingly lost on her, Ramsey flopped onto the bed and kicked her legs in the air. "My friends, my friends! It makes me so happy to hear these things. I am loved, I am truly loved!"

Her voice reached incisive highs that forced all around her to flinch. Good thing some strange influence compelled Sloan to like her, or else she might rapidly lose patience. A good thing because with Delaney gone, Sloan needed allies and could not afford to alienate even this one.

"Thanks for helping me in the alley," said Sloan.

Ramsey extended a gracious arm and dragged a finger down the side of Sloan's coat. "You're welcome! It took me so long to even hear you were in Minneapolis. I was afraid I wouldn't reach you in time. But I did, and now a beautiful friendship can blossom!"

"Yeah," said Sloan. "You seem a lot different than before."

Ramsey began rolling back and forth on the bed, sending her flapping coat everywhere.

"That's because"—(dramatic pause)—"I started selling cocaine!"

Started selling... what? Full awareness came slowly and with a sagging weight in Sloan's chest. This was her new ally, she realized. Her new Delaney. Oh boy! Sloan always had the best allies.

"So you sell to those girls outside," said Sloan.

"No, oh no," said Ramsey. "I mean, sometimes. But those girls are my employees."

"Employees?" There were at least thirty girls out there.

"Yeah!" Ramsey sat up and affected the most businesslike posture one in her apparel could affect. "It's a brilliant distribution model, actually. When cops prowl for drug dealers, who do they look at? Why, scuzzy black men like Carmichael, that's who! I deliberately play against their preconceived stereotypes by hiring only young girls to flip for me. Not one has been caught yet, and I'm months in the trade. Brilliant, totally brilliant!"

The throb in Sloan's head deepened. Her disgust at Ramsey's practices battled with her incomprehensible like for Ramsey as a person.

"Come on Slo-dizzle, don't be like that!" Ramsey grabbed Sloan's shoulders and gave a vigorous shake. "I swear it's not as bad as you think."

"Uh oh," said Hennepin. "Here comes the sob story."

Ramsey glared. "Silence. I know for you, Sloan, who had the fortune of living with her parents and having a roof over your head and food to eat every night, the concept of needing to make money may be foreign, but—"

"I worked a convenience store in Fargo," said Sloan.

"Yes, but you're seventeen! It's not even legal for someone my age to work in this idiotic country, okay?" Ramsey pounded her fists against the bed. "Ugh! This ALWAYS HAPPENS. Nobody UNDERSTANDS and they think I'm some kind of FREAK. You're just as bad as CLAIR!"

Oh no. Come on Sloan, be nice. Who gives a shit about cocaine, you need a friend. She placed a limp hand on Ramsey's shoulder. "You're right, I'm sorry. Please, go on."

Although Hennepin scoffed, Ramsey was instantly mollified. She rose to her knees and rocked back and forth. "Thanks! Anyway, what I was saying is, fourteen-year-old me wound up in this city with no money and no nothing. I had to live somewhere, but nobody will hire an underage girl with no technical skills. So I resorted to what most Magical Girls have to do."

"Cocaine," said Sloan.

"Prostitution! We may have no skills, but we still have our bodies, which will always be worth something to someone."

That was... legitimately horrible. It made Sloan nauseous. She remembered the pimp in Fargo and the peacock ladies in Williston. She thought about Winnipeg, whose accent had outed her as an immigrant. She thought about Delaney, and her heart-shaped wallet. Where did that money come from?

"Wow," said Sloan. "That's. That was what you were doing when I was in charge of Minneapolis?" She thought about the meek Ramsey she remembered. Quiet, head low. Said little. Jesus Christ.

"Not just me," said Ramsey. "The old Hennepin, and the old Woodbury too. We tried to help each other out, give support and such. Clair knew, and she wanted us to find another way, but she was remarkably unhelpful about suggesting an alternative. After that whole snafu between you and her, and she took over for real, things got tense. She disliked having teen whores running around her city."

"She doesn't like any gainfully employed female," said Hennepin. "She's a reactionary. To her, women live as pretty domestics and play music all day."

Ramsey rolled over and tangled with the covers. "Anyway, this conversation bores me. You can figure out what happened next. All seedy industries are acquainted with one another, the leap from hooker to hawker was rather simple. Especially since people tend to like me, at least ever since I contracted. Had to change my personality a tad, whimpering pushovers don't make profits. The concept of identity is so overrated. We're all cookie-cut slabs of meat and bone who only think we're different."

"Except in measures of strength, skill, intelligence, speed..." Hennepin listed the qualities on her fingers.

"Some of us got dark skin too," said Carmichael.

"So you're siding with me over Clair because Clair doesn't like you pushing cocaine across the city, is that it?" said Sloan. "And you think if I'm in charge, I won't care."

Ramsey covered a forced laugh. "I know you won't care. I've seen you run this city. Laissez-faire at its finest."

Sloan would have been annoyed if it weren't totally true.

"Okay. Then let's talk Clair Ibsen. How do we—"

With a nonchalant gesture Ramsey interrupted her. "Yes yes, we'll get to that. Why the rush! We've only just been reunited after so long apart. And with Hennepin we have ourselves a real party. Calm down, relax." She stretched back on the bed and yawned. "It's too early to talk war. We'll worry about it tonight."

"I have a Terminatrix on my ass, Ramsey," said Sloan.

To Ramsey, this fact seemed only mildly disconcerting. Considering how loosely she mentioned Magical Girl stuff around Carmichael, Terminatrixes probably meant little to her. Surprising Kyubey hadn't condemned Ramsey by now, actually. Did using her powers (because surely she had a power that altered how people perceived her, that was the only explanation for why Sloan... liked her so much) to sell drugs throughout the city count as "Inflicting harm upon regular humans with magic"?

"So uh. Can I have my clothes back?" said Hennepin.

Ramsey shot up. "Are you daft? Of course not. That's part of your torture!"

"Torture," said Sloan and Hennepin in unison.

"Duh?" Ramsey pushed herself off the bed, reinvigorated. "You're my captive, right? Which means I'm morally obligated to torture you, it's just how it works, don't question it." She laid her hands on Hennepin's shoulders. "But hurting people makes me sad, it's so barbaric! I'd rather torture you, hmm, what's the word... psychologically? Shamefully? Torture you through shame, yes! Hence the lack of clothes."

Hennepin looked to Sloan as if to confirm the words she heard were the same everyone else heard. Sloan was as baffled as her, and Carmichael had drifted into his own fantasy realm, gazing into the paused television and nodding to the points of emphasis in Ramsey's speech patterns.

"Well, you win!" said Hennepin. "I'm embarrassed. We done yet?"

For a moment Ramsey stared at the blankets swaddling Hennepin's body, stroking her chin and murmuring to herself. She pulled down her sunglasses for a better look. "Well, maybe. I guess so. Carmichael, where did you put her clothes?"

"Uh." Carmichael scanned the ground as if maybe he dropped them there. "I forget."

Epiphany overtook Ramsey. "Oh, that's right! I told you to scatter her clothing around the house. We were going to make her search for them like a scavenger hunt!"

"What," said Hennepin.

"You better hurry up and get hunting." Ramsey checked a diamond-studded watch that looked like a shackle on her skinny wrist. "All those girls will be waking soon. They might find your clothes first and put them on by mistake! Then what will you wear?"

"What," said Hennepin.

"Also, take off that blanket, it's cheating."

It took a few moments for Hennepin to realize that no, Ramsey was not joking.

"I'm keeping the blanket," Hennepin said.

"Oh, fine! You really do ruin all the fun."

Ramsey ushered Hennepin outside. Sloan followed and watched Hennepin thread her way through the bodies, testing patches of ground with her foot before stepping. She used both hands to ensure her blanket stayed put as she stooped to inspect a discarded undergarment, only to assess it as not hers and shy away with a disgusted face.

Ramsey clapped. "This is some prime torture! Truly Grade A!"

Across the room, Lynette curled over a motionless body like a vampire about to drain a victim. "What's going on?"

"Oh, Lynette!" said Ramsey. "You're here too? Lynette, meet Sloan. Sloan, meet Lynette."

"We've met," said Sloan.

Lynette winked at Sloan. What did that mean? Sloan did not like this one bit. While Ramsey was as insane as Delaney, at least Delaney had common sense. They ought to be interrogating Hennepin. Learning Clair's tricks. Figuring out Anoka's powers. Hell, figuring out Hennepin's powers, since Carmichael shot her before she had a chance to use them. Maybe they could pressgang Hennepin into helping. Threaten to kill her unless she used her powers in their defense. But unless Sloan knew those powers, such ideas were worthless. Everything was worthless. Just give Hennepin her damn clothes back, the sight of her searching (so far she had only reclaimed a sock) disgusted Sloan. Do interrogation the old fashioned way: beat it out of her.

"What's wrong, Sloaney-poo?" said Ramsey. "You seem tense."

"Maybe it's because I'm the only one taking this seriously?"

"Taking what seriously," said Lynette.

Ramsey butted in. "She's probably talking about how we're planning to kill your—"

Sloan clamped a hand over Ramsey's mouth. "Do you have any conception of reality? Any at all?" She felt anxious. Girls on the ground were waking up.

Ramsey's spit was getting all over Sloan's hand, so she let go. "How RUDE!" said Ramsey.

"Can I talk to you? Privately?" said Sloan.

From across the room, Lynette winked again. Sloan glared as she dragged Ramsey back to the bedroom. Carmichael had started another round of the video game, which he spent tracking down and slaying Hennepin's unmanned avatar. Sloan shut the door behind them.

"Ramsey. I need you to listen to me. What we are doing is serious. I need you to be serious about it. It's only a matter of time before the Terminatrix finds this place. Do you understand?"

Ramsey kept fidgeting under Sloan's grasp. "Hey! Unhand me! Why are you being so ROUGH? I don't like this!"

Sloan didn't like it either. She didn't like how Ramsey was not anchored to the same lived experience as everyone else, how she exuded capriciousness and lack of competence, and how Sloan's memories of her combat abilities were unpromising at best.

"Look, Ramsey. I don't want to be mean to you. But I am at war right now, do you understand? War. I do not have time for games." If Sloan fought hard, she could override the impulse invading her head that screamed LEAVE POOR RAMSEY ALONE. "I'm not fucking around. I need you to focus and sober up or fix whatever the hell is inherently wrong with your degenerate self and help me, or I am fucking gone, do you understand?"

Ramsey shriveled within her coat. She tried to flinch away. "Hey, stop... That's not nice to say..." Her voice became tiny. The faux British accent evaporated, replaced by something nasal.

"No, it's not." Sloan steeled herself against her unnatural inclination to apologize. "I don't give a shit. I'm not about to have seven months of work upended by a stupid bimbo like you. Do you understand?"

Ramsey's transformation continued. For the first time, Sloan recognized her as the same girl from when she ruled Minneapolis. Minimal, awkward. Her previously unblemished face broke in spontaneous acne. Her knees buckled and she swayed under Sloan's grip.

"Stop... please..."

"Drill this into your puny skull. I am in charge here. What I say goes. If you want to continue your little drug ring after I reclaim this city, you will do what I say. Got it, you... you little..." The foul word she wanted to say would not come out. Her sympathy and pity for the decomposing creature overwhelmed her.

The word need not be said, however. Ramsey trembled even more in the void where it would have gone.

"Stop sniveling. Stop it!" Sloan said. Ramsey did not stop. Her deterioration had been so rapid, it only made Sloan angrier. She slapped the sunglasses off Ramsey's face. "I said stop it!"

Ramsey's eyes rolled up and she fainted onto her bed.

Immediately a wave of disgust swept over Sloan. Not at poor, pitiful Ramsey, but at herself. How could she abuse such a defenseless creature? How could she be so cruel? The thoughts did not disappear no matter her efforts to dispel them. She tried to tell herself it was Ramsey's magic making her think such things, but all logic was crushed beneath self-loathing.

She kneeled, buried her head against the carpet, took deep breaths.

"Aw, she passed out again." Carmichael stood over the bed and inspected Ramsey. "What you say to her? She don't take well to criticism. There was this scary white-hair girl the other day, come and yell at her, and oh wow you shoulda seen it. Boss was in dire straits. At least three hours to recover."

"People don't... don't usually say mean things to her, do they?"

Carmichael shook his head. "People love the Boss. She a nice girl, you shouldn't be so hard on her. She make sure her girls taken care of. I work for some people before her, and compared to them she a goddam saint, you hear? But nah, you gotta go and be all mean. You and that white-hair girl."

Clair. No wonder Ramsey wanted her dead. Maybe Sloan had fucked up by shouting at her. Maybe Ramsey didn't deserve it anyway. It was hard to tell what was legitimate regret and what was Ramsey's magic.

What was certain was Sloan could not lose more potential allies. Obviously Ramsey responded to criticism poorly. Sloan needed diplomacy and gentle persuasion to get what she wanted out of her.

Sloan was really, really shitty at diplomacy and gentle persuasion.

"I'll fetch the water," said Carmichael with a sigh. "Hope she don't take no three hours to wake up this time."

He exited. Through the open door, Sloan watched as Lynette tugged the corner of Hennepin's blanket while Hennepin swatted Lynette with her sock.

Sloan wanted Delaney back.

Corn flakes again. Bloomington sat at the kitchen counter and ground them to dust between her teeth. The crumbs coagulated with her spit into a molasses paste she strained down her throat with heavy swallows. She gnawed the plastic spoon as she mentally prepared herself for the next bite.

"Your grades bad, girl," said her mother. She flapped a dogeared report card in Bloomington's face. "What you gotta say for yourself?"

Bloomington forced a spoonful of corn flakes into her mouth.

"Math: D+. English: C-. History: D. Chemistry: F! Ceramics: D. How you get a D in Ceramics? How you get a D in Physical Education! You get graded just for showing up!"

Chew. Chew. Swallow.

"Why ain't you in school right now? It's late enough. Go on, get off your lazy ass and git!"

"Ma, it's Christmas break."

Her mother tsked as though the excuse was inadequate. These corn flakes made Bloomington want to retch.

"You know what Donny do on Christmas break." Arms folded, slippered foot tapping. "He study for next semester. He got his nose in his books. Now he off to state college. He gonna be a doctor."

And where'd the money come from to send him there, ma? Why'd he suddenly get that full-ride scholarship the same time Bloomington started hanging out late at night and skipping school?

Bloomington took another bite.

"I ain't gonna have no daughter of mine turn out to be a whore," said her mother. "I ain't. Either you straighten your act or I'll, I'll, I'll... I'll beat you senseless, you hear? You ain't got no ambition, you ain't got no plans. What you wanna be when you grow up?"

Bloomington swallowed. "I wanna be alive."

Her mother swatted her with the rolled-up report card. "I swear. I swear! My poor heart can't take this. It can't take to watch you turn into a goddam whore before my own eyes!"

She threw up her hands and stormed down the hallway. Echoes of her lamentations faded until they were ultimately silenced by a slamming door in a nether corner of the shifty house.

Somewhere a dog barked.

What was today. Thursday? Friday? Bloomington forgot. She had done no wraith hunting in two days. If she skipped tonight, she would hurt bad tomorrow. Hurt bad, but still function. She'd rather not stretch the line, though. All the more reason to ignore the boss's bullshit. Let the old Em and the new Em duke it out, winner take all. Shoot, if the Terminatrix hung around they might both wind up dead. Then they'd get a brand new boss. Bloomington had seniority, but no desire to paint a target on her back. Let Hennepin take it, assuming she was alive still, girl at least kept to herself. Of course, once someone gets power no telling what changes happen in their mind.

She still had half her corn flakes but tossed the bowl into the trash. The less time she spent in this house the better, but she had nowhere to go. Not with the storm outside. Fucking Minnesota.

Hey...

Bloomington turned. Did she hear something? A voice? The wind?

Are you... there?

Definitely a voice. Bloomington moved toward a front window caked with frost. She pulled herself onto the couch in front of it and breathed on the glass.

Someone out there? she asked. I can barely hear you.

Hey... Bloom... it's me, Woodbury...

Bloomington rubbed her hand in a circle against the window and peered onto the front lawn. A thick trail of blood coated the snow, extending all the way to the end of the street. Kneeling beside a half-buried bicycle was Woodbury. The gnomish figure held her head bowed as ice piled atop her.

I don't feel good... she said as Bloomington sprinted for the door.

Chapter 22: Torn to Pisces

Despite Carmichael's best efforts, Ramsey did not wake up. She tossed on her bed, her coat ratty and rumpled, mumbling in her sleep while partygoers attended her. When the room got crowded, Sloan ducked out.

Females slithered across the carpet. Sloan waded to a window and peeked through the blinds. A docile street peeked back: silent suburban houses, plastic reindeer and twinkling stars, JOY TO THE WORLD and PEACE ON EARTH, all buried beneath six inches of snow with more falling. In the distance a half-shrouded column of light may have been the Pillar of the Plains.

"Where are we," Sloan asked.

Lynette, beside her and sinking her fangs into someone who looked too young to be there, raised her head. "Minneapolis."

"Where in Minneapolis."

Lynette shrugged and returned to her meal. Sloan's impatience and disgust mounted. She snatched the girl from Lynette's grasp and shoved her away, onto the floor.

"Hey!"

"I'm serious. Where the fuck am I."

"I dunno, north of St. Paul. What's it matter? This city is all the same."

North of St. Paul. Still a long trek to Eden Prairie. In a blizzard, with a Terminatrix on her ass and Clair's bird on the prowl, Sloan stood no chance. Ramsey had a car, though. The streets weren't plowed yet but maybe by the time Ramsey woke up...

Her best strategy, unfortunately, was to wait. At least it gave her time to recalibrate her strategy now that Delaney was gone.

When she turned to find a quieter corner of the house, Lynette grabbed the tail of her coat. "Hey. You. You really are the missing twin, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that."

"Chelsea called you Sloan."

"Who the fuck is Chelsea."

"Uh, you know? Sunglasses? Dalmatian fur coat? Bling bling?"

"Puella de Vil," muttered a voice across the room. It was Hennepin, shirted but pantsless and engaged in a tug-of-war with a sleeping girl for her jacket.

"Oh," said Sloan. Ramsey's real name would be Chelsea.

"Some people might be really interested to know you're here," said Lynette. "Everyone thinks you're dead. Clair thinks you're dead."

"Doubt it," said Sloan.

"You're the only friend she's ever had, you know. I remember when she first met you. She told us all about it at the dinner table. That was back when my parents still cared if I ate at the dinner table or if I came home at all. Anyway, there must be a reason you up and disappeared one day."

"Why do you care," said Sloan.

Lynette leaned in confidentially. "Consider my sister an... interest of mine. The whole time you two were friends my main thought was how anyone could be friends with her. Who would stoop so low?"

Sloan didn't understand. Clair took great pains to present herself as a kind and personable individual. Everyone liked her. Everyone was her friend.

"When you disappeared, she cried and all, but I knew. I knew she had something to do with it. I thought they'd find your bones under the floorboards."

"Nothing like that," said Sloan.

Lynette sank deeper into her seat and stared ahead. "But you do hate her, right? Something changed. Right?"

"We're no longer friends."

"You saw something. Something inside her. Right? Didn't you?"

Her absentminded hand crawled down the side of her chair and seized the neck of a bottle of vodka, either the same as before or a new one. Lynette raised it to her lips and took a pained swig. "My sister is an anomaly. Some kind of genius. I always got, you know, okay grades in school. Nothing fantastic, but they weren't awful either. Then she comes along and, poof, everything perfect. Awards, honors. Every day some new accolade. I got buried beneath the medals and certificates. Lost and forgotten."

It had the makings of a drunken rant, the more complicated words slurred and stuttered. Lynette no longer seemed to care about Sloan so much as herself, but Sloan decided to linger. She knew what Lynette meant. Not about Clair; Clair's excellence never impacted their relationship. But Sloan had a sister of her own, a sister heralded as a great student and model citizen. Nowhere on Clair's level, but her blindness turned ordinary achievements into pinnacles of the human condition. At least in the eyes of Sloan's parents.

Fleeing the shadow of one colossus, Sloan stumbled at the feet of a taller one.

"And that was all, that was all normal enough," Lynette continued. "Except Clair did it specifically to annihilate me."

"What?"

"As the older sister, I always, you know, teased her. Like older siblings just fucking do. And she made it so easy, with her albinism and her mannerisms and being adopted and all. She always got so upset, which just made me want to do it more. I knew she hated me for it. She never said anything, but I could tell. There's this subtle demeanor, it's unmistakable. This aura. You know what I mean."

Sloan did not, actually. If Clair ever hated her, she had missed it. She always assumed Clair incapable of emotions, positive or negative.

"Her revenge was slow but total. All those awards... I went from the older sister to barely part of the family. She never said a word to me, but I knew. I knew. And here I am now."

She took another drink. Sloan said nothing. Clair was not perfect as an act of revenge. Perfection was an integral component of Clair's psyche.

"I hate that fucking bitch," said Lynette.

"Amen," said Sloan.

"She always seemed to love you, though. She'd tell us about you at dinner. That was when my parents still cared if I sat at the table or even came home at all." (Sloan did not bother to mention she already said that.) "Every night. Sloan did this. Sloan said that. Sloan was nice to me. Sloan made me happy."

Sloan made me happy.

"She needed you. Everyone else in the world had an instinctual understanding that she, she... was not like everyone else, that she was different, barely even human. Maybe her albino bullshit clued them in. But you were somehow gullible enough to fall for her disguise. Joke's on you!"

She gave a good-natured laugh, like this was playful ribbing, and nudged Sloan in the side.

"Good thing you did, too. She probably wouldn't be around if not for you."

"What?" said Sloan.

"Oh yeah!" Lynette laughed again. "She totally tried to kill herself before she met you. Plunged a carving knife into her stomach three times. We had to rush her to the hospital because the ambulance wouldn't come fast enough. Crazy."

This seemed made up. Of everyone Sloan knew, Clair was the least likely to commit suicide. It made no sense. Clair was too confident, too successful. A ploy for attention? A careful scheme to reroute the power structure in her household? Sloan could see Clair online, researching places to stab herself nonlethally.

"She left a note, too. I was the one who found it, I never showed mom and dad. Clair probably knew I had it and maybe that was another reason she wanted to destroy me."

"What did the note say?"

"'I disgust myself.'" Lynette tilted her head back and unleashed an unearthly cackle. "Even she disgusts herself! Even she knows she's defective. Ha, ha, ha..."

And this happened before Clair met Sloan. Which meant before she contracted, before she knew she could regenerate any permanent damage. It made no sense.

"The worst thing is, when I found her," Lynette continued, "I thought maybe I should just let her die, you know? And you know what's even crazier?" Her eyes glimmered. "What's even crazier is I regret I didn't."

Lynette lobbed her half-empty bottle across the room. It thudded against the carpet but did not shatter, which seemed to plunge her into absolute disappointment.

She spoke no more.

Sloan wandered away. Uncertain of the dimensions of the house, she eventually found an open door. Fewer girls lay about the deeper rooms, which lacked furniture to indicate their purpose, if they had one. The house seemed devoid of anything, a mere agglomeration of shapes.

She wandered into a kitchen with no refrigerator and no stove, murky spaces where both should have been, a few stray ends of severed tubing and jutting wires. Bottles stood atop the counter, most overturned, some shattered. Sloan tried the light switch but nothing happened.

"Excuse me," said Hennepin, who bustled past Sloan in a motley collection of clothing. She kneeled by the counter, tried all the cabinets, and slammed each after. "Nope, nothing here either. This is so stupid. Can't you just smash my kneecaps like a normal terrorist?"

"So Clair calls me a terrorist now?"

"Nah." Hennepin leaned over the counter and scanned the adjacent room. "Honestly, I have like the tiniest, most fleeting connection to her. I don't know why I bothered with this whole thing, and now I'm missing valuable stream time."

"Stream time."

"Yeah, you know?" Hennepin stared at her like she was an idiot, but Sloan was so used to that by now she hardly found it offensive. "Video games? I stream myself playing games and people online watch me. And I get ad revenue, which is the big thing. Beats prostitution or peddling coke. It's how I pay rent, which if I recall correctly, kinda due in like a week?"

Yep. Sloan knew because until like four days ago she had to pay rent in Fargo.

"Ugh. I can't get evicted again." Hennepin reached into a jacket pocket and retrieved a case of cigarettes and a lighter. With cool and practiced efficiency she lit one and stuck it into the corner of her mouth. "I know you won't believe me, but I honestly have no opinion between you and Minneapolis. Old boss same as the new boss, I keep my nose out of politics so I keep my nose plus the rest of my face."

"I'm not going to let you go," said Sloan. "But I won't kill you. I'm only here for Clair."

"Sigh," said Hennepin. Meaning she actually said the word sigh. "Was worth a shot. What's the point of being good at everything when nothing you do matters?"

Sloan decided she had pretended to be chummy the requisite amount of time to start asking for information. "What are your powers."

"My powers?" Hennepin considered for a moment. "A hodgepodge of everything. I'd love to show off, but unfortunately Carmichael has my gem so I can't. I have a magic crystal thing and it does some stuff. It can be defensive or offensive. Since it's a crystal—"

"Describe this crystal."

"You know." Hennepin waved her hands to show. "Like, have you ever played Final Fantasy?"

"No."

This knocked the momentum out of Hennepin's explanation. "Well, the shape doesn't matter. The point is, it's hard as fuck so I can use it to block attacks, OR I can slam it into people to beat the shit out of them. And when light strikes it—"

"Light."

"Yeah, light. Minneapolis mentioned you had a light-based power, so basically you had no hope against me. My crystal absorbs light like a prism and either shoots it back out as a laser or these, like, healing rays. I usually keep a flashlight on me to make it work, but I'd be totally OP against someone like you."

She laughed, the cigarette bobbing on her lower lip. So Sloan was right, Clair specifically picked girls with abilities that countered her. Neutralizing Hennepin was pretty lucky. She, St. Paul, and probably Anoka were the primary goons to keep an eye on.

Speaking of which: "Anoka. Who is she, what does she do."

Hennepin shrugged. "Nobody and nothing, as far as I can tell. She only showed up a few days ago. Minneapolis (and Ramsey) hired her instantly. I was at the tryout, so was Bloomington, and neither of us saw anything special about her."

That sounded suspicious. "What's her weapon?"

"Some kind of curved sword. No special properties. Just a sword. Her form was shit too, I could tell."

"She must have some kind of magic, though. Based on her wish."

Hennepin took another long drag. "I'm sure she does, but she didn't use it when we had her show her moves, so I dunno what it is. Probably something that totally counters light magic. Bet you're mega fucked."

Dammit. Smart of Clair to keep her key piece unknown to even her own underlings. The fact that of all the girls in Minneapolis only Anoka had not showed up yet suggested Clair was keeping her in reserve, a final bomb to lob Sloan's way.

"So what do you do again?" said Hennepin. "Minneapolis mentioned stuff but I didn't pay attention. I'm curious now, though. You shoot light or what?"

"I shoot light."

"Yeah and what else?"

Sloan gave it some thought. "I shoot light."

The kitchen filled with smoke. With each puff, Hennepin illuminated her face a pasty orange. "That's it? Wow. Why'd Clair bother with Bloomington or Woodbury? If she sent me, I'd have beat you first fight."

"I also make things weigh less."

Hennepin scrutinized her and laughed. "Oh, I get it. You mean you make things lighter. That's actually kinda clever."

"Clair told me to try it. It was her idea."

"Well shit, come on. Light is like, elemental. The amount of stuff light does is insane. No need to restrict yourself to just weaponizing it. You gotta be more creative."

"People keep telling me that."

Hennepin exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. "I'll be straight with ya, Fargo. I'm in a shitty position right now. I don't have my gem, I'm not on great terms with either side in this war. So I'm gonna game my odds a little by giving you some free insider advice. Wanna hear?"

No, not particularly. Sloan cared little for this girl and her know-it-all attitude, or her brazen assessment she could defeat Sloan easily. Most likely she would suggest the same thing everyone suggested, the same thing Sloan's mind kept returning to whenever she tried to create a new ability: moving at the speed of light. Logically it made sense, but Sloan simply could not do it. Even the beams she fired from her gun moved slower than true light. Sloan had the sinking suspicion this stemmed from the sluggishness of her mind: she could not make something move at a speed she did not have the capacity to comprehend.

"Okay," she said anyway.

"Make an image of yourself. Or of anything, really."

"An image?" Sloan knew of girls who made illusory doubles of themselves. "What does that have to do with light?"

"Oh my god. Literally anything visible has to do with light. Seriously, that's basic third grader shit. Why do you think cameras flash? They send out light and capture the reflection to create imprints on a surface. Voila, photograph. Easy fucking peasy."

Photography? Yeah, now that Sloan thought about it... She remembered books from long ago, books about how stuff worked: computers, televisions, cameras...

"Anyway!" Hennepin dashed her cigarette on the counter and flicked the butt into the sink. "Thank me later for my spontaneous wisdom and unparalleled intellect. When this winds up being the key factor to defeat Minneapolis, remember who helped you out, yeah?"

She pushed herself away from the counter, made a brisk turn, and went the way Sloan had come. She moved fast and with a purpose, managing exceptional poise despite her pied outfit.

The butt in the sink smoldered and died.

Sloan wandered the labyrinthine corridors until she found a door to the backyard. The snowfall had lightened but the yard was completely covered by a thick white layer that forced Sloan to walk with wide steps. The yard was small and enclosed by a picket fence. Only the top of the next house and a few trees were visible on the other side. No windows for anyone to see her, and considering how many rooms Sloan traversed to get here, she doubted anyone from the house would follow.

She moved to the center of the yard and closed her eyes. The key component of all magic was visualization. She recalled long nights of practice as Clair instructed her how to stand, how to wave her arms, how to think and how to act.

Empty the mind. Drain all thoughts. Purge the static from her head and achieve a serenity of purpose, the kind of oriental mumbo jumbo spouted by Shaolin monks. It was difficult, her head fizzled with mental detritus, fragments of conversations and doubts and hopes. She had to excise all of it if she wanted this to work.

The goal was simple: create a photograph of herself. Except instead of printed on a roll of film, she would imprint her image on reality.

She grabbed her Soul Gem and transformed. After another breath, she held her arms in front of her. Her hands began to glow as she sent her magic to the tips of her fingers. For a split second the light flared into a massive flash, blinding Sloan and forcing her to blink.

The light subsided. She looked around. No image or anything. Just the same old stuff.

It took a lot of mental override to stop herself from instantly quitting. She needed this, remember? She needed an ace on Clair. Hennepin brought up an interesting point about Clair's strategy. Why did she waste time with Bloomington and Woodbury when she had St. Paul and Hennepin at her disposal? The answer was so classically Clair: She sent them as pawns to scout if Sloan had any tricks Clair did not expect. Clair required comprehensive knowledge of a situation before making a move, but with that knowledge she always made the right move, the move that could not be countered. If Clair thought she knew everything but missed a key piece of information...

Focus! Use your mind. She breathed again and extended her hands.

Another flash—another dud.

Dammit, there's no time for this. Get it to work already. It seemed possible. She envisioned it like the light somehow blasting a layer of molecules from her skin to create a paper-thin replica of her, a shell or husk, stuck to reality by the force of the blast. She could see it, think it, so why was it not working?

She tried again.

She tried again.

She tried again.

She tried again.

She tried again.

And she tried a bunch more times but every time nothing happened and she only got colder as more and more snow piled on top of her. This was stupid! She was simply not a creative person. If Clair or Delaney tried, they would make it work. There was something plain wrong with Sloan's powers of conceptualization.

Feeling foolish, she brushed her shoulders and wrenched her legs out of the snow. To turn around and take took her first awkward steps toward the door, she needed to move in a semicircle. As she did, though, she noticed something strange in the holes she had been standing in. She reoriented herself, her movements stilted, to better investigate. It was not simply something strange in the snow. It was something strange in the air where she had stood.

Thin, weak, and transient, but undeniably there: a life-size image of Sloan, grimacing with concentration, coattails frozen mid-flap. Immediate giddiness seized her: She did it! She made it work! She spun her head in search of someone to tell, but of course nobody was there. It didn't matter, she did it, and it wasn't even hard! All she needed was the idea and she could do it. Her hyperpowered Soul Gem probably helped, but whatever. The point was, she did a thing! She did it!

Well, wait. Did what exactly? She scrutinized the image of herself. It looked like her, sure, but it was transparent and obviously fake, the fakeness exemplified by its lack of motion. A facsimile all but a simpleton could see as a facsimile.

She waved her hand through her mock torso. The image broke apart and faded after only a few swipes. Quickly she created another flashbulb and inspected the new image. The same transience, the same fragility.

What use did this have? A decoy? It would take any competent human being a fraction of a second to tell the difference. She threw up her arms in frustration. Pointless! Why fucking bother!

Too cold to stay out much longer, she clomped for the door back to Ramsey's house. She made it two steps and stopped.

Dripping onto the snow was a phantom bloodstream with no identifiable source.

"Omaha," she said.

Hi, Sloan... what are you doing?

Sloan wondered whether to say, then figured it didn't matter. "Trying a new ability to use on Clair."

Oh, that's good... that's really good, Sloan. I'm glad you're doing that. I really think you can beat her!

"Yeah, well, it didn't work."

Oh. Drip-drop went Omaha's blood. A reddening circle spread through the snow. Well, I mean, I'm here to tell you something important actually...

Great, more advice from Omaha. Sloan supposed she should trust her. She did, after all, warn Sloan about the Terminatrix. Her disappearance during the subsequent scuffle with Clair's troops could be overlooked somewhat.

"What is it."

Can you... look behind you? At that fence?

Sloan slowly turned her head toward the backyard fence. "Okay."

Do you see anything?

"I see a fence."

Anything else...?

Coy games ranked low on the list of things Sloan liked. "Snow. Treetops. A roof."

Sloan, this is really, really important. Can you try looking a little harder?

If Delaney or anyone else had asked, Sloan would have yelled at them to stop fucking around, but she doubted Omaha was the practical joke type. She squinted and stared hard at the fence.

It was a fence.

"There's nothing there."

Okay. Omaha's tread crunched through the snow until she stopped at Sloan's side. You said you were practicing a new technique... Do you mind if I suggest something else new for you to try?

"Might as well."

Another uncertain pause. Sloan heard the ruffling of a sleeve and envisioned Omaha wringing her wounded arm.

I want you to try and see me.

"You're invisible. I can't see you."

Sloan... Your powers are derived from sight, isn't that true? I overheard you tell the others about your wish. You healed your sister's blindness. You can heal the eyes of others... Is it so hard for you to use your power to see the invisible? Especially now that you're so strong... it'll be easy for you to overpower my abilities with your own.

That made sense, Sloan guessed. Like the photography thing, she had never even thought to use her powers in such a way, but at least this time she had the excuse of lack of application. The only invisible person she knew was Omaha, and using your power to directly counter another girl's power basically became an arm wrestling contest.

She focused on the empty space in the snow where Omaha's blood ran. See the invisible. Like Superman. X-ray vision. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered why she never even considered it back when Omaha was tailing them around Williston. Of course, back then Sloan's strength was at a low point.

With unexpected ease, Omaha popped into view. Sloan almost thought the girl did it herself, but a shadowy aura emanated around her, similar to how things looked when Omaha made Sloan disappear. Her outfit shimmered with her blood, semi-frozen into chunks. She trembled like a twittering machine, about to burst in a conniption of springs and gears.

"That was easy."

You can see me? Yes, it would be easy... I'm pretty weak right now. It's a heavy drain on my Soul Gem to replenish my blood. But I'm glad you can see me.

Sloan regarded the gash on Omaha's wrist. If it still bled, it meant Delaney was alive. Why did Clair spare her, though? It only created the risk of Sloan rescuing her, and Clair played a risk-adverse game. Did she plan to use Delaney as a hostage? 'Freeze or I kill her'? Ha. HA!

"When was the last time you purified your gem?" Sloan asked.

Don't worry about me, Sloan... I'm unimportant. I need you to look at the fence again. Look for something invisible, okay?

Sloan turned to the fence, already about to say it would be helpful if she knew what she was supposed to see, but the words stopped in her throat because she saw it immediately.

In a row along the fence were four small girls, their hands clinging to the edge as they stared from the next yard over, two blondes, one redhead, and one wearing a big round cap with tassels. At first they looked like ordinary girls, but as Sloan stared harder, she noticed unnatural features: elliptical eyes with dots for pupils, snaggletooth smiles with red lips, pure white faces. They did not look like living things, but rather golems of some sort, or dolls.

They stared at Sloan with their dreadful eyes. Sloan shivered.

"What the hell are those," she asked.

They are servants of the time demon, said Omaha. She has sent them to destroy you.

"Time demon!" More like the cheap trick of a Magical Girl. Maybe Anoka, or Clair. Maybe Omaha herself, in an attempt to scare her.

I'm telling you the truth! Why do you still refuse to believe? I've told you, Clair told you, even Delaney told you... Can't you see you're involved in something far greater than yourself?

"I don't care if god himself, or herself, wants to strike me down. You can't dissuade me from what I intend to do. I have nothing else."

I know. I'm not telling you to stop. Even if you did, they would still kill you. The Terminatrix, the demon's dolls—

"Wait." With one eye trained on the dolls, who made no movement beyond slight tilts of their heads, she examined Omaha. "If these dolls are invisible, how the hell do you see them?"

Omaha swallowed hard. The little remaining color drained from her face as she averted her eyes and dug her fingers into the raw-rubbed flesh of her wrist. I, uh, I, uh, I, uh, I mean, I'm invisible... I can... see... other things... that are... invisible...

"You little rat, you made those dolls, didn't you? What are you trying to pull? You've been suspicious this entire time, who the hell are you really?"

She seized Omaha by the collar and tugged her close, shaking the little body until the head bobbed on the neck. Omaha gaped as Sloan considered her options. One, smack the bitch until she came clean with the real story behind this demon garbage. Two—

Please, please Sloan, please stop... Her mental voice shriveled into a squeak. Sloan realized she had raised an arm to slam on Omaha's skull.

She let go of Omaha and lowered her arm. Only a few minutes ago, she acted this same exact way to Ramsey and made her faint. What the hell was wrong with her? Why did she abuse everyone she met?

"Bah, I'm sorry," she managed to say.

Omaha adjusted her collar and scratched her throat. In a moment she acted as though nothing had happened, although her normal self was so meek it was hard to tell a difference. Sloan, please listen. Those dolls are not to be underestimated. They are extremely powerful... more than me, for sure, and maybe more than you. When they find the right opportunity, they'll strike... the only reason they haven't yet is because I'm here. I'm sorry I can't explain better, there's lots of stuff I can't tell you. I understand if you don't trust me...

By now, Sloan had no idea who to trust. So many pieces were splayed across an infinity chessboard. Clair and the Minneapolis Seven, Omaha and Delaney, the Terminatrix, Carmichael and Lynette, Time Demon and Female God, Kyubey, these four doll-girls watching from over the fence. All she really wanted was the simplest scenario: Her versus Clair, no extraneous goons or ghouls, the sheerest and swiftest end to this farce that masqueraded as Sloan's life. She had one purpose, and one purpose only (all other purposes long since disintegrated into the wasteland of her existence), and that purpose was to end Clair. Nothing that came after mattered.

I really just wanted to warn you... so you could watch out for them. The longer you stay alive, the more the demon will try to kill you. She has fifteen dolls in total, I don't know if she sent more but these are the only four I've seen. And if things get really bad, she may even come herself...

"So I should hurry up and finish Clair."

Omaha bit her lip and adjusted her round glasses. I mean... if that's what you want...

"I don't have a choice. They'll kill me either way. Might as well die as something less than a total failure."

The dolls made no movements, no sounds. Only watched.

If you really want to fight Clair, I recommend you do it tonight. The dolls won't wait long. I can maybe distract them a little bit, they don't want to attack because of me, but soon they'll figure out I'm not what they think I am...

"What do they think you are?"

That's unimportant... What's important is you do what you want. I'm sorry, I know I'm an annoyance. I'm not good for much. But what little help I can give, I hope you find useful...

Sloan sighed. Her breath came out as a thick puff in the frigid air. "Omaha, you're not useless. I don't know what you are, but it's not that. Look, you're right. I can't waste time. I have the Terminatrix after me, and the more time I give Clair the more advantages I drop in her lap. I'll wake up Ramsey right now and start moving."

Okay. That's a good plan. I'll keep an eye on the dolls and help however I can.

"Thanks."

Sloan turned away, although anxiety overcame her at having her back to those eerie dolls so she glanced over her shoulder to ensure they did not leap en masse from the fence at her. The dolls did not move, and neither did Omaha.

When she reached the door, Omaha said:

Sloan, good luck.

Sloan nodded, turned the handle, and stepped into the darkened interior of the house.

The moment she shut the door behind her, the light clicked on. Ramsey stood in the middle of the room, ten to fifteen girls behind her in almost military formation. Among them were Hennepin and Lynette. Carmichael was in the back, about two feet taller than any of the girls.

Ramsey cocked a shotgun and aimed it at Sloan's face. "I recall you saying some mean things about me, Slo-dawg. Care to say them again, bitch?"

Bloomington's foot snagged something—a root, a pipe—buried beneath the snow and after a precarious moment where she fought to hold her balance she dropped onto her shoulder, keeping her arms wrapped around Woodbury to shield her from the brunt of impact. Woodbury cried out anyway with an asphyxiated grunt wettened by the blood she coughed onto Bloomington's chest.

They were miles from Clair's house. Clair had not answered her cell phone after three tries, and Bloomington did not know St. Paul's number. In fact, Bloomington knew nobody else's number. In a storm like this, public transportation no longer ran. Not that any bus driver would let Woodbury ride with her whole damn throat missing.

"Come on, up you go." Bloomington tried to find a solid surface beneath the snow to push against. For the past three blocks she had basically carried Woodbury. She was drenched in blood that sizzled like ice as it plastered her clothes to her skin.

She pushed up, misjudged the balance, flopped back down. Woodbury grunted again.

"Work with me here, Woodsy. Come on, push on three. One, two, three!"

Bloomington pushed again, but Woodbury remained dead weight in her arms. They barely got an inch off the ground.

"That's okay, that's okay. Third time's the charm."

Let's stay here... and rest... for just a little...

They needed to keep moving. If they stayed still, then Woodbury... then it wouldn't be good. "We'll get buried in the snow. We're gonna try again, alright? On three, like before."

Just a little rest...

"One. Two. Three!"

Bloomington pushed, but Woodbury did not rise.

She closed her eyes and coiled her arms around Woodbury. The girl had no warmth left in her, as though every drop of blood had drained from her body.

It's okay, Bloom... Thanks for caring about me...

"Look, if you're in bad shape, it means one of us has to do double duty to cover your territory, and I always pull the short straw. We're almost at Clair's, it's just like a block from here. She'll fix you up in no time, I'm sure... I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding. Okay?"

No response.

"Okay, Woodsy?"

I'm glad I don't have to die alone...

Oh God. Oh God no. Please God, if you're listening, if you've got your omnipotent ear trained on the thoughts of these two hopeless girls halfway between Brooklyn Park and Eden Prairie, please don't let this happen. Woodbury is too young for this, God. Don't you see? Don't you see she's too young for this?

But God didn't listen. God didn't care. God didn't exist. The closest thing any of them ever got was Kyubey, and not even he was there, not that he would lift a single floppy ear to help.

"Come on Woodsy. We're so close. So close. I can see her house just around the corner. Come on, all we gotta do is get up and get moving and it's easy. Come on. Woodsy? Woodbury? Hey, come on."

Bloomington felt the small heave of Woodbury's chest as it made labored breaths through the severed throat.

"Come on. Say something, please."

The tiny lump of Woodbury trembled a little and fell still. Bloomington clutched her tighter, trying to imbue it with a spark of warmth, but she had barely any to give.

"Say something, anything."

Woodbury said nothing.

The next moment, Bloomington held nothing. The empty space that had once been Woodbury closed immediately as Bloomington's arms collapsed against her body. Her numb fingers pressed into her blood-soaked jacket.

For a time, nothing happened. Bloomington lay on her side in the snow as more snow fell atop her, collecting into piles on her shoulders and head. The piles grew wider and heavier and Bloomington sagged beneath their weight, allowing the ice to envelop her as she stared ahead at the white absence.

Then she started to cry.

Chapter 23: The Thick Rotundity

When one considered it logically. Which was the only way to consider anything. When one took apart the various intricacies and rearranged them into a more complete image of what first appeared an inexplicable circumstance. When one did that, which was what Clair did throughout the night in lieu of sleep, when one exhausted every possibility via arduous mental experiments. When one tested every hypothesis and scourged it with rigorous scrutiny. When one did that, one might emerge with the following postulates:

The albinism of Clair Ibsen and Delaney Pollack was no coincidence. (Albinism afflicted less than 1 in 20,000 people; the odds became astronomical when considering their similar age, sex, race, Magical Girl status, and general geographic proximity.)

There existed an underlying reason for the shared affliction. (Since the connection was not coincidental.)

Clair Ibsen and Delaney Pollack were genetically related. (Albinism being a hereditary genetic disorder.)

Clair Ibsen and Delaney Pollack were not twins. (Delaney Pollack was half a year older than Clair.)

Clair Ibsen and Delaney Pollack were either paternal half-sisters or full sisters birthed from separate surrogate mothers. (Their birth dates meant they could not have originated from the same womb.)

Next came her assumptions. They required some logical leaps in place of any bridges of proof. Hence her hours-long agonizing in case some more obvious explanation existed; ultimately, she failed to find one.

First, she assumed that the shared genetic heritage not only explained their albinism but also why the Incubator chose to impart to them information about Homura Akemi, Mitakihara, and other key components of the true theology that guided the conceptual framework of the world. Their shared genes also possibly explained their similar personalities: their logical calculating, their emotional detachment, their lack of empathy or even understanding of other human beings.

If she could speak to the Incubator for a few minutes, she would know the truth. But as he had warned her, his employer's watchful eye prevented him from appearing. As such, Clair could only verge into wild and pointless theories. Which she did for hours, not even realizing hours passed as she paced around her house while St. Paul watched Delaney in her room. A single tick of the clock in the rhythm of her mind meant a minute in reality.

She had deliberated enough. It was time to open the conversation to Delaney. The girl had proven a creature of intelligence, a compliment Clair did not bestow lightly. It was possible she might have insights which, when combined with Clair's, would create new knowledge.

"Honey, I made breakfast," chimed her mother. "Bacon and scrambled eggs, your favorites!"

Clair had no favorite foods. She detested the act of consumption and did it as little as possible. "I will eat at my leisure, mother."

"Okay, honey! Tell Lynette to come too."

Lynette had not been in this house for the past twelve hours.

Banishing thoughts of family, Clair entered the familiar space of her room, all traces of Woodbury's blood long since obviated with magic. St. Paul sat on the bed, head propped on her hands. Clair bid her good morning.

St. Paul blinked several times in rapid succession. "Uh. Hi. Hi Clair."

In the corner where Clair left her, sprawled like a discarded toy, lay Delaney. She slumbered noisily. One akimbo leg twitched with every stertorous exhalation. Her hair had returned to its fake brown color; Clair grudged not her desire to conceal her true appearance.

Clair nudged her shoulder with the tip of a shoe, and nudged again after the first attempt failed. Delaney rolled over, mumbled, and squinted open an eye.

"I have contemplated our shared condition at length," said Clair.

"I slept," said Delaney. She stretched out her arms and yawned.

"I reached the conclusion that we share paternal genes."

Delaney ran fingers through her clumped hair and sat up. She rubbed her eyes and checked the clock above Clair's desk. "That's it? Took long enough."

"I seek to be thorough. All variables must be accounted for and all possibilities considered. While sometimes the most obvious solution proves the best, on numerous occasions my extensive meditations have opened pathways of which others remain ignorant."

"You realize what this all means, right?" said Delaney.

"I have ideas. I wish to hear what you make of it."

"Kyubey's controlled our existences since we were born. It's no coincidence we both got embroiled in this plot and also happen to be long-lost sisters. He needed two people with shared genetic traits—probably the shared disposition toward sociopathy—to fill two important roles in his scheme. One to oppose and torment Sloan to the brink of oblivion, and one to help and protect her."

Yes. Clair thought the same.

"In doing so, he balances both sides of the conflict. Evens the playing field. And when the sides are even, the emotion escalates, the conflict escalates, the violence escalates. Exactly what he wants."

Clair pulled the chair from her desk and sat, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knee. "So he influenced everything. He ensured I befriended Sloan Redfearn, that both of us contracted, perhaps even that we made the wishes we did and developed the powers we now wield."

Delaney adopted the same glazed expression that regularly manifested in St. Paul, eyes staring intently but with no object deserving of such intent before them. "Before I murdered the girl in Saskatoon, I had all these long conversations with him about whether god existed or not. The things he said... led me to believe..."

Her voice trailed off. Clair possessed too incomplete an image of Delaney's life to theorize how the Incubator may have affected it. But her own life, in retrospect, was filled with such influences. Some were direct, such as when, while Sloan ruled Minneapolis, the Incubator hinted that she was dangerous and in need of removal (an idea Clair had already conceived on her own, but which he helped germinate into action). Others, perhaps, were indirect. She remembered when she first met Sloan, on a seemingly regular school day. Normally Clair kept to herself, eschewing all attempts at communication. But that day in particular, some unknown notion of loneliness spurred her to introduce herself when Sloan sat at her table. The pang of solitude struck deep on that day alone, and while she found it annoying she never gave it much thought because in the wake of her new friendship she realized all she had lacked when alone and considered her previous emotions justified despite their oddness. Now, however, she wondered if the sudden desire for companionship had been stimulated by hypnotic or subconscious persuasion; that, without having ever seen him or spoken to him, he used psychic influences to make her feel the way she did.

These were all hypotheticals. "I see only one problem with the idea that the Incubator has monitored our growth since infancy," she said. "That means he formulated his plan at least eighteen years ago. However, from what he indicated to me, Homura Akemi ascended to demonhead three years ago."

Delaney roused from her stupor. "Yeah, but she's a time demon. When time gets thrown in, logic gets thrown out. Who knows what wonky time shit's gone on during those three years."

"A valid point. Although my status as a musician requires me to keep track of time. Thus, the discrepancy intrigues me."

"What the hell does that mean?" said Delaney.

Oh? Did she not know, or did she simply fail to understand Clair's meaning? "As the one who—"

A voice hollered from downstairs: "Clair honey! You have a visitor!"

Clair closed her eyes, decompressed herself, and sighed. Her mother's interruptions were always inopportune. However, a visitor most likely meant one of the girls under her command. She had an obligation to at least shoo her away.

"Pardon me," said Clair. "We'll continue this conversation shortly."

Clair traveled downstairs briskly and purposefully. She expected to find Woodbury wondering why Delaney had not yet been dispatched. Clair would tell her to be patient and offer no further excuse. Woodbury need not know that until Clair divined Delaney's place in the grander scheme, she needed to remain alive.

Interesting that her mother had not remarked upon the slashed throat of their visitor, but then again, her mother's observational skills were rather lackluster.

Her mother had already returned to the kitchen and only blathered effusively about the visitor waiting in the entry. Clair disregarded her and rounded the corner to see who dragged themselves in.

It was Bloomington. Snow plastered her jacket and hair along with slick red blood. She leaned against the wall, her face drained pale and her eyes swollen from the wind.

"Ah, Bloomington. I hope all is well on your end?"

Bloomington's nose ran in an offensive manner, worsened by her refusal to ask for tissue paper with which to wipe it. In fact, she seemed rather lackadaisical about her appearance in general. As such, Clair resolved to get rid of her all the more tersely.

"Where's the bitch," said Bloomington. "With the blood."

"I believe you mean Delaney Pollack. I have made a decision to keep her alive for strategic purposes. My decision is final and any effort you make to dissuade me shall be met with stern refusal." That sounded perhaps too draconian. She injected a more convivial conclusion: "I pray Woodbury does not fare too poorly."

"Yeah." Bloomington nodded her head and stared like a dumb animal. "Yeah. She fares poorly, I'd say."

"I am truly sorry. Please relay my message that I will work thrice as hard to accommodate her disability. Does she require grief cubes? I am willing to donate some."

"Nah. She don't need no cubes, don't worry about that."

"If you insist." Clair paused and allowed Bloomington to interject, but the girl remained rooted to the wall as though her flesh had ossified. The pause drew to socially unacceptable lengths. Clair decided to salvage the situation by performing the faux pas of speaking twice in a row.

"I regret to say I am rather busy at the moment and have little time for chitchat. That is not to demean your coming here, of course. But unless you have something else to say..."

Bloomington stared. Her lip gave a single, spasmodic twinge. Her snot dribbled down her chin most repulsively.

"Nah," she said. "I guess I don't."

Despite the admission, she remained slumped against the wall. Her failure to move even as Clair raised an arm and indicated the door approached outward defiance. Clair cared little for it. Undoubtedly she must no longer rely on such a truculent character. St. Paul and Anoka would prove sufficient to defeat Sloan Redfearn.

"Do you need a ride back to your house because of the weather? I can ask St. Paul to accompany you."

After another lengthy silence, Bloomington said, "Nah."

Clair contained herself. She had practiced containing herself for as long as she could remember, because when she failed to contain herself she did rather nasty things that she later regretted.

"Very well." She strode past Bloomington and opened the door. A cold blast buffeted her. "I hope to see you soon, Bloomington."

For a terrifying moment it seemed not even this would prompt Bloomington to move, as though she had resolved to become a permanent fixture in the entryway, attached to a wall papered by images of sparrows. But the frigidity that swept from the open door spurred Bloomington to action; she broke from the congealed matter that welded her to the wall, her shoulders stooped and her head tilted, her nose dribbling and her hands twisted into misshapen knots. She turned with arduous care, each degree of revolution distinct as she faced Clair and the doorway. Her eyes were unwavering, despite their puffiness.

"Yeah," said Bloomington. She shambled zombielike out the door, each step seemingly smaller than the previous.

"It is rather inclement outside," said Clair. "I extend again my offer to have St. Paul escort you."

"Nah," said Bloomington. As though she were incapable of single syllables and had to resort to such truncations, such erosions of the English language, the letters rubbed off by years of misuse among the demotic tongues of the underclass. Clair hated to dwell on such details but they irked her so much she could not help but notice them.

"If you're certain, Bloomington. Goodbye."

Bloomington finally made it out the door far enough for Clair to shut it.

She glanced out the peephole and watched until Bloomington's hunched form disappeared into a white blast of snow. Satisfied, Clair straightened her tie, brushed her clothes, and headed to her room to finish the more stimulating conversation of the morning.

As she passed the kitchen, her mother said, "Eggs getting cold."

Believe it or not, it actually took a super long time for Delaney to agree to contract with Kyubey. Wow, really Delaney? Tell us more about your fascinating indecision. Well okay, it goes like this: After much abuse at the hands of paternal figures she so naively trusted, she wasn't quite keen on consigning her soul to another male who promised a lot more than he seemed able to give.

Trust wasn't all of it. She feared that if she gave Kyubey what he wanted, the attention he paid her would shrivel and die, like how girls get warned not to fuck guys because then the guys get bored and move on. By denying them, a girl holds power, and to a girl like Delaney who had no power whatsoever, such thoughts intoxicated. For a long time, actually, she contemplated wishing that Kyubey would be her friend forever. Holy! Could you even IMAGINE how that wish would play out? Unfortunately, the darker forces at work inside Delaney made her ultimate wish even worse.

Uh, Delaney? Hello? Why is all this important? Aren't you kinda in a bind right now? Shouldn't you be plotting your dashing escape? Analyzing the weaknesses in Clair's makeshift prison (such as her appointed guard, St. Paul, being a total dunce), conniving an opportunity to swipe your gem from Clair's pocket, et cetera et cetera?

Fuck you, if she escaped it just meant she was out in the cold and on the run with no powers, rather than inside in the warm with no powers. Plus—PLUS—she was telling a STORY, so please shut up and listen.

Where was she? Oh yeah. The pre-contract days, when she followed Kyubey and Claudia around and watched Claudia fight wraiths and hated Claudia's shitty dog and afterward, when Claudia went home, talked to Kyubey. Kyubey knew exactly how to butter her up. He told her she was smarter than other humans, that she had the potential for universe-altering events, that she surpassed the capabilities of Claudia or any other girl for miles and miles. Things that made Delaney feel important, when up until then she felt like worse than trash, a thing, an it. Fifteen-year-old Delaney, trapped in the throes of an embarrassingly late puberty, marred by an isolating albinism, and still barely cognizant of what it meant to be female beyond that it was something inferior to male and also bled like a stuck pig every month—coming from such a mindset and being lauded by an intergalactic space kitty for your intelligence is no small ego boost.

So she talked to Kyubey and asked questions and learned a lot about his species. Like how his species had no females. Not because they were genderless or reproduced asexually. But because their eugenics program had singled out females as inferior to males and thus requested their immediate destruction. Every single space kitty female had seen the logic in this and allowed themselves to be painlessly and humanely liquidated. Now all members of his species were merely clones of the same perfect genetic agglomerations.

Shit like this fascinated Delaney. The hours she spent talking to him about entropy, wow. Science was cool! It always made sense, unlike talking to people or engaging in social situations: a string of numbers and formulae that can be proven through repeated observation. (Only later did she apply these same principles to social dynamics—social science was in some sense a science too.) And Kyubey knew so much more about it than the human race. Astrophysics and quantum mechanics, nuclear fusion and neuroscience, clones and genomes.

Now we fast forward three years, where a jaded and deconstructed Delaney molders in the sterile bedroom of her white-haired doppelganger. Because, when you think about the genetic connection between Delaney and Clair in the context of all that scientific stuff Kyubey once espoused (eugenics, clones, manipulation of DNA), you might realize:

Kyubey did not simply find two half-sisters who carried the same particular genetic traits he desired. Why would he, when he could build those half-sisters from scratch?

And when you think about the traits shared by Delaney and Clair—white hair, red eyes, lack of empathy, extreme intelligence—you have to wonder: Where did Kyubey get those genes?

Because Delaney didn't know too many humans who fit those traits, but she did know a certain intergalactic space kitty with every single one of them.

After all, if his goal was to create predictable pawns predisposed toward certain behaviors necessary for his plan, why bother with capricious and whimsical humans? Why not use the genes he knew best?

Well! No stopping it now. This roundabout approach only delayed the inevitable epiphany too long, until it felt less like an epiphany and more like dramatic irony, something everyone but the main actor knows until the final act when it crushes her like a Roadrunner cartoon anvil. The actual words a bastard splice between sloppy sitcom punchline and Jungian archetype:

Kyubey's my father?

(Cue daytime television talk show audience hurling boos at the irresponsible dad who despite his great wealth never paid a cent in alimony.)

Delaney slumped her shoulders and tried to laugh but cried instead. St. Paul observed her but said nothing as Delaney's few human genes allowed her to wallow in self-pity and self-disgust. All this time she had considered herself inhuman, a monster, an inherently flawed individual, and to have that assessment so totally and absolutely affirmed splintered the thin spine of worth she had ever scrounged up for herself. Stupid her! She had thought that despite her failings, if she gritted her teeth and just did good deeds she might attain salvation. Of course not! The religion of Earth had no bearing on an extraterrestrial.

What goddess would sweep her gaze across Delaney's form and see anything worth saving? Delaney herself no longer thought she deserved it. Everything she did wrong was hardwired into her psyche. Her murder of Claudia: programmed right in. Her destructive, rape-slanted thoughts about Sloan: tied to her very core. Her complete disregard of the feelings of others in favor of her own selfish whims (notice how the only time she shed tears, it was for herself): incontrovertible! Her rote self-flagellation was a transparent attempt to curry favor with the goddess who had no thought to even look at her.

"Hey. Hey. Uh. Hey. Are you. Okay?" said St. Paul.

Delaney wiped her eyes. Oh god, she couldn't afford one of her deep sinks of angst at a time like this. Her Incubator DNA held one distinct advantage: the ability to turn off her despair like a faucet when she lacked the luxury to revel in it.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Suh. Suh. Suh." St. Paul focused her eyes and pursed her lips carefully. "Sorry. Sorry Em. Sorry Em hurt you."

"It's okay. I'm a bad person. I deserve it."

"Girls are. Are not. Bad people," said St. Paul. "Wraiths are. Bad people."

Delaney resisted the urge to say "I am a wraith," which she would have done just for dramatic aplomb, even if it made no sense. She had to remember her goals: Save the universe. Defeat the time demon. Not that achieving those goals would save her! No, shut up. Who cares what your DNA is, that's not what you are. You're not a carbon copy of Clair Ibsen. Some similar traits, but not the same. There are other elements at play here.

The pep talk sounded hollow in her head. The mythic concepts she had structured her life around—Mitakihara, the Law of the Cycles, entropy—felt like wobbly and inconsequential things.

The door opened and Clair Ibsen entered.

"My apologies. That took longer than anticipated. Where were we?"

"We established Kyubey picked us ahead of time for his plans," said Delaney. She refrained from supplying her revelation about their heritage. Clair was a smart girl, she could figure it out on her own. "That we're pawns in a conspiracy to topple demons or some such."

"Yes," said Clair. "Fortunately this so-called conspiracy is reaching its final stage. Once my familiar returns with Sloan's whereabouts, I shall determine the setting for our ultimate confrontation and reap the rewards after her death."

"Exactly as expected, eh?" said Delaney. "You're not gonna even hesitate after learning Kyubey popped us out prepackaged to plug into his plan?"

"Why hesitate?" said Clair. "The demon of Mitakihara must be overthrown, or the universe dies. The reasoning is unarguable. Besides, I would expect the Incubator to put especial care into the selection of his champion. Would he entrust the power to defeat gods to some random girl plucked from this waste?"

"Yeah, and why not tell you from the beginning? Why keep me a secret?"

"The Incubator omits needless words. He kept our conversations brief to protect himself from his employer's suspicion. Often key information manifested as offhand remarks while I purified my Soul Gem. Information about Mitakihara, about Homura Akemi, about Omaha, about Sloan Redfearn's situation in Fargo, about the Williston archon, about the girls I should hire in Minneapolis. Given his plot's complexity, he needed to condense a lot. While initially your power caught me off guard and I wondered at the omission, now that I have you soundly restrained I understand he must have calculated my odds of success even with you at Sloan Redfearn's side to be rather high."

Through her entire speech no part of her body moved except her mouth. She made no missteps of the tongue, timed her breathing so that pauses felt natural, and not once looked Delaney in the eye.

"In fact," she continued, "I understand the tact displayed by the Incubator in refraining from bringing you to my attention. Had he done so before I had the chance to meet you, my curiosity would have burned inside me until I found myself incapable of not seeking you out, regardless of his chidings. I thus would have unstitched the delicate configuration of his plan. No, better he not tell me, so that no such emotions affect my actions. Since I have learned of our connection only after I met you, I can rest easily in my awareness that you and I have no fundamental differences."

No fundamental differences. Intelligence, logic, cruelty, disdain.

"No," said Delaney. "There is a fundamental difference. Despite everything, I've tried to rebel against my nature—I've tried to do good in this world. That's why I helped Sloan, I thought I could save her. And the Incubator told me by doing that I could save the universe."

Clair moved to her window and stared into the whiteness. "I assume the Incubator failed to inform you that to save the universe, Sloan Redfearn must be sacrificed."

The cold wind whistled outside. The bedsprings squeaked as St. Paul adjusted her sitting position.

"He said no such thing," said Delaney.

"I will kill Sloan Redfearn. It must be me, and none other. Such a betrayal, between two people of incredible resolve who knew no love except for each other—a betrayal stretched over the course of seven months, so that the negative emotions can be drawn to their limit—this betrayal will prove the ultimate sin. The power from this sin will be enough to defeat even gods. I shall harness it and overthrow the demon Homura Akemi. I will then, lacking all further purpose, slay myself and cede dominion of this universe to its most responsible warden: the Incubator."

When the Incubator spoke to Delaney, he said only that Sloan Redfearn would unlock the power to overthrow the time demon. How could she have been so idiotic to not press for more information? No—she knew how. It was because at the time she had not cared about Sloan Redfearn at all. Why bother with such a question. Ultimately, she only cared about herself, Delaney Pollack. About her own salvation...

Only now, though, did the thought of Sloan's death, in actuality rather than depraved fantasy, only now did this thought strike hollow in the pit of Delaney's stomach. A dull absence of feeling rather than any identifiable emotion.

"Furthermore," Clair continued, "you are again incorrect when you claim there is a fundamental difference between us. Because I too act against my nature for the purpose of doing an ultimate service to this universe. There is truly no difference between us, other than the ways we speak and dress, and our powers in combat."

Delaney searched for a rebuttal, but found none.

An immense raven alighted on the windowsill. "Matthis has returned," said Clair as she undid the latch and opened the window. She leaned forward and tilted her ear toward the bird. Its beak clicked and clacked as it cocked its head in odd directions, almost turning it completely upside-down. After the brief message, Clair nodded and whispered something. The bird spread its wings and rose back into the stormy air, its black form sailing unperturbed through the gale.

Clair shut the window and realigned her clothes. "Sloan Redfearn has been found."

St. Paul shot up and saluted. "Let. Let me. I win."

"That won't be necessary," said Clair. "She is in one of Ramsey's safe houses. Assaulting Ramsey's stronghold without a numerical advantage would be foolhardy and may lead to Fargo slipping through our fingers yet again."

"Then," said St. Paul. "Then what? What."

Clair placed her fingertips together as she turned from the window. "Then we wait. Sloan knows where I live. If I do not come to her, she will come to me. With Delaney Pollack and her powerful barrier magic subdued"—(she spoke as though Delaney were not in the room)—"we have no need for a surprise attack. Sloan Redfearn can prepare all she wants, but she can never surpass me in that regard. Especially with the advantage of 'home turf'."

"Oh, oh." St. Paul strained to speak. "I. I see."

Stepping over Delaney, Clair moved for her desk. She dragged out the chair and took a seat.

"Fetch my phone, St. Paul. It is time to call Anoka."

Chapter 24: A Barber with Parkinson's Disorder

Beneath a highway in central Minneapolis, a girl kneeled beside a wad of newspaper, lit a match, and set fire to the kindling. The overpass blocked the wind and the paper caught easily until it cast an orange glaze across the geometric surfaces of the overpass support system.

After so long in the dark, the light irritated the Terminatrix Sepulveda's sole remaining eye. She scratched at the eyepatch that covered her empty socket, like it itched too.

Her eye adjusted. She retrieved her maps and documents from her rags and flattened them against the sloped floor. A red circle showed where her targets slept the night prior. Their contracts should have been terminated there, but the invisible girl intervened. Sepulveda's boss failed to mention any invisible girl. That pissed her off, because she knew damn well the fuckface rat shitheel dickfuck did not simply "forget" or "not know about" the invisible girl. He knew fucking everything.

Like, yo. Sepulveda was no dumbass bimbo bitch. She didn't grow up in no suburban funland. She fucked around with coyotes both human and canine and knew a double crossing when she saw it. Shit like that was how she lost her eye, and she ain't got many more eyes to lose, yo?

And yet, in the MG business, ain't nobody pays the bills but El Ratfuck. Her gun don't take wraith powers, so if she need cubes she need terminations. Invisigirl fooled her once but Sepulveda still got Pollack's powers, and they were damn good powers. Once she tracked down Redfearn she had this shit in the bag whether Kyubitch wanted it in the bag or not.

PROBLEM. She had no fucking clue Sloan Redfearn's whereabouts.

Her eye scoured the maps. We're talking less than twenty-four hours in icestorm apocalypse. Bitch ain't going far.

She pulled her red sharpie out, uncapped it, and nibbled the back of the pen as she crawled over the map. The poor lighting forced her to shove her eye close to the parchment. She crossed out neighborhoods sure to be duds. But the city had like fifty thousand fucking neighborhoods.

"This a piece a shit, beep boop," she muttered to herself.

"Shut the fuck up you crazy bitch," said a voice from the dark. Probably a homeless dude. OR THE ONSET OF SCHIZOPHRENIA HA HA HA.

"Disembowel yourself on a lead pipe," Sepulveda yelled back.

Her voice echoed. Nobody responded.

"Fuck you I'm a robot," she added for punctuation.

Her pocket vibrated. With a startled cry she flipped supine and scurried back crab-style as she swatted the pulsing thing against her thigh. Alien space parasite? Government implant? Malignant tumor?

Her hand pushed into her pocket and retrieved an ordinary cell phone. Oh, that made sense. Except Sepulveda never owned a cell phone ever in her life, and in no way should she get service beneath a concrete overpass in a raging blizzard.

(DAMN SEPPY YOU SCHIZOID FOR SURE!)

She answered the phone. "Which piece of my fragmented psyche are you?"

"Is this Yvonne Lizondo-Perez." The voice was level and collected. DEFINITELY not a piece of Sepulveda's psyche. Its bitter rationality made Sepulveda uneasy.

"No I'm a robot," she said. She searched the dim underpass for concealed ninjas. Alien spies. The hobo from earlier. Her scalp itched with lice. "Where'd this phone come from?"

"My dolls gave it to you."

"Dolls? The fuck?"

"You have good reason not to trust the Incubator, Yvonne Lizondo-Perez. I concur with your suspicion that he intends for you to fail."

Oh shit, oh shit, the aliens could read minds?

"I, however," the voice continued, "intend your success. Sloan Redfearn is at 2542 Ruth Street, Little Canada, Minnesota. The house is owned by Destin Carmichael, assistant to Chelsea Stoddard."

Chelsea Stoddard, Chelsea Stoddard. Sepulveda knew that name. She flipped through her documents. Oh yeah, the Ramsey girl. Sepulveda had files on all the girls in the area JUST IN CASE, courtesy El Ratfuck.

"So Redfearn and Stoddard teamed up?" she asked mysterious hot tip girl.

The phone went dead.

WELL THEN. Sepulveda gathered her maps and files and folded them neatly back into her pockets.

TIME TO DO SOME SHIT, YO.

Ramsey waved the shotgun like a conductor's baton. "Oh Slo, how could you be so cruel? Shattering my fragile feelings so."

Sloan folded her arms and betrayed no discomposure. The gun was not Ramsey's magic weapon, which meant who gave a shit. Sloan recognized the dull effect of Ramsey's charm, the desperate subconscious pleading to adore her, but its power had either weakened or Sloan's resolve strengthened.

How to deal with this? Sloan's reflexes were better than Ramsey's, so with the right timing she could seize the gun. The other girls and Carmichael were nothing to worry about. Depowered Hennepin was nothing to worry about. Even if Ramsey eschewed discretion and transformed in front of her followers, Sloan had the advantage—she was already transformed from her backyard practice session. From all angles, Sloan won this fight. That Ramsey considered a fight feasible only signified her disjunct from common sense.

And yet. Sloan had worse enemies than Ramsey.

"You're right," she muttered. "It was cruel of me."

Ramsey cackled with delight, tilting her head so her screwy pupils stared from behind the solid black shields of her sunglasses. "Hear that! She admits her fault! What a rapscallion, what a knave!"

"Yeah," said Sloan. "I admit it."

Girls with fragile egos are influenced by any meager appeasement. Ramsey already seemed ready to acquiesce from just those words, so Sloan might even save time this way. But she had other reasons for concession. She needed Ramsey's car and she would also like Ramsey's help against Clair. Not like Sloan had better options for allies.

"Well!" Ramsey leaned against the shotgun like a cane.

"Boring. Slap each other already!" said Hennepin.

The other girls agreed with dull murmurs.

Ramsey scowled. "This is what separates me from louts like you. You crave base violence, while I abhor it. People make mistakes, I am willing to forgive. DON'T ACT LIKE I HAVEN'T DONE THE SAME FOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU!"

She aimed her gun over the crowd. The girls murmured again. Other than Hennepin they seemed incapable of clear speech.

"You ain't forgive me for shit," said Carmichael. "Still blame me for dinging your car six months ago, sheet."

Ramsey stomped her foot. "Fine! Fine! You want punishment, I'll give her punishment!" She brushed back her hair and pointed the gun at Sloan. "You were a total bitch, after all. Maybe I shouldn't let you off so easy!"

Dammit. If she made Sloan search the house for clothes...

"Ramsey. Come on. I'm sorry. I got worked up."

Be political. Socialize for once in your life. There was probably some simple combination of words to resolve everything. Ramsey didn't want to fight, but she had an audience to placate. Sloan figured—

Woven within the crowd was one of the dolls from outside, the one with the big hat and tassels. How did it get there? Nobody opened the door to the backyard. She noticed a second doll next to Hennepin, and a third in the corner.

Sloan, muttered Omaha's voice. I don't know what happened, the dolls are missing, there's only one left out here...

So they moved fast too. She turned to the tassel doll, but it was no longer there. Ditto the one next to Hennepin.

Would they attack with so many people around? No way. Omaha alone stopped them before.

"Hey!" Ramsey, hands on hips, angled into Sloan's line of sight. "Are you even listening? I said I wanted your coat!"

The doll in the shadows, the redhead, stayed put. It grinned, eyes twinkling like diamonds in the deep.

Ramsey jabbed a finger into Sloan's chest. "You're beginning to royally piss me off!"

"Kinda busy," said Sloan. Where were the other two? Why wasn't the third moving? If they left the fourth outside to distract Omaha, then—

Tassel doll lunged from between Ramsey's legs and drove a toy dagger into Sloan's foot. Except instead of a toy dagger it was the most painful dagger of all eternity. Sloan howled, kicked at the doll, and staggered back as the second doll, one of the blonde ones, leapfrogged Ramsey's head and came at Sloan with a thin little spear.

Sloan materialized her gun and pointed at the doll, which redirected its route midair to drop beneath the barrel, plunging the spear into Sloan's gut—dangerously close to her Soul Gem. Sloan slammed her gun on blonde doll's head, but the fast little fucker scampered aside so all Sloan managed to do was smash her own pelvis with a humiliating grunt.

This whole time Sloan's gun was, of course, pointing directly at Ramsey. With a unified cry, nearly every girl in the room flung themselves in front of Ramsey while the tassel doll came in for a second stab. In close quarters Sloan could not line up a shot, but she could still bludgeon. She made a better-timed swing and this time connected with a dissatisfying thunk as the doll sailed like paper into the living shield of girls. Hoarsely snickering, it scurried between their legs and disappeared.

Sloan examined her body. Neither her foot nor her stomach bled. The weapons did not harm her, but they hurt like fuck—more than a physical blow. It felt like they harmed her Soul Gem directly, even though both attacks missed it. What were these things? What power caused pain like that, pain that reverberated through her gut and made her knees buckle? With her gem as strong as it was, pain should be dampened more than usual. Instead, it was worse than when she was on the brink of despair back in Fargo. Despite her rational calmness only a minute ago, Sloan felt her blood starting to seethe. But she wasn't the only one angry.

"YOU DARE DRAW YOUR GUN ON ME?"

The girls around Ramsey flew back as Ramsey cast off her Dalmatian fur coat and thrust out a hand with her Soul Gem atop it. A blinding light flashed. When it subsided, all of Ramsey's gaudy accoutrements were gone, replaced by a sleek green dress that cut low and flowed long, wrapped tight around her slim body by several thick leather belts. Tons and tons of belts—around her arms, her ankles, even her neck. In the buckle of the neck-belt sat her transformed Soul Gem, a perfectly square emerald.

Ramsey's goons ogled.

"Wow Boss!"

"So cute!"

"I want it!"

"I don't have time for your shit," said Sloan. She scoured the area for dolls, but even Redhead in the corner had vanished.

Something lashed out and coiled around Sloan's arm. It was a barbed whip, tightening like a tourniquet, digging through her coat and into her skin.

Ramsey cackled. "Tee hee Slo, you're not going anywhere!" She wrenched the whip back and Sloan staggered forward. Sloan tossed her gun aside and telekinetically aimed at the taut whip. One volley sufficed to sever it.

Ramsey cracked the whip's remains and it immediately reformed.

"Come on Ramsey," said Hennepin. "I know I egged you on, but you can't beat her."

"Nonsense!" Ramsey posed pointlessly. "I mean, sure, I didn't expect a fight... but... I have an idea!"

With a flick of her free hand, she unraveled a belt from her waist and quickly clamped it over her eyes like a blindfold.

"How can you blind... that which cannot see?!"

She swung her whip in Sloan's general direction. Sloan sidestepped. The whip wrapped around one of Ramsey's flunkies, who fell shrieking in pain.

Sloan grabbed her gun again and rammed it into Ramsey's gut. Ramsey dropped with a dry heave.

"Told ya," said Hennepin. "Let me try. I've got powers that'll fuck her up."

Ramsey rolled on the ground clutching her stomach, her whip jerking the ensnared girl back and forth. She wrenched the belt from her eyes and hurled it away. "Stupid stupid stupid!"

"Oh please. It was so bad an idea even you must have realized it." Hennepin prodded the belt around Ramsey's throat with a toe. "Of course, now that I see your uniform for the first time, maybe it's just you're into the whole punishment thing?"

"WHAT?!" With a crack of her whip, Ramsey freed the girl she had bound. "I am MOST DEFINITELY NOT, ew gross ew gross ew! Belts look cool, okay?"

"Don't worry Ramsey, your sadomasochism is safe with me," Hennepin said (loudly).

The ground rattled beneath the tantrum of Ramsey's feet and fists. Her words devolved into shrieks, even as her girls and Carmichael swarmed to console her.

Sloan grew uneasy. Where were the dolls?

"Now," Hennepin continued, "howzabout giving me back my Soul Gem so I can deal with Fargo for you..."

"Shut up already," said Sloan. The girls had crowded too tight. The dolls could be anywhere. Sloan needed open ground.

"Why did you point your gun at me, Slooey?" said Ramsey. "I was joking earlier! I wasn't going to hurt you. Can't you understand a joke?"

"Shut up. I wasn't aiming at you. Can I explain something for a moment?"

"Why why why why why why why?"

"Because she hates you. Duh," said Hennepin.

Sloan disliked Hennepin's contributions to the conversation. She waded through the girls and reached a wall, which she propped her back against as she scanned the area. "Look, Ramsey. You probably won't believe me, because it sounds really stupid, but right now there are like these creepy invisible dolls trying to kill me, so..."

Ramsey curled up and rolled onto her side. "I knew it. She hates me! Everyone hates me!"

"I'm pretty meh about you," said Hennepin.

Something tapped Sloan on the shoulder. She turned to see a snaggletooth grin close enough to gnaw off her nose. The smile was attached to Redhead doll, phased halfway through the plaster.

In the millisecond necessary for Sloan to realize the diversion, something rushed her from the opposite direction. Sloan jumped as it lunged with its toy spear. The shaft grazed Sloan's leg (fuck it hurt) while the doll rolled forward and vanished through the floor. Redhead giggled and sank back into the wall.

Wincing through clenched teeth, Sloan had no time to think. She pushed herself off the wall as a series of daggers plunged through it, the tips missing Sloan by centimeters, and wheeled around, planted her foot, and launched demolition derby rounds of light into the plaster.

A mass scream rose through the room as the girls scrambled over each other to get as far away as possible. Sloan paid no heed. She had no fucking time for hide and seek.

"WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING?" Ramsey screamed. "MY HOUSE, MY HOUSE!"

Hennepin quipped unheard over the roar of the gun.

Through the obliterated remnants of the wall Sloan saw the obliterated remnants of the next room over. For good measure, Sloan pumped some rounds into the floor.

A whip lashed out and coiled around Sloan's neck. Ramsey brought down her arm and brought down Sloan too. The gun flew from her hands as she slammed against the rug.

Ramsey pulled back the whip and lashed Sloan's prone form over and over. The moment Sloan attempted to rise, the barbs struck again. A furious glint crept into Ramsey's eye.

"Oh Ramsey," said Hennepin. "I've been a bad girl too, punish me~"

Sloan took the brunt while discretely and telekinetically angling her gun in Ramsey's direction. Stupid worthless fuck. She lined the shot perfectly—

The perforated floor creaked, groaned, and collapsed. Sloan rolled down a suddenly inclined carpet, flopping over the holes she had blasted with her gun, until she hit the concrete wall of a basement. She rubbed her head and started to rise until Ramsey rolled into her.

"Get off me get off me get off me get off me," Ramsey said.

Sloan tried to oblige, but it turned out Ramsey was on her, not the other way around. She used her power to make Ramsey weightless and hurled her in a random direction. Above, at the top of the ramp the caved-in floor created, Hennepin laughed and the girls stared in horror and confusion. Carmichael stuck out his arms and caught Ramsey after she rebounded off the ceiling.

On the debris around Sloan, the three dolls did a circular dance. On a wavelength Sloan could only sort of pick up, she heard tiny voices speak an incomprehensible language, guttural and vaguely Germanic. They were... singing? chanting? the same three words, over and over.

Above, the door to the backyard flew open. Omaha appeared, shrouded in her purple aura. Under her good arm she held the struggling fourth doll, the second blonde. Its smile had flipped into a crescent moon frown. Its arms and legs shook with jerky puppet motions.

Omaha huffed for air, took stock of the room, and pointed at the dolls that encircled Sloan.

You're all... very bad children...!

The dolls stopped dancing and their mouths dropped in dismay. They twittered and trembled. Sloan decided not to stay and see if they would explode. She punted Tassel-hat into the stratosphere, sprinted up the incline back to the ground floor, and seized her gun off the ground as she charged Ramsey's girls.

The girls screamed and scattered, leaving only Carmichael in Sloan's way, cradling Ramsey in his arms. Sloan decided to swipe his legs out from under him with her gun, but realized at the last moment he was no Magical Girl and doing so would put him in a wheelchair for life. Her momentum had carried her too far, however. She hit the ground at a slide, kicking Carmichael's shins with her boots instead. His enormous figure hit the ground behind her.

Sloan somersaulted to her feet and sprinted down a corridor. A few wayward girls flattened against the wall to let her by. As she rounded the kitchen she wondered where the fuck she was running and what her short term goals were.

Hurry Sloan! said Omaha. They're catching onto me. I can make them behave for a bit, but they keep slipping away. Get out of the house, I'll keep up with you somehow!

Sloan didn't know what all that meant or what relationship Omaha had with the dolls, but "get out" was easy enough. Or maybe not. She paused in the kitchen, unsure how to find the exit. A mischievous quartet of giggles resounded down the hall. A pair of white ellipses darted into a shadow.

She aimed her gun at nothing, waiting for them to show.

"Looks like you're in a jam."

In a previously-unseen alcove leaned Lynette.

"Kinda busy," said Sloan. "I recommend you leave." She hoisted her gun for emphasis.

Lynette shrugged. "I could show you the way out if you want."

No sign of the dolls. Sloan didn't like it. "I'm in a hurry. Move fast."

Lynette opened a door beside her and Sloan followed into the dark room beyond. Only when she crossed the threshold did she think Lynette might lead her into a trap.

But Lynette flicked a light switch and illuminated the garage. The pink Cadillac sat beside two other fancy cars (also pink) with models Sloan did not recognize, because Sloan gave zero shits about cars. Their squeaky clean coats glimmered under the light. Out of her jacket Lynette fished a jangly set of keys which she spun around an outstretched finger as she led Sloan past the Cadillac and a convertible to a car with the word CORVETTE on the rear.

"Let's drive." Lynette clicked a key and the Corvette flashed with a digital chime.

When Sloan tried to open the door, though, it was still locked. She looked around and saw the trunk had popped open instead. "Are you sure you know how?"

Lynette pressed another button, and this time the doors unlocked. Despite the mishap she lost no confidence. "Think Chelsea keeps me around for my good looks?"

"Will it even drive in the snow?"

"Chelsea enchants all her cars. Mostly so they don't get scratched but also for other fun things."

So Lynette knew about magic. Sloan disliked that, disliked the idea of Clair's sister being a relevant entity whatsoever, much as she would dislike Mr. and Mrs. Ibsen's involvement, or Sloan's own family's. But she had too few options. Either she ran straight back to the dolls or—

"You retarded or something? Get in."

Fine! Sloan flung herself into the Corvette. She accidentally banged her gun against the door and had to despawn it since it didn't fit inside. Sure enough, she left no dent in the hot pink coat. The place she struck fizzled with pixie dust.

"Buckle up kid, it's gonna be a bumpy ride." Lynette keyed the ignition. She pressed a button on the dash and the garage door opened with labored mechanical progress.

"Where are we going." Sloan wished the door would hurry up. She started to see smiles in the garage's corners. Lynette never closed the trunk.

"Where else? Home sweet home."

"Did Clair tell you to bring me to her?"

"I'm not stupid. Or deaf. I heard what you said to Chelsea in the bedroom earlier. You're gonna kill Clair, aren't you?"

The garage door finally opened onto a white road in a white world. At the same moment, the door to the house flew open and Ramsey stormed in with Carmichael and Hennepin and a dozen others.

"Hey! HEY! That's my car!"

Lynette slammed the gas. The car rocketed out the garage, bounced down the driveway, hit the street already attempting to turn, span out, and skidded into the front yard on the opposite side of the road. The trunk finally slammed shut, at least.

"Aw shit." Lynette dragged the stick transmission all over the place while simultaneously spinning the wheel back and forth. Unamused, Sloan watched Ramsey and her crew file one by one into the Cadillac like a clown car.

Finally something on the transmission locked into place and the car jerked backward onto the road, wheeled around, and accelerated. The Cadillac roared after them. Lynette adjusted the rearview mirror and reached beneath her seat, only to retrieve a fresh bottle of vodka which she snapped open and swigged.

Sloan regretted entering this vehicle. "Don't drink that."

Lynette dropped the bottle. It rolled beneath her feet. "It's water. You think my liver's made of iron? I fill them with water to keep up with Chelsea. Her liver... really is iron, or something."

"That's what happens when your body regenerates," said Sloan. "What do you know about magic?"

The car took a sharp turn down a residential street but avoided another spinout. The streets were devoid of life. "Not as much as I'd like. Chelsea says she's supposed to keep mum about it, but she's bad at keeping mum so I hear snatches. I know she's one. I know you're one. I figure my sister's one too, since I met Chelsea through her and I dunno any other reason those two would associate ever."

She spoke as though this were no fantastic revelation, but rather an inconsequential addendum to her life.

Sloan checked if Ramsey's Cadillac had kept up. It had, but more importantly she saw three dolls seated on the Corvette's trunk. Their legs dangled over the edge as they tilted their heads and giggled in Sloan's direction. The laws of physics seemed not to apply to them.

"Look. Point is. You're gonna kill Clair. I know. I knew the moment I saw you, and what you said to Chelsea confirmed it. I saw it in the way you changed. You used to be somewhat normal, but now—"

Sloan undid her seatbelt. "Excuse me. We have invisible dolls on the back of our car."

Lynette shrugged. "I'll believe it."

The space inside the Corvette was too small for her gun, so Sloan opened the door. Wind tried to force it closed, but Sloan leaned out and propped her body against it. Scenery whirred past, an undying strip of white.

Sloan grabbed the roof of the car for leverage and stepped on a groove in the door. The dolls cackled and cackled as she made geriatric motions to scale the side of the speeding Corvette. A more nimble Magical Girl would simply backflip onto the roof. Sloan's coat flapped in the wind.

One of the dolls hurled its spear like a javelin. Sloan threw herself against the door and swung into the open air to avoid it. The hinges groaned as a blast of wind jerked the door back and slammed her against the frame. Still she held, her feet dangling inches from the asphalt.

The other dolls raised spears to throw. Climbing slow and steady was not working. Imagining the nimble girl who backflipped onto the roof made it seem possible. Sloan felt ready to try some bullshit.

She let go of the door. Immediately the car rushed past her as she summoned her gun and swung in midair, smashing Blondie just as its spear left its fingers. The doll sailed off squealing while Sloan caught the car's spoiler with her free hand. The rest of her body kept flying into oblivion, but the tether of her arm rooted her to the vehicle with a hard bout of whiplash.

Immediately Tassel-hat plunged a dagger into her hand. The pain was unimaginable, like a torment of hell, despite the lack of any stigmatic wound. She clenched her hand tighter as she reeled herself in, plunking a boot down in the hollowed rear light. If she let go of her gun she could reorient it in air and erase the other two dolls, but she would also erase the car and Lynette, too. The dolls were good at getting into obnoxious situations where she had no way to shoot them.

ALSO HER HAND HURT SO BAD JESUS FUCK THESE FUCKING DOLLS

Tassel-hat tore the dagger out and stabbed again. Sloan screamed and clung and tried to latch onto the back of the Corvette. She got both feet stuck to something before the Redhead doll grabbed hold of Sloan's face and scuttled headfirst down her body, not stabbing, but crawling for her stomach—for her Soul Gem. Its razor claws tore at her coat. The buttons came undone and her Soul Gem hung exposed.

Sloan had no choice. She let go of the car and flew into open air. The Corvette zoomed away as she seized the doll latched to her torso and ripped it off. It clawed and bit at her. They twisted in air, bounced against the ground, flew up and into the windshield of the Cadillac.

Tinted glass caved and shattered. Sloan landed in a nest of screaming girls. Tires screeched, snow mingled with leather and flesh. Sloan whirled as needle teeth sank into her shoulder. Something big and dull jabbed deep against her ribs. Her skull cracked against a thing. All sense of direction went poof.

The first thing to register was the wretched face of the doll as it spread its jaws wide and went for Sloan's eyes. She throttled its scrawny neck while bodies writhed beneath her and the car spun out of control, then wrenched the doll off and hurled it out the shattered windshield. It bounced on the hood and flew into the mist.

Sloan slapped her gem to ensure it remained intact, an action she realized was pointless. She took in her surroundings, girls atop girls, limbs and heads, Carmichael in the driver seat making frantic motions to regain control. The entire back area of the Cadillac was open, with the seats pressed to the walls in a way that was probably illegal.

A weak hand pattered Sloan's face. The hand was attached to Ramsey, who was otherwise flattened beneath her. "How can you be so cruel, Slo? Why are you so mean to me?"

Sloan rolled off Ramsey. At least ten girls were crammed inside the Cadillac, which veered near a snowplow as Carmichael righted its course. The Corvette was not too far ahead.

"Can you look at me when I'm talking to you?" said Ramsey.

Although she considered not doing it, Sloan looked at Ramsey. Ramsey aimed her shotgun at Sloan's exposed Soul Gem. She maneuvered her slender arms in the awkward space so the butt of the gun clattered against the passenger window.

Arms wrapped around Sloan from behind. Hennepin's face surfaced out the girl heap and said, "Hi."

"Should I slow down," said Carmichael. In the melee his beret was lost. Snow swirled through the shattered windshield.

Ramsey angled her head in his general direction. "Stay on Lynette's ass." She returned to Sloan. "Now, you! You're going nowhere, Snu-Snu."

Any real force would break Hennepin's grip, but it'd take the time to pull the trigger of a shotgun. If the dolls showed up, she had no other choice.

"Do you know what I did for you?" Tears streamed down Ramsey's face. "Do you? Because you seem pretty fucking ungrateful. I save you from Clair, neutralize Hennepin, hide you from the nine million things that want you dead, and what do you do? What do you do, Sloan? You INSULT me, SLAP me, HUMILIATE me, DAMAGE my PROPERTY, HURT my FRIENDS, and in general BITE your THUMB at me FOR NO EXPLICABLE REASON." Her hands trembled across the shotgun. The belts around her arms and neck stiffened. A trickle of blood ran down the side of her face. "I THOUGHT we were FRIENDS, SLOAN. I REALLY thought that!"

What had Sloan ever done to suggest she and Ramsey were friends? Sloan barely remembered talking to her. The residual pain from the dolls' stabs howled for violence, howled for Sloan to wrench the gun away and pummel this pernicious blot to dust, and then pummel Hennepin too, splatter their brains across the sickly-enameled leather seats and all the silly girls roped into Ramsey's tri-county drug mafia. Everyone only ever got in her way. Ramsey, Hennepin, Omaha, Delaney—either willful incompetence or nonsense riddles about time demons that meant NOTHING, NOTHING AT ALL, because the only thing that meant ANYTHING was Clair Ibsen.

Just kill them, her inner voice whispered. Just kill them all. If they get in her way they might as well be Clair's pawns. Destroy her tools. Do it! You have fast reflexes, Ramsey slow. Take the gun. Take it!

Sloan's hands curled into hooks. Be creative, they said. Because they knew she was not, that her attempts to be so would fail. All she had to do—she saw it now—was overwhelm with raw power. HOW CREATIVE CAN YOU BE WHEN FACED WITH A NUCLEAR WEAPON?

"Hurry and shoot her," said Hennepin.

Ramsey's hands tightened around the gun. Try it, Ramsey. Try it. One twitch of your finger and your arm leaves its socket.

The gun lowered. Ramsey's head lowered. "I can't," she said. "She's my friend."

"What," said Hennepin.

"What," said Sloan.

"Before you left... the first time, I mean. I had nothing, no money or anything. I remember it. I needed your like permission to extend into Anoka's territory since back then the old Anoka was like basically already dead. I showed up at your house and asked. You like smiled at me and, and..."

She sniffled.

"...And, and, you like took my hand and told me I could do anything I wanted. Like... like you thought I was strong. Like you thought I was better than just some stupid kid whore. And you were like so strong and cool, too, everyone knew how strong you were. It made me feel... like..."

Her voice diminished. The other girls and Carmichael said nothing, made no indication they even heard, lost in a world where Ramsey was an infallible demigoddess and not this shriveled, unstable mess. Despite the howling wind a quiet descended.

Sloan never said any of those things to Ramsey.

No such meeting ever happened. In those days Sloan spent as little time at home as possible. And if she had encountered Ramsey at home, she never would have spoken so nicely. Not to a girl lobbying for bureaucratic loopholes to poach territory.

But Sloan had a twin sister. A twin sister with all the qualities Sloan lacked: compassion, kindness, generosity. A twin sister who would see a small battered girl raving about Anoka and territory and would feel empathy. Would say a kind word, would offer hot cocoa.

The heated blood chilled in Sloan's veins, or emptied out slit wrists. She sagged against Hennepin.

"I'm sorry, Ramsey."

"I was... I was thinking of ending it," said Ramsey. "My gem was in bad shape, I really needed the extra territory, I was burning through cubes so fast... And then you said that, and told me I could like have the territory if I wanted, and everything from there turned around for me... Even when Clair kicked you out, I felt like, like you were still watching over me? Like a guardian angel. It gave me confidence..."

Such a small kindness. To a desperate girl, even one small kindness can create a fixation, an obsession—can save a life.

Even that small kindness could never have been Sloan. The real Sloan would have crushed that girl's soul in as few words as possible. Or crushed it without words at all.

"Ramsey. Look. I..." What could she say? "I..."

"Hey, who that in the Porsche?" said Carmichael.

Sloan and Ramsey and Hennepin looked out the window. Zooming alongside the Cadillac was the third car from Ramsey's garage, the pink convertible.

In the driver's seat, peering directly at Sloan from behind an iron mask that bore Delaney Pollack's face, was the Terminatrix.

Chapter 25: This Entrance Was Meant Solely for You

The cars rattled through snow that was like ash. Powder billowed around them, masked the air in phantasmic haze. The sheer pink of the convertible's hull drifted in and out of visibility. More reliable was the whirr of its engine and the electric crackle that lingered around the Terminatrix's mask.

Sloan licked blood from her lip and rolled off Hennepin. She knelt behind Carmichael's driver seat and observed over his shoulder, then quickly pulled back.

"Who is that," Ramsey asked.

"Terminatrix," said Sloan. "Her gun steals powers. She already has barrier and healing magic."

"Better hope she don't shoot me," said Hennepin.

"BEEP BOOP." The voice pierced the wind like a speakerphone. "PULL OVER THE CAR. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. PULL OVER THE CAR. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. PULL OVER THE CAR."

"Oh shit, what kinda undercover ass cop is that," said Carmichael. "I ain't going to fucking jail, yo."

"She's no cop," said Ramsey. "She's one of my kind. Let me and Sloan handle—"

The convertible veered out of the haze and butted into their side. Sloan's head cracked against Ramsey and Ramsey's head cracked against the window. The other girls screamed.

Ramsey rubbed her skull. Blood ran down her platinum blonde hair like a red highlight. "Damn... Carmichael, you and the others jump ship. This isn't a fight for you guys!"

"No," said Sloan. "The only reason she hasn't royally wrecked our shit already is because of them. They're gone and she drops a barrier right in front of the car, boom."

"THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. PULL OVER OR YOUR GOODS ARE FORFEIT WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO."

"Then what do we do?"

"Surprise her," said Sloan.

She kicked open the backseat door. Simultaneously summoning her gun, she dove the gap onto the convertible, landing only somewhat shakily in the passenger seat, ready to fire.

Except nobody sat in the driver's seat. A small red bubble held down the accelerator. The unmanned wheel made a lazy revolution as the convertible angled for the curb.

Sloan tossed her gun aside and grabbed the wheel. The car righted and at the same time the Terminatrix popped out from the backseat with her silver revolver aimed at Sloan's back. But Sloan's gun, hovering beside her, was already charged and instantly sprayed a stream of light. The Terminatrix had no choice but to form a bubble around herself instead of shooting.

The light hit the bubble and ricocheted into the sky. Sloan abandoned the steering wheel, letting the car drift again, and jumped onto the hood, where she had more maneuverability. Creativity, creativity, she needed a way past Delaney's bubbles. She remembered the stupid image of herself in the backyard. Even if it only distracted for a second—

From the Cadillac, Ramsey lashed her whip. It coiled around the Terminatrix's bubble and acted as an anchor for Ramsey leap out into the convertible. Sloan hastily cut off her gunfire to stop from frying Ramsey's face.

"I got her!" Ramsey said. "Now how do we break this bubble?"

The bubble burst. The whip constricted around the next solid thing it could find: the Terminatrix's torso. Elation lit up Ramsey's face and she pumped her fist. From the Cadillac, her adoring fans cheered.

Despite the whip, the Terminatrix calmly turned her gun and shot Ramsey in the face. Ramsey clapped her hands to her eyes but no wound appeared.

"Ramsey you fucking idiot!" Sloan said.

The situation had gone from bad to worse really quickly. The convertible, still speeding, neared the edge of the road. Just before it struck the curb, Sloan threw herself back to the Cadillac. She hit the hood and clung tight, trying not to slide off. Behind her the convertible went airborne and corkscrewed into oblivion, followed by a series of progressively louder metallic screeches and smashes.

A whip lashed out and coiled around Sloan's leg. Sloan latched her hands to the windshield frame to keep it from yanking her off. Shards of glass dug into her palms and her body stretched its full length into the open air. She glanced behind: the Terminatrix bounced on bubbles along the road, Ramsey under her arm.

Sloan summoned a new gun and severed the whip with one quick shot. Which caused Sloan's lower half to drop against the road and drag through the snow.

I can't use my powers! said Ramsey.

I fucking warned you, said Sloan.

I just wanted to help...

With her gun sending suppressing fire at the Terminatrix, Sloan raised a foot and jammed it into the door handle as she tried to climb back into the car. She was getting the hang of high-speed acrobatics and quickly pulled herself inside, crawling over Carmichael into the vacant passenger seat.

"This is why I don't jump between moving vehicles," said Hennepin.

"Where's the Boss," said Carmichael. "Where she go?"

Something landed on the roof of the car and dented it inward. Sloan summoned another gun and fired. Holes tore through the roof until it peeled back like a sardine can.

Out of the ashen air sailed a body. Sloan stopped her fire just in time as Ramsey thudded into the swarm of screaming girls. The next moment, the Terminatrix landed on both feet, stiletto heels digging into someone's hand. Sloan lifted her gun but hesitated.

"YOU SHOOT," the Terminatrix said, echoing what Sloan already realized, "I BUBBLE."

"And then every normal human in this car gets fried," said Sloan. "You don't want that, do you?" She remembered the Terminatrix was reluctant to fight last time for a similar reason.

"NORMAL? THESE HUMANS, NORMAL? THEY COMPROMISED AS FUCK. GOT IT ON FILE. THIS STUPID ASS RAMSEY SHOWS THEM MAGIC ALL THE TIME. DAVID COPPERFIELD ASS. CRISS ANGEL FUCKING STUPID IDIOT."

"Sorry..." Ramsey muttered.

Other than a few groans and squirms (mostly from the girl with the stiletto-speared hand), the inside of the Cadillac was dead still. Sloan felt that if either she or the Terminatrix moved even an inch, everything would completely explode.

"You still don't want them to die," Sloan said.

"NEITHER DO YOU. SO COME QUIETLY BITCH."

"I told you before, I don't give a shit what I have to destroy. I won't let you stop me from reaching Clair." But hesitating at all was giving her away.

The face on the Terminatrix's mask was no longer Delaney; now it looked like Ramsey. She shifted her stance to stop impaling the one poor girl's hand and rubbed the barrel of her revolver with one hand. As the barrel turned, so turned her mask, from Ramsey to Delaney and back again.

"WELL NOW! I WOULD NEVER WANT TO HARM MY ADORING FANS, BEEP BOOP."

With dramatic aplomb, she struck a pose. A bit of digital glimmer ran down her body.

The girls, cowering against between the seats, poked up their heads, even the one cradling her hand.

"Wow!"

"So cool!"

"She's like hot Daft Punk!"

For a moment, Sloan had no idea what Ramsey's goons were saying. But as their praise grew more unanimous, she realized: the Terminatrix stole Ramsey's likability.

"BEEP BOOP. MY ADORING FANS. I AM SO HAPPY TO HAVE YOU, BECAUSE NORMALLY EVERYONE HATES ME. FOR MY FIRST COMMAND... RESTRAIN THAT BITCH ESCAPING OUT THE WINDOW!"

She pointed at Hennepin, who froze as though caught red-handed, which gave just enough time for three girls to grab various parts of her.

"Hey, hey." Hennepin did not struggle. "Hey, I'm not involved in this. I'm neutral."

Sloan fixed an eye on the Terminatrix. She kept swapping between the Delaney and Ramsey masks, maneuvering her gun with finesse until it seemed like both masks were on at once, Delaney's face phasing through Ramsey's. She was switching between them because she needed to exert Ramsey's magic while keeping ready to deflect Sloan's attack.

That meant the Terminatrix must only be able to use the power of the mask she had active!

"THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION, BEEP BOOP. YOUR POWERS WILL BE TAKEN TEMPORARILY IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE AND THE LAW AND OTHER THINGS ROBOTS ARE PROGRAMMED TO UPHOLD. ONCE THE CRIMINAL SCUM IS ERADICATED, YOUR POWERS WILL BE RETURNED."

"Let's not do this," Hennepin said. "I don't like this."

Sloan waited. Watched the masks cycle. Calibrated the timing.

"Just have these girls go after Fargo, yeah? That's the simpler option, right? Right?"

"I CANNOT SEND HUMANS, COMPROMISED OR NOT, TO FIGHT A DEPRAVED MURDERER." But the Terminatrix seemed hesitant, as though aware Sloan had caught on. "YOUR POWERS WILL BE USEFUL. THIS DISCUSSION IS OVER—"

Sloan made her move.

The revolver barrel clicked and the mask landed on Delaney's face. A bubble sprouted before Sloan, flattening several girls beneath it or shunting them to the walls, but Sloan was already diving headfirst over the expanding bubble during the time it took the Terminatrix to flick the barrel to an empty chamber and swap her mask to the generic wraithlike visage from their first encounter.

Sloan came down hard and fast. The Terminatrix turned to shoot and at the same moment Sloan resummoned her gun, not to fire but so its long barrel expanded out and bashed the Terminatrix in the wrist. Her hand opened and the revolver flew out.

The next moment, Sloan crashed into her. The Terminatrix bounced against the door and smashed the window to glitter. She rebounded, her mask twitching and flickering with static, her arms jerking back and forth.

Sloan scanned for the revolver but instead noticed the Corvette racing alongside them, Lynette with her vodka bottle in one hand and the other clutched to the steering wheel.

On the roof of the Corvette sat the last doll, Tassel-hat. It waved.

The Terminatrix blindsided Sloan with a karate chop to the throat. Sloan clutched her neck, rasping. The Terminatrix forced her onto the writhing mass of bodies and aimed a hooked set of fingers at Sloan's Soul Gem.

A gun clicked and the Terminatrix froze. Ramsey stood behind her, the silver revolver raised.

"I did it!" she said. "I got her now!"

The Terminatrix swept out a kick that knocked Ramsey off her feet. She snatched the gun from Ramsey's hand while she fell.

Sloan would have slapped her forehead at Ramsey's antics, but she had a split second window while the Terminatrix's head was turned, so instead she shoved her hands against the Terminatrix and heaved. The Terminatrix lifted off of her, into the air, her body weightless from Sloan's magic. Up she went, out the open roof of the Cadillac. Her limbs flailed as though swimming, but nothing could redirect her ascent. She gave up trying and aimed her revolver down at Sloan. But Sloan anticipated it and grabbed the closest piece of worthless material to block the shot: Ramsey.

Ramsey squirmed, tiny without her Dalmatian coat, but as the shot rang out and she yipped nothing actually happened—her powers were already stolen.

The Terminatrix vanished into the low mist. Sloan pushed Ramsey off and sat up. The Corvette still drove alongside them, but the doll had disappeared from its roof. Given how close the cars were, Sloan suspected the doll had found some way onto the Cadillac.

Fuck. Sloan scanned the girls, picked out Hennepin attempting to burrow beneath the seats, and wrapped an arm around her torso. The downside of the weightlessness magic was that it wore off quickly, and according to Sloan's internal timer the Terminatrix would be dropping back down soon. Before that happened, Sloan shouldered Hennepin, leapt out of the Cadillac, and landed atop the Corvette.

Hennepin dug her fingers into Sloan's body. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Getting on the faster car."

With her car parkour now down pat, she pulled open the Corvette's door and lobbed Hennepin into the passenger seat.

"Step on it!" she yelled at Lynette.

Lynette gave a thumbs up. As Sloan slammed the door shut and scurried onto the roof to shoot anything that tried to get close, the Corvette spurted ahead, quickly whipping around a corner. The scenery that flashed past shifted from suburban sameness to the larger towers of the inner city. Once they came out the other side, they would be close to Eden Prairie. Close to Clair.

Sloan heard a heavy thump on the Corvette behind her and whirled around. It was hard to tell with snow whipping everywhere, but she didn't see anything. Maybe the trunk?

The Cadillac already lagged behind them. On the hood knelt Tassel-hat, no longer waving, its arms folded in a sulky pout. Sloan flipped it off, then scanned for the other thing she had to watch out for, but the mist increasingly rendered everything indistinct.

Ramsey, talk to me. Where's the Terminatrix.

If I go too far away from my gem I'm gonna die, y'know?

The response puzzled her until she realized it was Hennepin. Shut up. I brought you along so you wouldn't get your powers jacked. Ramsey, where are you?

Ramsey finally spoke up.

Uh, hey Sloan. I'm here. I know I messed up, but I'll help any way I can. We gotta beat Clair, right? I can't let my personal issues get in the way—

Where's the Terminatrix, Sloan said.

Please don't be mad at me, but she's not in the car. I don't know where she is. Oh, and, uh, tell Lynette to slow down, okay? Carmichael can't keep up.

Only the dim circles of headlights remained of the Cadillac behind them. Sloan knelt atop the Corvette, sticking to it with sheer magical willpower as she surveyed the road and the towers around her. She disliked not knowing the Terminatrix's location. What had that thump been?

Sloan? Are you there? You need to slow down...

Ramsey, tell Carmichael to stop. Stop your car. Stop following.

What? The voice weakened, either from the distance or the wind or dwindling self esteem. You want me to... stay here?

You're no good without your powers, Ramsey. I'll handle Clair myself. I don't need you. Mostly she didn't want her to bring Tassel-hat straight to her, but there was no point trying to explain that.

Oh... said Ramsey.

Are you doing it? Are you stopping? If you want to help me, stop your car.

Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell Carmichael to stop right now. You're right.

The Cadillac disappeared completely.

Good. Minimal fuss. Sloan had no patience for long, drawn out pleading.

Don't worry about me, she said. I can beat Clair. I know I can.

Yeah. Good luck. Yeah.

Sloan breathed out. Maybe that thump was just a pothole. It was too damn cold on the roof with the wind pounding her. She swung down the side of the car, opened the passenger door, and hooked herself inside.

She shuffled Hennepin's temporary corpse over enough to sit and sealed out the cold with a slam. The howl subsided into a muted muffle and despite sharing her seat with a dead body, Sloan felt her heart calm and her blood slow.

"Damn girl," said Lynette. "Some stunt you pulled. Jumping between cars? People can't do that shit."

"Becoming a Magical Girl enhances your body," Sloan said.

"Magical Girl? That's what you call it?"

"I didn't make the name." Too bad the Corvette had no backseat. Hennepin's limp head sagged against Sloan's shoulder. The girl weighed a lot more than Sloan expected, and was only slightly less obstinate dead than alive.

"Well, let's talk serious for a moment," said Lynette. "You're gonna kill Clair, right?"

"Yes."

Lynette stared ahead. Phantom street signs lit up in her headlights. "I'll help."

Great. Just what Sloan needed, more functionally worthless and potentially distracting people who wanted to help. "You're helping enough by driving. A normal person stands no chance against magic. She'll tear you to pieces."

"I know." A smile parted on Lynette's lips. "She knows it too. Which means she won't consider me a threat. If she's preoccupied fighting you, I can sneak up behind her..."

"That won't work. There's only one way to kill a Magical Girl. You have to destroy their Soul Gem."

"You mean like that thing on your stomach?"

Sloan looked down. Her coat was unbuttoned (or rather ripped open), revealing her skimpy Magical Girl attire beneath. Her bare skin glistened with frost. When Lynette gave Sloan a sly wink, Sloan seized the sides of her coat and furiously fitted the remaining buttons back together.

"Yeah, like that," said Sloan. "That's the only place she's weak. Destroy it and she's dead instantly."

"So I go for her stomach."

"No, that's just mine," said Sloan. "Hers is..."

Sloan searched her memory, drew a mental picture of Clair in her Greco-Roman regalia, the long folds of toga, the golden sandals and bare arms. A look that suited her so poorly, exemplified her slight frame and brought out her red eyes as a violent splotch of color. In this mental image, Sloan quickly located Clair's gem: right shoulder, a dull ruby set within a clasp that pinned the strap of her gown. Wait, was that it? That was where Delaney kept her gem. Sloan wasn't getting confused, was she?

No, Sloan remembered clear enough. Clair's gem was also on the shoulder. Shouldn't Sloan have thought about this earlier, when she first prepared herself to fight Clair? When she came up with those strategies, like not getting angry. It hadn't even crossed her mind, and she wondered why.

Maybe Clair would borrow one of Delaney's tricks and swap her gem with a fake. It was such an obvious ploy every girl ought to do it. Although Sloan guessed not too many girls could afford real precious stones for a decoy.

"It's on her shoulder," said Sloan. "You'll find it."

"So you're down with the plan?" said Lynette.

"I..."

Maybe. It gave Sloan a strategic ace. Lynette's voice maintained a casual apathy but in her eye gleamed something more. A desperate determination Sloan recognized as a mirror image of herself. She too was a girl whose entire life had been carefully deconstructed by Clair's all-consuming presence... She actually seemed more eager about it than Sloan herself.

"I..."

Sloan, no!

Sloan looked around. The road stretched behind and the road stretched ahead. Snow and mist everywhere. Hennepin's dead body and room for nobody else.

Sloan, don't rely on her to fight for you... Have faith in yourself, okay?

The voice was unmistakable. Omaha? Where the hell are you?

That's... not important! What's important is you beat Clair yourself. That's what's important to you, right...?

Sloan looked under her seat for any traces of blood. There was nowhere Omaha could possibly be. Unless... the trunk. Was that the thump she heard earlier? Though Omaha was good at not making noise.

"It doesn't matter what you say," said Lynette. "I'm gonna try anyway. You might as well use me like the tool I am. Ha ha ha!"

Sloan was mostly still thinking about Omaha, so she muttered a terse "Whatever." Lynette's determination probably didn't matter, since Clair's music incapacitated any human who heard it, like a wraith miasma, turning them into shambling zombies. No need to tell Lynette that, though.

"How close are we?" Sloan asked.

"Close. When we get there, you gonna shoot shit up?"

"That's the idea. You worried about your parents?"

"Fuck my parents," said Lynette. "Fuck Eden Prairie. Fuck Minneapolis. Fuck MINNESOTA. Who decided to build a city here? What was their fucking impetus? How many Norwegian fucks decided their own damn country wasn't cold enough so they had to come here of all places? A race of idiots beaten by the snow until their brows folded inward. There's that stereotype about Minnesotans, oh they're so nice, but really you know what it is? They're all fucking LOBOTOMIZED. A few more years and I'll be the same."

They swerved around a bend. Around them fluttered strings of multicolored fairies weaving in and out of the mist. Christmas lights. They were damn close now. Gone was the Land of Coke and Hookers, come was the Land of Yuletide Cheer. Of woolen sweaters and cookie trays, of fuming chimneys and woodstoves burning. Sloan's fists clenched. The Terminatrix and the dolls were behind her. Who knew how long until they caught up, but that was all the better: it gave her an incentive not to waste time. She had one objective, and one only. Clair Ibsen.

Are you ready, Sloan? said Omaha's voice.

Yes.

If you want to win... don't mess around with anyone else she might throw at you. Go straight for her.

I know.

I believe in you! You can do it!

Sloan did not respond. Her heart palpitated with useless blood.

The car slid to an abrupt halt despite the ice. Great floodlights penetrated skyward from the snow to illuminate a tall iron gate and the sign beside it:

EDEN ESTATES.

Lynette put the car in park but left the engine running. She gathered her coat around herself and opened the door. Her boots crunched against the ice as she walked to the gate's password input system.

Sloan drummed her fingers against the glove box. Lynette mashed keys slowly, with trembling fingers. Sloan drummed faster. Cold air sluiced through the open door.

Lynette pushed the final key. The gate uttered an ominous groan as it fought against the snow piled against it.

Sloan drummed faster.

A thought struck her. She should make sure Hennepin was out of sight. If the Terminatrix caught up, it would be like leaving her a free power-up.

While the gate continued at its monumental pace, Sloan hit the lever to disengage the trunk and went out with Hennepin slung over her shoulder. She shielded her face from the wind with a hand and rounded the car.

As expected, Omaha was curled up in the trunk. She waved at Sloan with her sloppy wrist. Wrapped in her other arm was the fourth doll.

Hi. I hope you don't mind... I snuck in here before you left the house. Don't worry about the doll... She won't do anything as long as I hold her. She won't hurt me...

Sloan dropped Hennepin on top of Omaha and slammed the trunk shut.

Wait. Snuck in before they left the house? Then she wasn't the thump Sloan heard after all?

Sloan got a bad feeling.

"Bah," Lynette shouted as the gates continued to open, her voice almost drowned beneath the wind. "This is taking forever, let's—"

Two things happened at once, in such rapid succession they almost seemed choreographed. First, from between the gates leapt a hooded figure encircled by a ring of shiny silver discs. The figure—St. Paul—landed near Lynette and decked her in the face. Lynette dropped cold.

The second thing that happened was a gunshot. Sloan staggered back as a dull, painless, but significant force impacted her foot. She stared at her boot, but saw no hole or wound.

St. Paul stood by Lynette's body, consternation on her face as though she only now realized it was not Sloan she punched.

From under the Corvette, with lithe and snaky motions of her limber body, the Terminatrix emerged. Sloan boggled. How did she fit down there? But then she noticed the smoking revolver in the Terminatrix's hand and forgot everything else.

Oh no. Oh no this wasn't happening.

Sloan summoned her gun, and a wave of relief hit her as it appeared when commanded, long and heavy in her hands. The barrel spun, swiftly building momentum until it was ready to fire.

But it didn't fire.

It just spun and spun and spun, worthless.

The Terminatrix clicked her revolver. Her mask shifted from Delaney's face to Sloan's own face. Same squinted eyes, mouth agape in moderate idiocy.

"BEEP BOOP. I AM A PROFESSIONAL ROBOT, DID YOU KNOW? MY ENTIRE LIFE REVOLVES AROUND HUNTING DOWN WHIMSICAL LITTLE BITCHES LIKE YOU AND MAKING THEM PAY FOR THEIR SINS. I'LL GRANT YOU HAVE AN ABOVE-AVERAGE LUCK STAT, OR AT LEAST THE UNIVERSE IS CONSPIRING TO KEEP YOU ALIVE FOR WHATEVER REASON. BUT I AIN'T ABOUT LUCK. I'M ABOUT RUINING YOUR FUCKING DAY."

Oh no, oh no... said Omaha. Sloan, did she... oh no, oh no, let me out of here Sloan, I can help!

To open the trunk, Sloan needed to pull the lever by the front seat. But that was currently low on Sloan's list of priorities, because the Terminatrix's hands started to glow gold. Sloan knew this attack. It was her own damn attack, after all.

She tucked her head low (closing her eyes was not enough, since her light could fry corneas through eyelid skin) and charged the Terminatrix. She still had her gun, which meant she could still smash her to bloody pulp.

The light flared. Even with her face nearly pressed against her chest she sensed it, her eyes crinkling as, sightless, a field of red replaced the black. She swung her arm and the gun and connected with a ribcage. The Terminatrix grunted and slammed against the Corvette.

Sloan lifted her head, opened her eyes, and raised her gun to bring down on the mirror-image mask. The Terminatrix shot out a leg and caught Sloan in the stomach. The gun flew from her hands as she sailed backward, bounced against the snow, and rolled into an inflatable Santa Claus in front of a house.

"NICE GUN, BITCH."

Sloan sat up. The Terminatrix held the machine gun in both hands, lifting it with some exertion to inspect the length of its barrel.

Immediately Sloan was on her feet and running. The Terminatrix revved up and sprayed Vietnam levels of gunfire against the landscape, forcing momentous chunks of snow skyward. Sloan struggled through the snow for her fucking life as the Terminatrix loosed a loud and metallic laugh, the same curt syllable timed to the ratatat of the gun: HA HA HA HA HA HA.

On the edge of Sloan's periphery she noticed St. Paul sprinting along the top of the black iron gate, keeping pace with Sloan. St. Paul pointed her finger and three discs detached from the ring around her to fly in Sloan's direction. One intersected a random beam of light and reflected it at a severe angle.

This couldn't get worse, could it?

Wait. WAIT.

St. Paul was running alongside Sloan. In doing so, she kept Sloan directly between her and the stationary Terminatrix. She probably did it for no real reason, a banal sense that Sloan was her target and thus she must keep close to her. But with her positioned exactly that way...

Oh god. Sloan thought she might actually have an idea.

Sloan jumped at the three discs as they sailed at her. She hit the smooth top of the first disc, bounded over the next two, and flipped through the air as she angled her body directly through the eye of the ring of discs surrounding St. Paul's undefended body.

After a brief delay, St. Paul recognized the danger. She crossed her arms and the ring closed in front of her, creating a solid, impenetrable shield. Sloan hit the discs and bounced back into the snow.

All according to plan.

The Terminatrix's aim followed Sloan's every movement. She raised her gun in tandem with Sloan's leap. Now, as Sloan dropped on her back in the snow, the spray of light passed over her, hit the discs, and reflected straight back the way it came.

SURPRISE, Sloan thought.

Sloan's gun, when firing at full capacity, could be hard to keep stable. It often took the whole body, planted in place. In snow this deep, the Terminatrix had literally dug in. She could not dodge quickly. She realized this and, with barely any time to spare, dropped the gun and flicked the barrel of her revolver. Her mask switched to Delaney's face and a red bubble ballooned around her. The light hit it and bounced back the way it came.

ALL ACCORDING TO PLAN.

The light hit the discs. It bounced back and hit the bubble. It bounced back and hit the discs. An endless cycle of reflection, the light gaining velocity, becoming a solid yellow bar between the barriers. The silver discs glowed orange, the bubble pulsed with pressure.

Sloan believed her light could break any barrier given enough sustained fire. The problem was that barriers tended to send light back the way it came. But now... but now...

Cracks spread across the discs. The bubble squeezed smaller and smaller.

Sloan threw her head back in the snow and laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

What is it, Sloan? said Omaha. What's going on...?

St. Paul's discs shattered in a spray of shards. The Terminatrix's bubble burst in a deluge of blood. Light shot out in both directions. St. Paul and the Terminatrix flew back. St. Paul dropped onto the other side of the fence, the Terminatrix dropped in the snow.

The light dissipated with a sparkle. On the ground, neither girl stirred.

Sloan pulled herself up and staggered for the Terminatrix. Her helmet had flown off, revealing a surprisingly human head, no circuitry or wires, only long black hair tied into a compact bun. Sloan dropped on top of her, wrapped a hand around the throat, and angled the face to stare at her.

The Terminatrix had one eye. In the other socket was her Soul Gem, a hunk of pure onyx. Sloan hooked her fingers into a claw and dug them in. The Terminatrix moaned, her legs scuffled.

One forceful tug and the onyx popped out, slick with gelatin. Sloan clasped it in her hand and patted the Terminatrix on the cheek.

"Give me my powers back."

The Terminatrix blinked. A lazy eye rolled, glassy and dull.

"Give me my powers back."

The eye snapped open. It peered up at Sloan. The Terminatrix coughed.

"No," she said. Her voice was shrill without voice modification.

Sloan held the Soul Gem where the Terminatrix could see it. "Give me my powers back."

"You... are a dangerous girl, Sloan Redfearn."

"Did I ask for admonishment? No. I asked for my powers back." She glanced over her shoulder. St. Paul remained motionless.

"Do you know why Kyubey pays us to terminate girls like you, Redfearn? The things you do have more consequences than you even know."

"Demons, right?" said Sloan. "Heard that one before. Give me my powers back."

"I know no demons," said the Terminatrix. "No demons but you. I can see in your eyes. You'll burn this whole city if you have to. You'll burn this whole world! I see it! I see it, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha—"

Her laugh ended abruptly as she spat into Sloan's eye. Sloan reared back and the Terminatrix rose, hands groping for Sloan's stomach.

Sloan tightened her fist. Like a thing of paper, the gem crumpled.

The Terminatrix's eye went wide. Her hands and body hung half-raised, then dropped into the snow.

Her costume, the sleek black bodysuit, disappeared. The mask, fallen some ways away, disappeared too. Ragged scraps flapped in the wind against the Terminatrix's body.

Sloan opened her fist. Black dust trickled out and spiraled into the storm.

Had she... had she expected to crush it completely? Did she have that much power? When she tried to break Omaha's gem in Williston, she failed... But her own gem was much more powerful now. She was much more powerful now.

She much more wanted to kill now.

Sloan stood up, her legs shaky, her stomach stricken by a dull pang. She backed away from the corpse.

This isn't the first time you've killed someone, idiot. It was self-defense this time, too. You would have had to kill her eventually if you wanted your powers back. Stay focused.

She was just doing her job.

SHE NEVER SHOULD HAVE TAKEN SUCH A STUPID JOB.

Sloan turned away. Her powers were back. They had to be back. She summoned her gun and fired it into the sky. Okay, her powers were back. Then Ramsey's powers were back, too. And Delaney's.

Sloan? Sloan, what's happening? Please, tell me... I'm scared...

I'm fine. Stay put. You're safer in there.

Sloan wiped her hand on her coat. She walked past Lynette's prone body and through the open gate into Eden Estates. She walked to the dark lump of St. Paul in the snow.

St. Paul was unconscious. She had transformed back into her regular attire, a plain sweatpants-sweatshirt combination. In her upturned palm sat her undamaged Soul Gem in egg form.

No need to kill this one, Sloan. Just pocket the gem.

Sloan knelt, picked up the gem, and placed it in her pocket.

She had to kill the Terminatrix to get her powers back. That was the only reason. If the Terminatrix had not stolen her powers, Sloan would not have killed her. That wasn't an excuse. That wasn't to say it was the Terminatrix's fault she got killed. Sloan killed her. But that was the fucking reality out here, okay? The Terminatrix would have killed her. She was just a fucking robot. Programmed by Kyubey.

Get it out of your head, dipshit. Think about Clair. Focus.

Sloan wandered down the road into Eden Estates. The suburban houses twinkled, warm and cozy inside. Families beside Christmas trees, families around a table. Fireplaces, scented candles. Milk and cookies.

Ramsey, Hennepin, St. Paul, Omaha no longer in the fight. The Terminatrix no longer in the fight. That left Bloomington, Woodbury, Anoka. And Clair. If she dallied, the dolls would catch up. Better, then, not to dally.

Houses passed. Sloan still remembered which was Clair's. All the way at the end.

It loomed into view. The mailbox read the surname. Sloan maintained her steady tread up the driveway. She kept her eyes open for an ambush and noticed a face at the edge of the haze. Sloan stopped and aimed toward it and the face melted back, away from view. Sloan couldn't be sure, but she thought it was Bloomington.

Bloomington was the lowest concern on her list. Better not chase her into the snow. If she wants to fight, deal with her then.

Sloan stepped under the awning above the front door. The snow ceased its patter on her back and she shook flakes from her shoulders. Light filtered through the peephole and under the door.

Sloan placed her hand on the knob. It turned. The door opened. Sloan entered.

Chapter 26: Ibsen

Warmth hit Sloan in a humid burst. Her nose dribbled; frost turned to slush on her coat. She shut the door and sealed out the storm.

The house had not changed. An immaculate space, pristine rather than sterile, inundated with kind browns and faint pastels. Everywhere, everywhere birds. They spread wings on wallpaper, preened within oak frames, propped end tables with brass necks, peeped cherubic behind chandelier candles.

Distantly, a harp played.

Sloan held her gun at her hip and peered up the stairs, where the lights were off. Clair's room was up there, but Sloan decided to clear the ground floor first.

The kitchen fumed with chocolate chip scent. Beside the oven stood Mrs. Ibsen in a flamingo-speckled apron. She stared at her oven mitts with eyes sightless, no tray in the empty space between her hands. Her body rocked slowly back and forth. She did not notice Sloan.

Past the kitchen, Mr. Ibsen sat on the couch. Television images danced across his face. Sloan blocked his view of the screen, but he made no reaction.

The standard reaction of humans inside a wraith miasma—or Clair's soundscapes. The harp played in the distance.

Sloan scanned for distortions in continuity. Anything wrong or unusual. False walls, hidden corners. But it looked exactly as she remembered, eagles and egrets and all, the entire avian bestiary metamorphosed into kitsch. The same damn cuckoo clock over the television. No sign of Clair or her goons.

She returned to the stairs. On the first step, the background music added a new instrument.

Poo-tee-weet. Like a whistle, in perfect harmony with the harp.

Poo-tee-weet. Poo-tee-weet. Poo-tee-weet.

It increased in volume while the harp remained faint. Sloan stared up the darkened stairs, where the whistle originated. Poo-tee-weet, poo-tee-weet.

Then she heard it much closer.

She turned halfway, keeping an eye on the stairs. The whistle continued, definitely on the ground floor now.

In fact, it came from the wall beside her.

Her hands tightened over her gun as she crouched to inspect the sound. It came from a specific spot on the wall. She pinpointed it, a place where a pileated woodpecker, wings spread in perpetuity, adorned the wallpaper.

Sloan leaned closer. Poo-tee-weet. Poo-tee-weet. The woodpecker itself made the sound. Its two-dimensional beak opened and closed.

It shivered. Its wings fluttered. Its head turned toward Sloan. A black bead of an eye locked onto her. It screeched and ruffled the feathers across its breast and peeled from the wall to plop to the floor. Sloan stepped back as the little lump breathed and shook, its body building proportion and dimension, its colors brightening and adjusting beneath the light. It lurched to its knotty, bony feet and gazed up at Sloan.

All across the wall, and the other walls, and the end tables and the framed paintings and the embroidered kitchen apparel and the woven rugs, every single bird in the house began to poo-tee-weet. The symphony was deafening, fusing the vocal ranges of a hundred species into a harmonic chorus. The house trilled with wings, seethed with them, came alive in constant undulation.

Starting with those closest to the woodpecker, the birds cascaded from the wallpaper. They spread their wings and took flight before they even struck the ground, hawks and larks and finches and jackdaws in a single gargantuan flock. Sloan staggered back and covered her face with an arm as the birds swept her. Talons scraped her skin. She struck a wall, toppled to the ground. Beaks tore at her jacket and the endless poo-tee-weet scoured her eardrums.

An illusion, Sloan! Get off your ass, Clair can't summon so many, she's filling the blanks with trickery. A swirl of plumage suffocated her sight, and something cut her for real, but not all the birds were corporeal. Most phased through her. She swung her arm to beat back the birds at her face, propelled herself upright, and fired her gun down the hall. The poo-tee-weet became a clamor as the birds encircled her. Some dropped out of the sky and some rose to the ceiling.

The eyes of the birds turned bright red. They regrouped into a living tendril and spiraled directly into her chest. The wind collapsed in Sloan's lungs. She hurtled backward into the living room, skidding, digging her heels into the carpet to slow herself, while her gun clattered away somewhere. The birds—their feathers changed color too, color melting away, becoming sickly shades of gray, becoming white—spread to comprise the form of a massive single bird, a bird of all birds. It opened its beak and unleashed an unearthly poo-tee-weet, so loud the house shook.

Its eye was a single black crow against the white. Sloan knew that crow—Clair's familiar, Matthis.

She commanded her fallen gun to aim for Matthis, but the birds immediately broke formation and Matthis vanished beneath layers and layers of white—like doves, giant doves with jagged, hooked talons—as they swept down at Sloan, a tsunami.

To her side, the television played football. She was slammed into it. Rather than break it, though, she sagged against the screen as though the plasma were a mucus membrane, stretching inward to the football field on the other side. Deeper she sank, pushed by the feathery onslaught, until her body tore through and she plummeted headfirst into the stadium.

She groaned on the turf and rolled over. Above her, the birds constrained to chase her through the screen, which hovered in the sky. The first pierced the plasma with their crooked beaks and swarmed in scattered ranks around her.

The stadium seats were devoid of spectators, but the ground quaked as two teams raged across the field. Not men in cleats and uniforms, but real Bengal tigers and real Vikings. The Vikings snarled war chants, timed to the poo-tee-weet of the birds, timed to the faint distant harp. They hacked axes into the tigers, black and orange striped, who responded with howls and heavy claws.

Sloan had a moment to wonder: What a world Clair made, all for her.

A tiger bowled Sloan over. She skidded through the turf and a Viking horde trampled her. Christ, Clair. Well, it was her home. Intimate familiarity probably enabled stronger application of her powers. Sloan rolled, flipped to her feet, and despite everything grinned at the ridiculously intricate details of the stadium, the goalposts and yard markers, the billboards and the zeppelin coasting through the sky. Clair probably researched authentic Norse attire beforehand, even if Sloan would never be able to tell. She once told Sloan that for an illusion to work she must believe it herself. That wasn't unique to Clair; all magical power stemmed from a girl's belief in her own magic. When light struck St. Paul's discs, it reflected exactly the way it came. St. Paul knew no better, possessed only a tenuous grasp of physics. But Clair poured hours of assiduous study into her creations, forced them to conform to the facts of science and ecology, deviance only done in acceptably fantastic ways. Logic structures within logic structures, towers of code written in musical notes, executed not by computer keyboard but the next best thing: Clair's fingertips across a string.

A system so perfect made Sloan want to destroy it.

Tigers, birds, and Vikings lumbered at her. She kicked into the air and flipped onto the first row of stands. With all her enemies arrayed before her, she leaned back and fired. The barrel roared. Light shredded the turf in a single piercing ray, slicing the manicured grass and the bodies of every painstaking illusion Clair conjured. They either dropped in pieces or vanished altogether. Sloan's power was light. Light was truth. Truth pierced illusion. If Sloan conceived of her magic in such a way, it became so easy. Light versus darkness, and Sloan's raw power far exceeded Clair's.

Pieces of the stadium flecked away, leaving plain white space exposed behind it. Was this the best you could create, Clair? The Vikings and tigers were eradicated. Only a few remnant birds spiraled through the sky to escape her fire. Shrouded in the mass of white wings was the single large crow, Matthis.

Sloan shot through the group. The white birds dissolved in ash; Matthis zipped ahead and pivoted toward Sloan.

He actually moved fucking fast in full dive, talons bared for Sloan's gut. But his attack came too late. With nothing left to distract her, Sloan blasted him and he dropped in a bundle of flesh and feathers.

The remains of the stadium dispersed, like miasma once the wraiths are dead. Sloan stood in the Ibsen living room. The television and much of the wall behind it were now debris, shimmering with her light. The cuckoo clock dangled from its nail. Matthis twitched at her feet.

The rest of the house was untouched. Both Ibsen parents remained in their original positions. The only difference was that the birds were gone. There was not a single one on the wallpaper or rugs or anywhere else. The paintings showed only empty trees and blank skies. The figurines had vanished off the counter.

Not good. The house should be back to normal, tacky bird theme included. Sloan reminded herself not to underestimate Clair. Illusions inside illusions was a Clair stunt to pull.

The poo-tee-weet tweeted nevermore, but the harp continued its faint and distant arpeggio. Sloan checked if any of Clair's goons had crept in while Matthis distracted her, which seemed the obvious purpose of the illusion, unless it was just to show off. Without birds the rooms were sparse and strange, many parts a perfect and unbroken white. Like a sanatorium. The zombified Mr. and Mrs. Ibsen enhanced the feeling.

Whatever. Time to go upstairs. She ascended with caution, testing each step. When she reached the top she carefully felt for the switch. Light flooded in, revealing a normal hallway with four doors, all closed.

Sloan kept close to the wall and shuffled to the first door. For a moment she wondered if Clair was aware of the dolls and designed diversions so they could catch up. A distinct possibility, since Clair knew about this time demon everyone but Sloan thought was a big deal. The point was, quit being scared and open the door.

She turned the knob. Inside was the master bedroom, empty. She shut the door and continued down the hall. The next door was the upstairs bathroom, also empty. Sloan drew the shower curtains to make sure.

The harp played.

Two rooms remained: Lynette's and Clair's. Lynette's came first. Sloan slid against the door, took a deep breath, and flung it open. Lynette's room was the sole messy part of the entire household. Discarded clothes surrounded an unmade bed. Posters of goth idols peeled from tacks. Several conspicuous holes dotted the plaster.

Otherwise, the room was empty. Which meant Clair was waiting in her own room, likely with a nasty surprise. It made sense, but Sloan didn't have to like it.

Sloan shut the door and started down the remaining hallway but stopped after a single step. A girl stood before her, bathed in the hallway light, epaulets and armor aglow with sublime magnificence dulled by the decay of her clothes. Her cape was mended with patches. Her stockings had small holes. A frayed collar framed her determined face, her hair pulled into a long ponytail.

It wasn't Clair. Or Bloomington. Or Woodbury.

"Hello, Fargo," said the girl. Her stance did not waver, stiff between Sloan and the door to Clair's room. "Long time no see, eh?"

Sloan knew this girl from somewhere. After a few seconds, she realized.

"You're that girl I saw in Fargo." Four nights ago (or was it five?), in the alley. When Sloan's gem verged on depletion. They scuffled over a single wraith. The girl got the drop on Sloan but let her keep half the cubes anyway. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Her only weapon was a sheathed scimitar. That was all she used in Fargo, too. A pretty lousy fighter if Sloan remembered correctly. She only won because Sloan's gem was shit back then. But not anymore.

"Back then I didn't have a name worth telling." The girl folded her arms. "Now you can call me Anoka."

That was the night Kyubey told Sloan to go to Williston. The night everything started. And now she was the enigmatic Anoka. The Anoka with no powers (according to Hennepin), and yet whom Clair held as her final ace.

"Out of my way," said Sloan. "My business doesn't concern you."

"I have sworn to protect this city," said Anoka. "It's my duty to protect the people from wraiths like you, Fargo." She punctuated her words with thick breaths that puffed despite the warmth inside the house. "Minneapolis gave me a place to call home. I will fight to protect that home."

"My business doesn't concern this city," said Sloan. "Out of my way."

"I journeyed a long way to come here." Anoka affected a tone that indicated the onset of a pretentious, self-important speech. "I crossed mountains and prairies and nations. I scraped by on leavings from the fringes of territories of much stronger girls, or from scattered wastes where no girl lived. I know what you intend to do, Fargo. I am here to administer the justice you deserve—"

Sloan swung her gun into Anoka's side and slammed her against the wall. Anoka took the blow with no resistance, no attempt to evade. She grunted and dropped to her knees.

Easier than expected. Sloan walked past. Clair's room was steps away.

Anoka's voice came strained. "The first thing... you should know about me... is I have a high tolerance... for pain."

A shard of agony sliced through Sloan. She clutched hooked hands to her skull. Her knees wobbled, she sagged against the wall, she fought to regain control of herself. But the pain spread like wildfire, flaring through her head until she wanted to rip out her brain and stomp it on the ground.

Behind her, Anoka rose. She wiped a little blood from her mouth and drew her scimitar. "Pain kills people. Even Magical Girls. Especially Magical Girls. They're so used to muting pain that when they really feel it, they can't handle it. If a girl suffers enough, she drops straight into despair."

Sloan briefly thought about the pain caused by those dolls, then brushed off the words as enigmatic prattle. She shot out a boot and struck Anoka in the ankle. Anoka dropped onto a well-aimed punch to the gut and rolled away clutching her stomach. Sloan leaned against the wall and lifted herself. So close to Clair's room...

Another spasm of pain seared through Sloan, worse than before. Her entire body cramped and she curled against the ground, grinding her face into the carpet. Jesus shitting fuck what was this Anoka bitch doing? No spells, no attacks, just taking Sloan's blows. Hennepin said Anoka had no discernable powers. Said she was weak and useless. But Clair—

Her fingers curled as she pushed herself up. The long shadow of Anoka rose down the hall ahead of her.

"You should turn back. Really. It only gets worse, trust me. I've seen girls do horrible things when the pain became unbearable. Things that scared me. If you want it to stop, just tell me. The exit's behind you."

Sloan crawled forward.

"Oh well," said Anoka. "Guess we can do it the hard way too."

Anoka's shadow lifted her long, curved blade. Sloan betrayed no indication she noticed. When the blade dropped, she rolled to the side and let it sink into the carpet. She seized Anoka's wrist and squeezed until she relinquished the hilt, but as Sloan tried to grab it the pain flared again and she hissed.

A voice spoke from down the hall.

"I understand you are a slow learner, Sloan."

Sloan forgot her pain and looked up. Clair stood in her school uniform beside the door to her room.

"However," Clair said, "your inability to comprehend Anoka's powers seems inept even by your standards."

"Clair," Sloan said.

"I suppose I should simply tell you, since it matters little anyway," said Clair. "Is that all right, Anoka, or would you prefer to leave it a mystery?"

Anoka yanked her wrist from Sloan's loosened grasp. "Go ahead."

"Very well. Anoka's rather interesting power causes all pain to return, magnified, to the one who inflicted it. For wraiths, this rarely matters; it is dubious whether they are capable of feeling pain, being comprised of it. Indeed, even, against most Magical Girls, Anoka's powers are of little benefit. Most Magical Girls have abilities which allow them to resolve conflicts peaceably. Barriers, illusions, or perhaps even the ability to flee. Against nonviolence, Anoka is rather useless."

"No need to lay it on so thick," Anoka grumbled.

"But you, Sloan, have no such abilities. No barriers. No healing. Nothing at all, truly. Only the ability to inflict pain. That is the sole thing you do. You know no other way to resolve conflict. As such, Anoka's unique powers shall punish you tremendously."

Sloan had heard enough of this shit. "Unless I go straight for the snake!"

She held up her hand. Her gun lifted from the ground and pointed at Clair. It sprayed a powerful blast of magic and painted the hallway yellow.

"Unfortunately, it appears your lack of critical thinking skills also causes you to expend worthless energy," said Clair's voice.

Sloan stopped firing. And blinked. Somehow, she had not fired in the direction of Clair at all. She had fired back the way she came, at the stairs. No, that wasn't right. She had not moved, Anoka was still behind her. But somehow the room had revolved, and now Clair and Clair's room were on the opposite end, past Anoka, and... and it made no sense and made Sloan's head hurt, or else that was Anoka's power still.

Fuck. Clair's magic.

"Frankly, Sloan, I am rather disappointed. I'll remain in my room. If Anoka does not defeat you, we can perhaps fight."

She tossed back her hair and glided through the door to her room.

"You SMUG BITCH." Sloan jumped to her feet. Anoka blocked the corridor, her scimitar pointed at Sloan's face. Sloan searched for a Soul Gem, found it embedded on the glove of Anoka's off hand, which she kept close to her body. Easy to defend. But one well-placed strike and pain became a nonfactor. Only death.

She thought about the Terminatrix. The burnished onyx smooth in her hand. It crumpled like paper, and she died.

That didn't matter. Sloan grabbed her gun out of the air and wheeled it toward Anoka. Before she could fire, a telepathic voice invaded her mind. She recognized it instantly.

Sloan. Love. How are you?

Bad time, Delaney.

Hm. I can't say I agree. I think it's a very good time we had a little heart-to-heart.

"Come on, what're you waiting for?" said Anoka, seemingly oblivious.

Where are you, Delaney. And where's your gem?

I'm locked in Clair's closet. As far as I know, Clair has my gem. But that's a trifle beside the point, love! A few more pressing issues are on the table, no? It may be a good time to calm down, breathe deeply, and discuss our current life choices!

Anoka maintained a defensive stance. One side of her scimitar radiated with a thin film of light. Sloan scoured her list of abilities for a painless—and nonlethal—way to dispatch her. If she could get her hands close to Anoka's eyes, she could blind her with a flash of light, though this was still painful, and Sloan worried the rebound effect might blind her, too. Besides, blinding Anoka did not move her out of the way, and blinded girls tended to go berserk, slinging random attacks as fast as possible. In the confined hallway that might make the situation worse.

There was the trick she practiced in Ramsey's backyard, but—

Oh, lovely! Your silence tells me you've taken a moment to find the zen within yourself, Sloan. I don't suppose you do yoga? Pilates?

Anoka's arms trembled. Her whole body shook. Her eyes focused on Sloan's hands, which gripped the gun.

The point, Delaney.

I just wanna make sure you're in a mentally sound state, love. Because I'm gonna talk to you about some things I know you're not gonna like, okay?

"If you stand there all day, that's fine too," said Anoka. "I'll only fight if you insist."

If Sloan waited too long, the dolls would arrive. She needed to crush Anoka fast. Wrestle her to the ground and go for her gem. Like the Terminatrix.

I know you don't want me to talk about that demon. Or the end of the world, or the end of all existence. Okay. That's cool, love. Cuz you know what? I'm kinda not so sure about all that myself.

Sloan feinted left, then swung right. Anoka fell for the trick and leaned against the left wall, opening a space for Sloan to jump past. But Anoka was quick enough to throw herself against Sloan, sandwiching her against the wall, causing both to scrape across the plaster.

You see, I think—and hear me out here, because what I'm about to drop is rather controversial stuff—I think Kyubey's played all of us from the getgo.

The scimitar whipped above. Sloan wrapped her hand around the wrist, struggling to hold the blade back while not crushing the bone. Anoka slapped her ineffectual free hand against Sloan's face.

I mean, he is uncannily good at finding what a girl most desires and using it as leverage. I considered myself too smart for that, but of course, I've been pretty arrogant this whole time, haven't I love?

Sloan dropped her gun and wrapped her other hand around Anoka's. They rolled down to the carpet, butting against the wall and then back to the other wall, engaged in a harmless dance. Sloan's knee accidentally went into Anoka's crotch and she squinted through the resulting pain.

I thought my desire was pretty simple. So simple, I could achieve it without complication. I wanted to do something truly good and selfless and redeem the horror of my life.

Sloan pinned Anoka's off hand—and her Soul Gem—to the ground, while keeping the sword hand in the air. But Sloan had no remaining limbs to pry the gem from its place, and they were too much a mess of torsos for her to shoot her gun telekinetically.

And how convenient. Kyubey soon informed me of a unique opportunity. An opportunity to save the world—no, the universe. All life, all existence. Well, not save it in the sense most would think. No great heroics or public display of courage. He informed me that, should my efforts succeed, nobody would know, not even other Magical Girls. Only God herself would know.

Maybe if Delaney stopped buzzing in her ear Sloan could think a fucking solution. She was about to tell her to shut the fuck up when Anoka wriggled her sword free and slammed the hilt on Sloan's skull.

Which was perfect! Exactly what I wanted. So nobody could accuse me of simple grandstanding. A purely personal atonement. All I had to do was go to Williston and help you a little. Yes, you, love! You're apparently very special to a lot of people, more than you will ever know, I'm afraid.

Sloan instinctively lashed out and jabbed Anoka in the throat. She tried to peel off Anoka's glove, but as she hooked her fingers beneath the fabric around the wrist the pain welled forceful inside her.

I was told few specifics, but I knew you were the key component of Kyubey's plan to usurp that demon. Demons are real, love! Even if you don't believe in God, believe in Hell! After all, if demons aren't real, how can I exist?

Sloan hadn't hit Anoka that hard, but the pain was compounding, getting worse each time, a kaleidoscope of needles that drilled gray matter in little scoops. The interior bone structure of her head became an iron maiden for her brain.

Anyway, Kyubey gave me a bit role to play in his scheme. I was pretty well aware he had little intention for me to live beyond my meager use, and I probably should have accepted that fate, you know? Then I could rest easy in whatever afterlife or antilife awaits me, believing I died contributing to a grander purpose.

Anoka rolled Sloan onto her back and got on top. The emaciated body cast a shadow across Sloan's face. The sword raised high.

You ramble, said Clair.

Well sometimes a terse description of events isn't the best way to make an emotional connection. That's how a computer connects to someone. Not how a person does it!

Or someone pretending to be a person, said Clair.

The sword embedded the ground close to Sloan's ear. "Why not find some other place to live, Fargo? Why come here?"

Ignore Clair, love. In fact, that's the whole point. You need to ignore her, forget about her, drive her from your mind, pack up and leave. Can't you see she's taunting you? If she really wanted to kill you as quickly as possible, why hide in her room while you fight her goons one by one? She wants you mad because the higher your emotion when she kills you, the higher—

Allow me to explain, said Clair. Since I can do so in far fewer words. Sloan Redfearn, you are a minor stepping stone toward my greater ambitions. I engineered our so-called "relationship" from its inception to earn your trust, for the sole purpose of destroying it. Betrayal is a serious sin, especially among Magical Girls. Whoever conceived the overarching rules of our universe made it so. Since our universe is currently presided over by a negligent being—whom some label a "demon"—I must offend the rules of this universe in the most grievous way possible—

Oh come on, you're explaining it way worse. Why are you even explaining it anyway? Unless it's your plan to make things as confusing as possible. Love, can you listen to me for a bit? Blot her out of your mind, if you can.

"Why don't you just leave? What's the point, Fargo?"

This was. All pretty much. Bullshit. Distractions. Pointless. Words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words, words. That was all they ever said, words, and words had never served Sloan at all.

She grabbed Anoka by the waist. Anoka wrenched her sword from the carpet, but she was already drifting upward, weightless, transformed by Sloan's magic into an object unbound by gravity. As her body soared from Sloan's, Sloan somersaulted onto her feet and sprinted for Clair's room.

Sloan! Love! Listen to me! Kyubey intends for you to die, okay? YOU DYING IS PART OF HIS PLAN!

The sword swished through the air and impaled Sloan's back. She grunted and skidded to her knees, blade wedged between bone and tissue, barely missing her spine.

She knows this already, Delaney, said Clair. I told her when we met last. Your shocking revelations will not deter her, because she believes through the power of sheer grit she can unravel designs infinitely beyond her.

Anoka scurried along the ceiling, pressing her boots to the walls for leverage as she swooped down on Sloan. She drew the blade from Sloan's back and raised it to strike again.

Sloan love, even if you kill her, even if you overcome the odds, you'll destroy everything—this whole city, yourself, everything. Is it truly worth it? Is what she did so unforgivable?

If you still have to ask, said Clair, you have a poor understanding of Sloan Redfearn.

AND YOU DO? Sloan wanted to scream. Instead, she rolled away from Anoka's blow. As Anoka lowered back to the ground, Sloan weaved between awkward sword strokes and grabbed at her cape. Anoka pulled her gem hand back, far beyond Sloan's reach, but Sloan had a different idea. Her hands scuffled across skin and cloth, searching for jawline, skull, ear, any portion of head she could grasp, fingers sliding through ponytail, tugging a ribbon somewhere and sending Anoka's hair like a cascade down her shoulders while Anoka fought to angle her body to attack. The blade's edge grazed Sloan's bicep and a second swing dug into her shoulder. Blood splattered down the long brown coat, but Sloan got a grip on Anoka's head.

She had one shot. She needed to knock Anoka unconscious with one clean blow, before she had the chance to feel any pain.

All of her strength concentrated and she slammed Anoka's head against the wall. Plaster dented with a cloud of sawdust. A solid conk resounded down the hall.

"Ow fuck!" said Anoka.

Shit. Sloan slammed Anoka's head again, harder (or more desperately), hoping instead of pure plaster to find a crossbeam or something, but the second blow only caused Anoka to yelp louder. The pain from the first strike exploded in Sloan's head, too immense to contain and so it swiftly spread down her body, drawing her neck taut and stiffening her shoulders, sweeping into her gut with a violent wave of nausea.

Sloan was forced to release Anoka when the second wave of pain followed the first, rolling through her as though all her guts were being blasted out her body to splatter across the hall. Sloan's strength gave out. She sagged to her knees.

Nearby, Anoka rolled around and clutched her temples. Sloan flopped a hand for her, but suffering overrode whatever she expected to accomplish. She writhed instead, random spastic motions. Her foot continually kicked a wall.

Anoka pulled herself to one knee, using the knob to Lynette's room as support. She rested her forehead against the door and propped herself on her scimitar. The point dug deeper and deeper into the carpet as more of her weight pressed against the hilt.

But for Sloan, no recovery, gradual or otherwise, came. A million red alarms in her brain blared humanity's preprogrammed response to pain: GET AWAY, FLEE, RUN. She lifted a limp torso, dropped it again. Her eyeballs roved against an inverted world, ceiling and light and paint and walls and Anoka and Anoka's blade as she slumped against the (not ground) wall, Anoka's arms trembling and one eye twitching and her hair a black mop as inch by inch the quivering sword lifted from the (not wall) ground.

"I can, only imagine, how this feels, for you." She rapped a knuckle against her skull. It made a dull thunk. "Too bad, I'm so, hardheaded, ha ha."

Sloan tried to regain control. Her gun lay (not above) behind Anoka, already aimed almost the right direction. She flicked her eyes. RISE, her brain commanded. Out of the white noise it shouted, RISE!

The gun rose. But if she fired, it would only worsen the situation. If she pumped volley after volley of light into Anoka's back, the pain would compound...

Okay. Fuck it.

Let's see who broke first.

By the time Anoka's slowly rising arms reached a level horizontal, Sloan changed the sole directive inside her brain from RISE to FIRE.

The barrel of the gun spun. Anoka had time to tilt her head and look before it unleashed itself directly into her. She drew her gem hand to her chest for defense as her back arched and she staggered forward, tripped over Sloan's prone body, and slammed into the wall at the end of the hallway. The light flayed her without mercy, shredding her cape and leathern armor. Her body bent at a weird angle, the wall caved inward from the force of the light crushing her against it. She screamed, a long and tapering wail at a falsetto pitch.

Sloan braced herself by digging her teeth into the furred collar of her coat. Her jaw locked as another surge swept her head to extremity, liquid electric agony. Her eyes rolled up until her vision became blank.

She thought one thing to hold on: CLAIR. CLAIR. CLAIR. CLAIR. CLAIR.

The pain built with each rhythmic incantation. Stellated cracks spread across Sloan's inner eye, where the name flashed in epileptic neon fritz. Shards broke away until even inside all was black, and the word CLAIR became nothing but a fragment of the pain, and—

And all at once, everything stopped. Everything shut down. So instantaneously, like the grasp of death. All remained black, but the pain dissipated save a few tidal ebbs so faint by comparison they felt like relief. Sloan's jaw unhinged and the thick taste of fur left her tongue with a deluge of pent-up drool. Somewhere she felt her arms move.

She shut off her gun. It dropped to the floor. She opened her eyelids, and the black vanished. The hall replaced it, colors distorted by odd optical residue. But it was there, and so was Sloan's outstretched hand, and—she tilted her head—and her legs, and her other arm, and her body.

She tried to rise but her body ached. She settled for rolling over. Anoka lay facedown at the end of the hall, charred and bloody. Smoke rose from her body. Her eyes were open, but empty.

You killed her, Sloan. Dead girl number two.

No, Anoka was still alive. She had untransformed into a ragged blouse with jeans, but even at a distance Sloan noted the heavy rise and fall of her chest. Could hear, despite the omnipresent glimmer of Clair's harp, hoarse and labored breaths.

Anoka had only passed out. Exactly as planned. Her pain tolerance might be high. But Sloan's was higher.

This relieved Sloan. She had no urge to kill Anoka. No urge to kill anyone but the one who wronged her. She forced herself to remember that, because she had felt many times now an urge to let her hatred overflow and drown the girls who happened to be in Sloan's way. Sloan wasn't a, wasn't a killer.

What the fuck were these thoughts. Her brain must be rattled from the pain. But focus returned to her, and she could lift at least half her body, and remember more clearly her objective: Clair Ibsen.

The door to Clair's room stood before her.

It took some time for Sloan to stand, and when she did, her knees shook and her head sparkled with static. But she stood. Breathing heavily, she lifted her gun and took the last few steps toward the door. As she passed Anoka's body, she considered searching for her Soul Gem, but wondered if she knelt down whether her body would have the energy to rise again.

Better to end this quickly. Dolls, after all.

She took one last glimpse down the hall. Bloomington and Woodbury unaccounted for still. Sloan tried to recite her strategies against Clair—don't get mad, uh, think clearly, uh, something else—but it didn't work. Her mind had lost that neural matter.

Her plan now was to open the door and shoot before she even looked. Nothing that awaited her in that room was good. And if she hit Delaney—

Collateral damage.

One breath. Two. Three. Gather every last ounce of strength, because you'll use it here. Nothing exists after this room. You have one goal only, the goal your life has built toward, was made for: Kill Clair Ibsen.

She considered kicking the door down but swung it open and charged inside. She lifted her gun to fire but her hands no longer held a gun. She no longer wore a long brown coat. She was no longer a Magical Girl, she had lost a good foot of height. Her hands were small and fragile and she was in her old school uniform, the navy blazer and skirt with a tie.

A flute joined the harp. Its lonely lazy notes chimed nostalgic.

The year 2010. Sloan Redfearn is a freshman at Eden Prairie Prep. The year she and Clair contracted, but a little before then. It's late summer. Out the window the lawns shine green. Birds poo-tee-weet in the trees. An auburn aura pervades even Clair's white room, tinges it an earthy brown.

Instead of a gun, Sloan holds a backpack. It's heavy with textbooks. Biology and Algebra, not Sloan's best subjects. Clair's really good at them, though, because she's good at everything. So she's going to tutor Sloan today. Honestly, even when Clair tutors her, she still doesn't get it. But she likes coming here anyway. Mrs. Ibsen cooks a nice dinner and Clair lets Sloan listen to her music. And they can talk about anything.

Sloan wants to talk about her stupid blind sister. Wants to vent because she knows she's automatically the bad guy for getting mad at someone with a disability. Clair never judges her, though. Clair always understands.

Clair sits on her bed, legs crossed, hands on her knee. She smiles at Sloan and brushes back a strand of white hair. Sloan drops her bag on the bed and plops down next to her. She makes an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm so pissed."

"Why's that?" Clair tilts her head like one of the birds she loves so much and affects her Little Miss Therapist demeanor that Sloan says annoys her but actually it at least makes her feel like someone cares.

"Please, you know already. Morgan."

Clair nods. "I noticed your reaction when Mrs. Alvarez praised her essay."

"I wanted to scream. A personal essay, of course she nails it. She could've turned in a paper that only said I'M BLIND and instant A-plus. Meanwhile the rest of us write about dead grandparents, or dead pets if we're not even lucky enough to have dead grandparents." Sloan wrote about the time the vet euthanized their dog.

"Perhaps you should have written about the struggles of living with a blind twin sister. You certainly have enough material for a fully-fleshed thesis."

"And have everyone hate me even more? I love when people mistake me for her and I get to see the disappointment when they realize their mistake. Love it."

"Perhaps a more creative stance would have earned you favor with Mrs. Alvarez. She has been a high school teacher for thirty-two years. When she assigns these essays, I wonder if she is actually praying we write them honestly as a way to express ourselves."

"Yeah? And what'd you write about, huh?"

Clair never answers this question because, the next moment, they both see a small catlike creature seated on the windowsill, with red eyes and white fur, who makes the convivial request to be let in so he may discuss something with them.

That doesn't happen this time. Kyubey is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Clair's eyes fix forward. Her posture scrunches so slightly it would seem perfect if not in comparison to its usual true perfection.

"I wrote about you, Sloan."

Sloan leans back against the bed and laughs. Her tie and collar constrict around her throat so she hooks a finger and loosens them, allowing her laughter to come out unrestrained, harsh and almost violent.

"Oh god! What'd you say? There's this dumb bitch who keeps showing up at my house and forces me to do her homework for her?"

"Nothing of the sort. The prompt, 'Write about how you overcame a hardship,' has two components. I focused on the overcoming more than the hardship."

Sloan stops laughing. "What are you on about?"

"People find strength in the strangest things," says Clair. "A single friendship means so much to one with so little. That could be considered true for both of us, do you not agree?"

Sloan remembers what Lynette told her. About Clair. Knives and such. Which is weird, because Lynette won't tell Sloan that for another three years, in a sad house swallowed by sex and booze. Something's a little weird here but she can't place it. Everything is only late summer/early autumn, tranquility, stillness.

"It is very important you understand," says Clair, "how much you mean to me. Nobody else has ever meant anything to me. Not my parents, my sister, or anyone at school. No matter what accolades they give me, no matter how they compliment or praise me, they know I am something other. Foreign. A cuckoo bird, and not solely in the nest of my home. They praise me, I believe, in part because they are afraid of me. You have seen The Twilight Zone, yes?"

Twilight Zone? Of course. Clair knows that—they watch it together, sometimes on Friday nights or Saturday mornings or both. Sloan sneers at the special effects and Clair denigrates the acting. Together they form a veritable Siskel and Ebert of cheesy 60s TV, and yet they keep watching.

"To them, I am the child who will spirit them to the cornfield if they do not behave. To them, I am the one who transforms them into jack-in-the-boxes. To them, I am the one who doesn't like dogs. My precociousness terrifies them. Terrifies them, especially, because they have no true reason to be terrified of it."

Sloan says nothing. None of this makes sense; everyone loves Clair. Her parents (and Sloan's parents), the teachers, the students. She's the only one they talk about more than Sloan's sister. And now she describes herself like some kind of space alien?

"You have never treated me that way. You have never praised me or complimented me. Part of that is your general lack of tact, but part also is because you don't deem it necessary to place me away from yourself, distant even if that distance is above you. You stand on the same terrain as me and vent to me about your problems. You truly feel comfortable around me. You're truly willing to do something nobody else has ever done: get close."

Her red eyes waver slightly off-center, not quite looking at Sloan's face. They glisten with emotion, if not real tears. Sloan gapes, unsure what to say, unequipped for this sudden conversation.

"I was." Clair's voice halts. "I was so alone. So alone for so long... Until you came close."

A real tear dribbles down her face. This is an event, this is monumental. Clair is incapable of tears. But Sloan can't speak, can only stare, mouth open, words stopped behind a clot in her throat.

"It's. Important you know this. Know what you really mean to me, Sloan. I know you hate me now." She wipes an eye. "I know you hate me more than anything, but I have always. Always... even when you were gone... Always kept you somewhere in my mind to think about and. Remember. And I... always will."

She squeezes her eyes shut and suddenly flings both arms around Sloan, actually touching her, the skin of Clair's hands against the jacket on Sloan's shoulders, a real embrace to which Sloan cannot react, she can only sit and receive, wondering if this is really Clair, if she can really be this person now holding Sloan in her arms.

"This sacrifice. I have to make. Pains me more. So much more." A sob catches in her throat. "Because I know. If you were. Like all the others. If you stayed away."

She grasps something on Sloan's stomach. Sloan looks down; it's a gemstone, shiny and gold, like topaz. Clair holds it in her hand. Sloan has the bizarre thought that the gem is her soul, her soul inside a stone.

"If you stayed away. They were right. They were right to stay away. Because they knew..."

Clair's hand tightens. Sloan winces from a pain deep inside her. A word surfaces in her mind: Anoka! But no, it's not Anoka, whoever Anoka even is.

"They knew what I was from the very start."

The pain grows. Like Sloan's soul is being crushed in Clair's small hand. That's exactly what it is. Her soul, being crushed. Her Soul Gem. Pieces float in her head, fragments from Summer 2010 and Winter 2013, she remembers now what Clair did to her, and Winnipeg, and everyone else. But it's too late now... Sloan wonders where her gun is, it's on the bed, it's been her backpack all along. She reaches—

The door to Clair's room slammed open. Clair flinched; the flute and harp staggered a note. Bloomington stood in the doorway garbed in robes, her hood pulled far over her face, only her mouth and chin visible. She aimed her crossbow and fired.

Clair jerked back as a bolt lodged in her shoulder. She tumbled over the bed while a thick block of ice sprung from the shaft and encased most of her upper arm. Her hand stuck out, fingers closed around Sloan's gem, the muscles flexing but unable to close completely as somewhere in transit the nerves had gone numb.

"Is this truly happening," said Clair. Bloomington reloaded her crossbow and pointed it at her face. "What imagined slight do you believe I inflicted upon you?"

Sloan blinked. She realized what was happening. She quit reaching for her gun, which wasn't even there, it had dematerialized, it being the backpack was its own illusion. Instead she went for Clair's outstretched hand. She pried Clair's fingers open and managed to get her fingertips around the wide part of the gem when a crossbow bolt nailed her in the back.

She flopped to the ground, her hand entwined with Clair's around the gem. Bloomington froze Sloan's spine, she was incapable of motion from the neck down. Her body splayed awkwardly against the side of the bed, one leg bent at a strained angle.

Bloomington loaded another crossbow bolt. "Where's the other. Psycho bitch with the dagger."

I'm in the closet, dear!

The crossbow remained trained on Clair while Bloomington stepped toward the closet's sliding door with tremendous caution.

"Honestly, I'm somewhat interested by the mental processes guiding this course of action, Bloomington." Clair remained motionless on the bed, although only her shoulder was frozen. "It seems an entirely random development."

Bloomington shot her again, in the stomach, and reloaded quickly as she approached the closet. The tune of the harp continued. Sloan knew Clair could control her instruments telekinetically, like how Sloan controlled her gun. Bloomington surely knew too, but she seemed unconcerned, or concerned to only a tenuous degree.

Bloomington was not operating with much logic or forethought. Sloan wondered what her despair levels looked like.

The closet door slid open. Delaney sat within, beneath hanging rows of identical school uniforms. She smiled and waved until Bloomington launched one, two, three crossbow bolts into her torso. The ice spread quickly, almost completely covering Delaney's body.

Bloomington knelt down and inspected Delaney. "Where's her gem."

"I have it," said Clair. "Outer coat pocket, if you are interested in retrieving it. I would myself, but I am a tad immobilized."

Bloomington reloaded her crossbow and turned toward Clair. Her steps were slow and deliberate. It was a little sad, watching a dead girl walk across the room. All three girls she had frozen must know whatever Bloomington intended to do would not work. Maybe Bloomington knew too.

Bloomington reached into Clair's coat pocket and withdrew an egg-shaped Soul Gem, bright red. She turned it over in her hand.

"And where's your gem."

Clair's eyes flicked toward the ring on her finger. Where most girls kept their gems when not transformed.

Except Clair was already transformed.

"Bloomington," said Sloan, "she can still use her instruments. Be careful."

Bloomington wrenched the ring off Clair's finger. She held it up to the light. It was a perfectly ordinary ring.

Behind Bloomington appeared a tremendous gong, emblazoned with a Chinese dragon. The gong exploded into a visible eruption of soundwaves. The windows and the ice shattered. The doors blew off their hinges, the uniforms in the closet flew everywhere, the desk upturned and the walls cracked. All of Clair's order and structure collapsed in one reverberating sound. Bloomington hurtled into a wall and bounced out the door, Delaney's gem flying from her hand.

The moment the ice burst, Sloan tightened her grip on her gem and Clair tightened hers. Their hands locked together around it, their fingernails digging into each other's flesh. In a battle of physical strength, Sloan prevailed. The gong banged again, the walls burst into chunks of wood and plaster. Sloan flew through the air. Clair's hand left hers but Sloan came away with the gem. She clasped it to her chest as her body swirled into the giant leafless tree outside Clair's room. Branches snapped around her until she was stopped by the thick, hard trunk. Her ribs cracked and she rolled down to the snow below.

She turned over with a breathless groan. Anoka had fucked her pain dampening, or else her gem had taken a few blows as well, because she felt like shit. She propped her arms into the snow and pushed up to observe the room she fell from, now looking less suburban homestead and more Iraqi fallout zone. Toothpick-thick columns of wooden support were all that remained of the façade, and as Sloan watched those too gave out. The ceiling caved like paper.

She checked for the other girls, but she was the only one in the snow. The others—Clair—must have been buried in the debris.

Sloan put her gem back where it belonged. Her gun appeared in her hands and she trudged toward the collapsed section of house. Gathering her strength, she bounded out of the snow, grabbed an outcropping of former wall, and swung inside. The room was only the wreckage of the fallen roof. She could sift through it, but her gun would make quicker headway. The barrel charged up. If she fired long enough, suppressed anything buried beneath, brutalized them until either their gems shattered or the bodily strain became too much to bear, then... Sad for Bloomington and Delaney, sadder still for Clair.

"Bye," she said.

A single high-pitched note cut into her ears. Sloan froze. She knew fuck all about music, failed to osmose any secondhand knowledge from all her time spent with Clair, but she knew one instrument for sure, could pick it out from that single note, and it caused dread to billow reflexively in her gut.

The violin.

A gash burst across Sloan's chest. It rent her coat and skin and flesh, straight to the bone. She staggered back, to the edge of the fallen roof, only to understand there was no fallen roof. There was no collapsed wall. Her back hit the perfectly upright wall, right beside the shattered window. Around her Clair's room rebuilt itself, the bed, the desk, the closet, the uniforms, the computer, everything mussed but stable.

An illusion. An illusion! And Sloan had not even considered—

A second slicing note silenced her thoughts as a red streak spread diagonally from shoulder to hip, barely missing her gem. Sloan bounced against the wall. And now, the illusion gone, there was Clair before her in the center of the room, the violin under her chin and the bow spread across the strings.

A third cut. A fourth. Sloan bent forward to defend the Soul Gem on her stomach. Slices spread across her back, her skull. The strikes came from all sides, brought upon by each coarse note of the instrument Clair had most mastered, the one in which she placed her faith. Everything else—trickery, stage machinery. The violin did the real work. She only played it when she went for the kill.

Sloan curled up. She wedged herself between the bed and the wall and received blow after blow, merciless, unpitying, unstoppable. Sloan tried to resummon her gun but the moment she did a slice cleaved it in two. Clair struck faster than any blade, too fast for Sloan to fight back, forcing apart Sloan's arms, exposing the most vital weakpoint bit by bit.

No, no, no, not now, not after falling for the simplest deception in Clair's arsenal, not a repeat of seven months ago, her body covered with lacerations, her gem eating power, had she learned nothing? Had she made no progress at all? After all this time, all this preparation, NOTHING?

Wait.

Wait!

She had one thing. One single thing. She just needed the timing—a split second between blows—so hard to focus when every missed loop meant another long gash across her body—this had to work, had to, she DID NOT COME ALL THIS WAY FOR NOTHING.

As the next slice rippled down her stomach—centimeters from her gem—Sloan resummoned her gun. As before, it was immediately cut in two. But that bought Sloan a single extra free moment, the one moment she needed. She unleashed an instantaneous flash of light, the flash of a camera. The next moment, as the sound of the next note started, Sloan rolled beneath the adjacent bed, her body already fetal enough, needing only the slightest sideways momentum to propel her.

Where she had been curled moments before remained a translucent image of herself. Clair's notes kept playing, trenchant slashes across her violin strings, but no more wounds opened across Sloan's body. In musical ecstasy, in the frenzy Clair only allowed herself to enter when playing her most prized possession, her normally sharp observational skills failed to pick up the switch immediately.

Creativity, Sloan realized, was simply making up a bunch of random useless tools and waiting for the perfect time to use them.

She swung out from under the other side of bed, flipped to her feet, materialized her gun, and fired. No pause, no final words, no waiting for Clair to realize the ruse so Sloan could enjoy a succulent moment of triumph. Nothing but annihilation. Clair wore her school uniform instead of her Magical Girl attire, so Sloan couldn't say for sure the location of her Soul Gem, but it hardly mattered. Rake a machine gun over her body long enough and it'll be sure to shatter.

Except the moment before she squeezed the trigger, a bright red bubble appeared around her.

Disbelief hit harder than anything else. Sloan knew who placed the bubble but struggled to understand anyway. It couldn't be. Not her. Not when—back turned—gun drawn—ready to fire. Not now.

"That's quite enough of that, loves." Delaney sashayed from the closet and placed a hand on Clair's shoulder, separated from Sloan by a thin but impenetrable layer of blood. Any expression on Clair's face that Sloan might have delayed her attack to see, an expression of defeat or shock or whatever, did not appear. Clair's face remained as emotionless as ever.

"So you retrieved your gem from Bloomington," said Clair.

"Well, she dropped it after you hit her. Thanks for that! And it seems Sloan finished off the Terminatrix, so I'm back in top form. Which means the game has changed. You've both had your fun. Played around, roughhoused a bit. But it's time we all came home and sat down to dinner, no?"

"Delaney, Delaney you fuck." Sloan beat her fists against the bubble. "Delaney you fucking let me out of here this instant, you fucking do it right now."

"Let her out, Delaney." Clair lowered her violin. "This must end tonight, or we risk more unwanted attention from overseas."

"Absolutely right, love!" Delaney wrapped an arm around Clair's shoulder, despite Clair's efforts to flinch away. "This is ending tonight! In fact, it's already over! I hereby forbid you two from fighting. Forever!"

"Let me the fuck out."

"Have you forgotten the purpose for all this," said Clair. "Have you forgotten the sickly state of our universe? Have you—"

Five or six crossbow bolts sailed into Clair and Delaney in rapid succession, each bursting into ice. Delaney was almost fully encased, while only Clair's torso was frozen, with a little ice spreading up to her chin and mouth.

Bloomington staggered over with a pronounced limp, worse for wear after weathering the full brunt of Clair's gong. Her cloak's hood had fallen back and her hair hung in ragged strands around her face. One eye was squinted shut either from injury or for better aim.

Will this become a pattern, Bloomington? said Clair.

Bloomington shed the remnants of her cloak. Beneath she wore serviceable Robin Hood attire, nothing ornate or flashy, a beige tunic and tights, fastened by a wide black belt with a brass buckle. Her Soul Gem hung from her hip, studded in the scabbard of a small dirk Sloan had never seen her wield.

I thought I'd like, you know, say a speech or something, said Bloomington. And tell you exactly what I'm doing and why, and how you all disgust me so damn much and all. But I think I'll leave you not knowing. It hurts you most not to know, am I right?

She chuckled, like a dry skull. Sloan pounded her fists against the bubble.

Oh, I can hypothesize, said Clair. This has something to do with Woodbury, does it not?

Yeah, said Bloomington. Yeah it does.

At Bloomington's feet, where it fell after Clair was encased in ice, the violin hovered off the ground. Bloomington didn't notice. Was she going to fall for this again? Was it even falling for it at this point, or actively charging into death? This was what Sloan herself looked like, again and again, wasn't it?

"Bloom," she said. "Bloom, her violin." With Bloomington's gem exposed on her hip, with no forewarning... But Bloomington made no acknowledgment. She raised her crossbow and trained it on Clair's head. The violin bow slid from Clair's numbed fingers and clattered to the carpet.

I assume Woodbury is dead, then.

Yeah.

That is regrettable.

Don't fucking talk.

With a telekinetic force, the bow lifted from the ground to join the violin.

"Bloomington," said Sloan. "Bloomington, watch out for her violin. Watch out for it, goddammit, it's right fucking THERE."

Bloomington stared only at Clair.

I fear you will have to speak up, Sloan, said Clair. My gong strike seems to have deafened her.

Deafened...?

Sloan understood too late. Her mind shouted: Bloomington, the violin!

The bow dragged itself across the strings. An eerie, lonely note shattered the silence. Through the dispersing particles of atomized air lashed a thin black line diagonally over Bloomington's hip. The gem split cleanly in two, not shattering but dividing. Both pieces fell from the sheath and dropped to the carpet.

Bloomington's body dropped next.

The ice around Clair and Delaney did not break. It only vanished. Sloan thrashed her fist against the bubble and shouted garbled obscenities not even she understood.

Clair brushed her shoulders and retrieved her violin. "Finally. Her intrusions bordered on obnoxious."

"That was cruel," said Delaney. She put on a sad face.

"I am well aware your true concern for the matter is equivalent to mine, given you did nothing to intervene. Now, shall we continue?"

Clair's eyes fixed to Delaney's Soul Gem, but Delaney moved very close to Clair, so close that any attack would strike them both. Faux chumminess not only a disingenuous facet of her personality, but a tactical maneuver. Sloan hated them both, hated their ridiculous posturing, their deconstruction of everything into a grand stratagem, their immaculate and unreal attention to detail.

"Yes, I suppose we shall." Delaney allowed a faint hint of sadness to creep into her voice. "This war ends now. Neither of you will kill the other. We're meddling in events far beyond us."

"We are saving this universe," said Clair.

Sloan beat her head against the bubble. "Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up. Why are you still talking about this?!"

"Saving this universe, according to the Incubator." Delaney pulled herself closer to Clair and Clair shirked away. "Is he right? Probably. At least in his perspective."

"Either the universe exists. Or it does not."

"The universe can exist and not be saved, love. The universe can die and be redeemed in the act."

"Maudlin foolishness."

Delaney closed her eyes. "I would have agreed with you. But knowing what I know now. What the so-called 'saving' of this universe entails. Who it demands die. I... I don't know if saving the universe is worth it."

"You do not wish for Sloan Redfearn to die."

"I've searched a really really really long time for a way to become a better person," said Delaney. "A way to redeem the things I've done, things that are probably irredeemable. I thought something lofty like 'saving the universe' would work. That was exactly the thought of a girl who could feel nothing. Who analyzed only in ultimate outcomes and universal designs. But I've found now something—someone—I'd rather fight to save."

Sloan dropped to her knees, covered her ears, and screamed. Let her out. Let her end this one way or another, her death or Clair's.

"I'm going to save Sloan and I'm going to save you... sister. I'm going to save this city. If that's not enough saving to save me, then I don't know what. And if the universe dies, today, tomorrow, next week... Well, that probably never had much to do with me in the first place."

"You are weak," said Clair. "You refuse to make the same sacrifice I am prepared to make. You... Oh, what now."

Delaney and Clair finally shut up. Sloan looked and saw what gave them such pause.

Staring through the window was the face of a wraith.

"The fuck is that doing here," said Sloan. Magic might attract a wraith, but it must have traveled far to get here; affluent suburb stretched in all directions. Not the usual haunts of ghettoes and industrial districts.

"I am a tad annoyed by the rules of this universe if my actions toward Bloomington constituted a sin, even a minor one," said Clair.

"Do you see, love?" Delaney tilted back her head. "This is what you can expect if you kill Clair. Only much, much worse."

The wraith leaned its head through the window and began to slither inside, its body a single snakelike torso, sleek and gray. The white walls of Clair's room blackened as though charred. A faint, sadistic laugh echoed in the static that surrounded its face. This wasn't a normal wraith, it was a greater wraith, much rarer, which if it appeared anywhere in this city would appear in its innermost depths, coiled around the bases of towers where the homeless congregated to burn trash, not in Eden Prairie's fanciest gated community, where everyone had a roof and food and savings funds and two kid families and framed pictures of birds. In no universe should this thing be here, but here it was, its coils bundling into the room, its face a grinning mockery of their turmoil and strife.

Clair knocked Delaney aside and drew her bow across the violin. Slashes struck the naga's body as more and more and more and more of it slithered into the room, wounds of black blood opening and pouring across the carpet, the sheets and blankets, the corpse of Bloomington. From its face emanated a hypnotic kaleidoscope in grayscale. Sloan felt its gaze taking some kind of hold on her even through Delaney's bubble. She averted her eyes before it turned her to stone or a pillar of salt.

All the while Clair nailed it with hit after hit, but nothing affected it. The room filled with blood. It rose to ankle height and slowly drained through the open door. Sloan floated in the same direction, but the bubble was too wide to fit through the doorframe, so she churned aimlessly while the violin screeched. Anoka's unconscious body slid down the hall.

"Let me out," said Sloan. "Let me out so I can kill this thing."

"We'll handle this, love. Sit tight and don't fuss, okay?" Although all Delaney could do was stand close to Clair as Clair attacked and attacked and did nothing because for all her wiles Clair was always a pisspoor wraithkiller.

Sloan's bubble rolled against the doorframe. She slammed her body against it to push it farther. Her feet slipped across the rounded wet surface but she kept at it, flinging her body, forcing the bubble through. Its confines squished to fit, the sides pressed closer and closer...

The violin slowed. Sloan glanced back. Both Clair and Delaney, awash in the gray energies of the naga's grinning face, moved in slow motion, staggered and torpid. An effect from which Delaney's bubble protected Sloan.

The bubble squeezed tighter as it wedged into the frame. Its surface rippled. Sloan pushed harder, battered it toward the other side, forcing its widest point narrower and narrower and narrower—

The bubble reached its pressure tolerance and burst. Blood-splattered, Sloan whipped around and revved her gun. Light streamed out before the grayness could envelop her. It crashed against the wraith's face and the laughter shifted to a harsh scream as Sloan howled, furious, frenzied, letting it all out. Break it, destroy it. Crush it to pieces. Bring down this whole damn house.

The wraith tried to dodge but Sloan had it in her sights. Amateur, really. She'd seen much worse in Williston. This was her bread and butter, her ultimate strength. When the greater wraith gave a final shriek and burst into cubes, Sloan continued firing, convinced the fight was too easy, that some new iteration would emerge from the carcass even as it dissolved.

But nothing came. The snake, most of its body still outside the window, disintegrated.

Sloan wasted no more time. She splashed through the knee-high pool of black ooze, swung her gun, and clocked Delaney in the face. Delaney dropped into the pool.

Clair, blinking out of the trance, saw her and started running. The navy blue uniform flitted out the window and into the snow. Without hesitation, Sloan followed. She dropped into the dark with only the dead tree to break the black background. The wind had settled, it rustled but did not oppress. Crispness cut the air, a late night cold that rejuvenated a dim spirit.

She hit the snow. Clair's footprints led away, into the street. Sloan followed, searching for the blue uniform in the dark, in the small circles of light beneath the streetlamps.

There. Running down the sidewalk, pitter patter. Sloan aimed and found affixed to the end of the barrel one of Delaney's shitty bubbles, her last gift before Sloan decked her, the fucking cunt. Sloan would kill her for that. She hurled her gun aside, she didn't even need it.

Passing a gnarled tree, Sloan wrenched a branch from its trunk. This thing in her hand was not a branch, however. It was a thunderbolt from Zeus himself. The branch lit up with a furious glow, blazing gold.

Creativity? CREATIVITY.

She hurled the thunderbolt. It sailed through the stormy air, quick as lightning, quick as a cartoon or a video game, with an electric sound effect. It struck Clair between the shoulder blades. Her blue form fell. The bolt jutted out of her, illuminating her position between the silent homes.

Sloan limped toward it. A hundred lacerations covered her body. Pain lingered. None of that mattered. None of it.

Don't do this, love, said Delaney somewhere.

Go home, said Sloan. This doesn't concern you.

You don't want to do this. Please don't do this.

Behind Sloan, something plopped into the snow. Probably Delaney. Probably moving slowly after the blow Sloan dealt her. No, not at all, she could heal herself.

But Delaney was behind her, and Clair was ahead. Sloan broke into a sprint, her leg hobbling in the snow, her coat flapping. She dragged herself toward the blazing bolt that marked where Clair's body fell.

From beyond Clair emerged figures. Five of them. The closest was Lynette, who slouched toward Clair's body, lit by a streetlight. Her nose ran with blood. In a hand held tight to her chest gleamed a tiny, nonmagical revolver, the kind Delaney once carried. Her eyes were dead set on Clair.

The other four figures, behind Lynette in a line shoulder-to-shoulder, were the dolls.

It was only right, Sloan thought. This was it, figures emerging from the devastated landscape around the nexus of Clair Ibsen, the character who began this entire drama, whose death would end it. Sloan strengthened her step. The dolls, Delaney, Lynette, none of it mattered if Sloan got there first.

Lynette was much closer, though. She took note of Sloan and hurried toward Clair.

"She's mine," Sloan screamed into the wind.

Clair pressed her hands into the snow and started to rise. The thunderbolt remained lodged in her back.

Beside her rose her violin, the bow already to the strings. The violin's song slashed the air, but Sloan ducked under it, weaved around it. Her mind, focused entirely on its goal, saw the ripples before they manifested as strikes, saw the music as though a sheet, its timing predictable and trivial.

But Lynette reached Clair first. She grabbed at the body and aimed her revolver.

Lynette's arm suddenly detached from the rest of her and fell splattering to the ground. Lynette fell back howling, rolling in the snow, clutching her stump with the other arm, eyes shut tight in pain.

The dolls closed in, hands held in skipping throng, smiles growing out of the dark.

Please, Sloan, listen to me! said Delaney's voice.

Details. Irrelevancies.

She weaved between the slashes. Clair's body drew close. The dolls drew close. Lynette, somehow, pried the revolver from her severed arm and gripped it in her remaining hand.

Sloan skidded to her knees beside Clair. She slammed her fist on the violin and obliterated it.

No more music.

"MINE," said Lynette. "I HAVE THE RIGHT."

Lynette pointed the revolver shakily. At Sloan's stomach, either deliberately or from weakness.

Out of the dark emerged Omaha. Her unbloodied hand clutched a scythe. With one graceful swoop, she swung it through Lynette's chest.

The blade impaled her. Lynette's arm dropped and her mouth opened. Her eyes went blank as Omaha wrenched the scythe from her body.

"HURRY," said Omaha. "KILL HER. KILL HER NOW!" She whirled on the four dolls. "STAY BACK!" The dolls, even now, hesitated a step. "I'M YOUR MASTER, STAY BACK!"

Don't listen to that bitch, love! She's known more than she should this whole time!

"IT HAS TO BE YOU SLOAN. KILL HER!"

Sloan had long ago made up her mind. These words on her periphery did nothing to change that resolve.

She turned over Clair's body. Her red eyes peered at Sloan.

A spear whipped through the air and impaled Sloan's shoulder. The pain was nothing to her now. The dolls hurled more things at her, some of which Omaha intercepted with swings of her scythe. Sloan didn't care. She reached into Clair's jacket and found the Soul Gem where she expected it, in the pocket Clair usually kept the lines of music she scribbled in class when a lesson bored her (which was always). The innermost pocket, a small slip in the fabric, tight and easy to miss, but Sloan had seen Clair reach into this pocket reflexively so many times she knew its location by heart.

Her hand clasped around the gem. It was almost pure dark, only a flicker of light remained within. For a moment Sloan gaped, wondering when Clair depleted so much magic, wondered if the Cycles would come—and remembered Clair's wish, to never know despair, to always have a shred of hope. Her gem could stay like this indefinitely. Maybe it already had for a long time.

Clair stared, eyes wide, white hair dipped in white snow.

"Sloan. Listen to me carefully Sloan. When you kill me, and after you kill the archon, you must go to Mitakihara, Japan. You must find Homura Akemi and kill her. Remember that Sloan. Only you have even the most infinitesimal—"

Sloan crushed Clair's soul in her hand.

It didn't seem real, at first. Like it didn't actually happen. Like nothing happened at all, like it was (not a dream) another illusion, a musical subworld where Clair faked her own death—a false gem—or maybe a fantasy, an undeserved heaven where Sloan in death got to succeed where in life she failed, anything but an actual fact in an actual reality of an actual world.

"You... you did it...!" said Omaha. Her scythe dripped with Lynette's blood.

Delaney slid to her knees beside Sloan. "No no no no no no no this is bad this is so bad NO!"

The four dolls gazed at Clair's body and the blood that sank into the snow. They exchanged glances among themselves.

"Come on," said Sloan. "I'm right here. Finish it if you want." She unbuttoned her coat where her Soul Gem hung.

But the dolls did not pounce, though they all had spears and knives and other weapons. Their smiles faded. Their eyes widened. Their hollow, reedy bodies trembled and knees knocked against knees.

With hushed whispers in a language foreign or imagined, they turned and sprinted the way they came.

Sloan didn't question it.

"It didn't do anything for you," said Delaney. "Did it? Did it?!"

Sloan said nothing.

Omaha took a step backward. "You did a good job, Sloan... I'm so proud of you..."

Snow fell.

"You did this, you helped her," said Delaney to Omaha. "Everything you did, since Williston, has been to help her. Clair didn't really send you, did she? Kyubey did."

Small crunches as Omaha took another step back, and another. "We could talk but... the dolls ran for a reason, Sloan... If you're smart, you'll run too..."

Omaha turned and darted into the night.

Clair's body began to sink into the snow. Delaney shook Sloan's shoulders. "We need to leave. You idiot, you idiot, oh my god love, why did you not listen to me?"

The snow formed a depression around Clair's body. It sank deeper and deeper, bringing Lynette's corpse with it, into a widening darkness below, a black void gaping before Sloan's kneeling form.

"Sloan, love, please get up, please get up, please please please please please get up. PLEASE!"

Wider the depression grew. Sloan placed a hand in the snow and rose to one knee, her motions automatic, moving because Delaney screamed in her ear to move.

Clair's body disappeared entirely into the dark. Sloan stared down into it.

From the darkness, glorious light stared back.

"What... what is it," said Sloan.

Delaney dragged her away from the pit. "It's an archon."

Chapter 27: Yaldabaoth

Roads, streetlamps, fire hydrants, lawns, cars, homes creaked and groaned and collapsed into the widening chasm. Snow streamed from the sky and fed the insatiable darkness. From the innermost depths arose a low and bestial rumble laced with a vaguely feminine voice, garbled and impenetrable, a fugue of bass and alto that absorbed all other sound, the sirens and alarms, the screams as foundations uprooted and tumbled down the precipitous slopes.

Delaney dragged Sloan back. This was not Saskatoon, this was not Williston. This was something far deeper, darker, thicker, emptier, fouler. The vomit of a sin more offensive to this universe than seen before in these modern ages; an evil dredged from the depths of hell. Delaney knew, seeing only its eyes and the pit, that she should have murdered Sloan Redfearn the moment she met her, before they even set foot into Williston, before any of this could begin.

Too bad killing her now would do nothing, nothing at all.

"But how," said Sloan. "How is it here?"

"You never listened, love. You never ever listened."

"YOU NEVER SAID AN ARCHON—"

A tremendous roar shattered the ground around them. Momentous chunks of earth rose in jagged shards.

"I told you any way I could, I warned you over and over, nothing made any impact, nothing dented your thick stupid skull. Even at the end I thought I could stop you, be the hero—"

Sloan tilted back her head and laughed. Her long hair dangled down her back as her harsh, coarse laughter filled the cracks between the growing voice of the archon.

"It doesn't matter!" She summoned her gun. "We'll kill this one, like we did in Williston!"

Delaney was about to say no, they wouldn't, this one was born from a very specific set of circumstances masterminded long in advance, shaped by Sloan's vehement hatred of her best and only friend into an entity of unfathomable power, but Sloan would not listen. Sloan never listened. Sloan planted her foot and fired into the abyss.

Her light went down, down, down, and dwindled into nothing.

All this time, all this time Delaney sought to do something right, to be a positive influence in this world, anything, any small thing, and even that backfired. She did only exactly what her mind and body were designed to do from the start. Sloan could not change, and neither could she.

The eyes in the deep brightened. They merged into a single circle of light, while Sloan laughed and pumped worthless light of her own into it, feeding it, swelling it that much more, rays stemming from the circle like the flares of a sun—not a real sun, a cartoon sun, a sun in the pictography of ancient times, for this was not a real but a false deity—blazing, rising, its roar shattering the dome of heaven.

Light flowed out and bathed everything white. Sloan cut her gun and turned her eyes away; Delaney did too.

"It's simple, really," said Sloan. Desperately nonchalant. "It took three of us to kill the Williston archon. Okay, so this one's stronger. Round up the other girls, there's like five or six still kicking somewhere. Easy. Fucking easy."

"You are a bigger idiot than I ever imagined—"

The sun burst from the pit, its own small heavenly sphere. Delaney and Sloan threw up their arms to shield themselves. All Delaney could make out of the archon was a long, feathered torso beneath the flaming sun-head, and two monolithic arms that stretched over what seemed the entire panorama of the city. One talon fell against the side of the pits to hoist it higher. Its face canopied them, covered them in light instead of shadow.

Although its face was too aflame to see, Delaney knew it stared down at them.

Okay, time to focus. Time to do what she did best and bottle her black emotions. Sloan wanted to fight this thing. Sure. It was the least Delaney could do, after all her lip service about being a better person, to try. And if she died trying, maybe that suicide might make God smile a little wider.

She snatched Sloan and surrounded them in a bubble as the thing above opened its maw and discharged a wave of putrid white filth.

The flood swept them up and bounced them across the cratered landscape. They landed on an outcropping of slanted rooftop and Delaney burst the bubble, depositing them above the acid tide but still beneath the unknowable gaze of the archon. Sloan was a bundle of faint lines in the effulgence.

Our plan right now is to flee, said Delaney. If we're to fight, we'll need to regroup with the other girls. How do we escape?

Car. At the entrance of the neighborhood.

That'll work, if it's still there. Run!

They hopped from high point to high point as another deluge streamed around them. Objects melded into a singular whiteness, the anti-shadow of the archon. Its laughter flowed along the filth.

Seeing was utterly impossible now. Instead, Delaney surrounded herself with small bubbles. Since they were made of her own blood (gross right?) she could sense when something struck them, which allowed her to grope through the non-space while dragging Sloan along by the wrist.

After less time than Delaney expected, they burst out of the light and back into the real world. Behind them, the archon's light formed a solid wall, a clear delineation between it and textured reality. It wasn't only light, Delaney realized; it was its miasma, distorting space entirely. But the light was not the limit of the archon's destruction. Around them, suburban homes—what remained—stretched along an undulating landscape. Above towered the long, limber body of the archon, with limitless insectoid legs and two muscled arms. Its feathers (or was it fur?) brimmed with lesser wraiths that dropped in a vast rain.

"Alright Sloan, where are we going, where's the exit?" It was suburb in every direction. Delaney had not been awake when they took her here, knew nothing of the geography. Her inner compass, usually so reliable, went all screwy.

It was not Sloan who spoke. "What... is this?" said a new voice.

Across the street, a girl gazed up at the archon, her costume tattered, bloodied, and coated in black grime. It was Anoka. She stood in front of a mostly collapsed house Delaney realized must be Clair's. Despite how much they ran while inside the light, they had barely moved at all.

That meant the archon was distorting space even when they were inside its miasma. It was a completely different category of power compared to Williston.

"You better run, dear," said Delaney.

Anoka turned her face toward them. "Did you do this?" She looked confused, like she wasn't sure where she was or how she got there.

A waste of time to bother with her. Delaney tugged Sloan's sleeve. "We need to go, love."

With a ropy creek the archon turned its head, slow, ponderous, and the wall of light spread toward them. Its face formed a hole in reality, a space that could be neither sensed nor regarded. Yet somewhere in that unreal hole it opened a mouth and around it manifested a new sort of light, distinguishable from the white because it pulsed with ribbons of agonizing color. It focused and fired forth as a massive beam.

The beam swept across the suburb from east to west. It slashed through the ground, annihilated rock and concrete, wiped away vehicles and homes. A ray of total erasure, painting all a perfect white. Anoka was slow to move. The beam surged toward her.

"Well, she's dead," said Delaney. "Time to go—"

But Sloan, infinitely wise, decided yet again to do the opposite of what Delaney asked and ran toward the beam. The development was so unexpected Delaney did not have time to summon a bubble to block her.

Anoka, turning away from the blinding beam, saw Sloan coming and instinctively raised her blade to defend herself, as if she expected Sloan to attack. (Idiots, all idiots.) Sloan didn't care, she swept her arms around her. Her momentum almost carried her directly into the archon's beam as the remains of Clair's house whitened within it (bye Mr. and Mrs. Ibsen!), but she skidded on a heel, reoriented with magical finesse, and flung herself and Anoka just out of the arc.

"Stop squirming," Sloan snapped. "Can't you see I'm saving you?"

"I can run on my own!" said Anoka.

"Both of you could use some healing," said Delaney, in lieu of a cynical and unproductive sigh. She snapped her fingers and bubbles swarmed them (Sloan cradling Anoka like a baby, Anoka pulling Sloan's hair). The bubbles burst, blood doused them, and voila! All wounds cured. All physical wounds, at least.

They started running. They could actually put some distance between them and the archon now that they were outside its pure white miasma. It didn't even follow them, lumbering some other direction with arduous churnings of its many limbs. Out of its sight, out of its mind, it seemed.

They reached the gate at the end of the community. It was closed. Sloan ran to the control panel, mashed some numbers, yelled an obscenity, and finally grabbed her gun and blasted the gate down with a quick volley.

"So you two did this," said Anoka. She pointed a scimitar from Delaney to Sloan, though they both basically ignored her. Sloan scurried alongside the gate to where a girl lay facedown in the snow. Only after Sloan turned her over did Delaney recognize her as St. Paul.

"You killed Minneapolis, didn't you?" said Anoka. "And made this thing, this... this archon."

"When did you hear about archons?" said Delaney.

"That's not important! You did it, didn't you? You caused it!"

Sloan patted her coat, feeling all its pockets. She reached into one and retrieved an egg-shaped Soul Gem, which she held to St. Paul's face and waved around.

"And if we did," said Delaney. "What will you do, fight us?"

The archon's arm hit the ground in the distance, causing a quake. Anoka's sword trembled. Delaney noted the half-buried body of another girl, one Sloan did not bother trying to revive.

"I'll fight the archon first," Anoka said. "Then I'll hunt you down and fight you."

Delaney would have laughed if the archon did not crack the skies with another monstrous roar.

"Get the Corvette running." Sloan indicated the pink whatthefuck parked by the gate. "Keys in the ignition."

"So that's your plan, eh?" said Anoka. "You plan to ride away like nothing happened."

"Idiot," said Sloan. Below her, St. Paul's eyes blinked open. "We're regrouping with the others. We're gonna fight that thing. You're welcome to join, or you can go die by yourself right now, up to you!"

Anoka lowered her blade.

The keys to the "Corvette" (could you call it that? Its was caked with so many gaudy accessories it didn't look drivable) were indeed in the ignition. A mess of gadgets and gizmos covered the dash, all sorts of whimsical odometers with incomprehensible numbers. Someone left a vodka bottle under the seat, the first spot of good taste in this whole hot pink apocalypse, but when Delaney tilted back the neck and swallowed, it was just water.

As Delaney started the engine, Sloan coaxed a confused St. Paul to her feet.

"Uh, uh, uh, w, wha, what..."

"No time to explain." Sloan looped an arm around St. Paul's waist and guided her toward the car. Anoka scampered ahead and opened the passenger door for them. No mention of how to cram four girls into a coupe.

The archon fired another laser beam. It swept semicircular, vaporizing the nearest row of houses. Though the archon was traveling a different direction, toward the center of the city, it seemed it wasn't done with them just yet. So hurry up you reprobates and get in the car.

But did they get in the car? Nah. They had better things to do. Like gawk and stand still and not move at all. Delaney slammed the horn.

"Hurry up please!"

"W, w, w, w, w, what," said St. Paul. She turned from face to face. Her eyes settled on Sloan and recognition flickered in her cloddish features. She snatched the Soul Gem held in front of her, seized Sloan by the neck, and slammed her against the car.

"Kuh. Kuh. Kuh. Clair. Clair! W. Where. Is. CLAIR."

Oh dear, this was going to be a problem, wasn't it? Delaney sighed. They simply did not have time to reason with this anthill. Imagine explaining to an autist all that transpired in the last ten minutes. Let alone explain it within the few seconds they had before the archon did to their car what it did to those houses.

Delaney supposed she could restrain the imbecile. Her magic excelled at that, after all. But something about the idiot's face made her seethe, swarmed the annoyances buzzing around her ever more loathsomely, piercing the protective netting that for so many years Delaney painstakingly constructed around her darkest thoughts. Not her sorta-dark thoughts or her not-good thoughts, oh no. Much, much worse than that.

She had conditioned herself to ignore these thoughts, when they surfaced. But she no longer felt like expending the effort.

So she leaned over in the seat and got St. Paul's attention with a cordial wave. "Hey, hi!" she said. "Sorry to say, but Clair's a little dead."

Even this seemed beyond St. Paul's comprehension. She gaped at Delaney like the dumb animal she was.

"Dead. You know, D-E-A-D? Gone forever. In the ground. Crush!" She demonstrated with her hands.

"Delaney," said Sloan. "What are you—"

"St. Paul, do you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?"

St. Paul stared. "D. D. D. Dead."

"Yes! Very good!" Delaney clapped.

"It's looking at us," said Anoka.

"Wanna know something else, St. Paul? Do you? Because I have some really special news for you. You see, I happen to know the identity of Clair's murderer. I know who killed her, St. Paul!"

Sloan glared. Anoka looked a tad self-righteous, but that was alright. She would get hers soon enough.

"D. D. Dead. Kuh, Clair."

"Clair was killed by..." (Dramatic pause) "...that big thing over there!"

She pointed at the archon. Three heads at once turned in that direction.

"What," said Sloan.

"What!" said Anoka.

St. Paul's dim features absorbed the information slowly until realization spread across her face. Kuhkuhkuhlair and the abomination crawling across the city, the thing with a face that could not be seen.

Anoka pieced together what was happening. At the last moment she flung an arm out but St. Paul swept past too quickly. When she and Sloan attempted to pursue, Delaney expected it and sealed them inside a single bubble. She wanted to laugh but refrained, considering she still had some modicum of respect (desire?) for Sloan and already her fiendish mind conceived stratagems to maintain their relationship. Oh, she was an evil bitch, wasn't she? Yes, but Delaney always knew this. This was who she truly was, everything else only a farce to conceal that sheer fact. An eternity of damnation awaited, and she deserved every minute of it! So she'll at least have her fun these last few hours.

By St. Paul's third step she transformed into her uninspired cloak costume. She dashed toward the behemoth archon, one tiny figure, David versus Goliath without God's grace (only a demon ruled heaven now), and summoned a ring of silver discs around her. They twinkled in the archon's far-reaching light. Another dissolution ray streamed down and she danced between the ruins of the neighborhood to dip aside while it blazed past. Delaney had to hand it to her, the girl had technique. Too bad her strategic thinking needed work!

"You lied to her!" said Anoka. "You, you—"

"I did the reasonable thing. We didn't have time to subdue her."

"Delaney..." said Sloan.

Delaney donned her best (worst) offended face. "I'm TRYING to SAVE YOUR LIFE, Sloan. Can't you be even a LITTLE grateful?" Oh god, that was so fun to say. Oh god, why.

Sloan opened her mouth to rebut, but no words came out.

"She's gonna die," said Anoka.

Amazingly, St. Paul had not already died. The little bundle of black rag flitted between lasers, even as she got closer and the time to dodge them shrank. Using her discs as platforms, she moved vertically. This kept her above the pure white miasma nearer the archon's body, which kept to the ground like fog, and also moved her toward its head.

"I... I'm just trying to help..." Delaney murmured, trying to shed crocodile tears, putting all those years faking emotion to horrible use. She was too engrossed in St. Paul's progress and bungled the inflection.

St. Paul inched closer with each leap, new discs set in place only moments before she landed, impossible to derive a pattern. It grew more difficult to see her as she neared the unseeable face, until she was a black smudge against the light. But where was this heading? What did she expect to do?

The answer came. In front of the shining face spread a shadow, small at first but growing, one circle into a larger circle. St. Paul's discs. She was spreading them out in front of her into a massive mirrored surface. As the surface grew the face became visible for the first time, a glorious sun, bright but with an identifiable form and features, slit-like eyes and a small round mouth that widened as St. Paul's discs did.

The archon loosed a ray. Its vivid light poured into the vast shield. The discs bent inward with a shrill metal shriek.

But they held.

The ray reflected directly at the archon's face. And the archon screamed. It screamed in pain.

"She's using its own power against it," said Anoka. "She's gonna kill it!"

Delaney popped the bubble around Sloan and Anoka, since they were too preoccupied with what was happening to immediately attack her. "It's working," she said. "I can't believe it."

Irony: Years and years of forced goodness, years and years of rote deeds, only to create the evil she had sought to destroy anyway. Then, one brief moment of hatred, and from it she would achieve something positive. Delaney's heart palpitated in her chest.

She—she wasn't evil. She still had hope, this was a sign. A sign she still had hope.

"We attack now," said Delaney. "Hit it harder if we need to. Go!" She staggered out of the car, barely able to control her own body. She felt like she was falling, but her wobbly knees managed to hold. Sloan and Anoka darted forward. This was it, a heroic charge. This was—

By the fourth step she skidded to a stop.

Bright, fluorescent cracks spread across the shield of St. Paul's discs. The cracks rippled like liquid, widening and widening and widening.

"Oh no," said Anoka.

"We have to help her," said Sloan.

It was too late. The discs shattered into a thousand black shards. The bundled lump of St. Paul fell with the pieces. She withstood the ray only a moment, then dissolved into nothing. Not a trace left.

Anoka sagged to her knees. Sloan only watched. "You killed her, Delaney," she said.

"I, I." No words. Think up some words. "I, I. I killed her."

Ha, ha ha ha ha ha. This was her. This was what she was. Oh god, was she disgusting.

"Look!" Anoka pointed.

The archon's face was no longer unseeable. It was still bright, but if Delaney shielded her eyes and squinted, she could make out its solar form, a miniature star placed upon a monster's body.

A thick black crack had spread directly between its eyes.

"She hurt it," said Anoka. "She reflected its attack long enough to hurt it. It can be hurt. It can!"

Sloan turned toward Delaney. Her ragged coat fluttered in the wind. She was sharp, seemingly in control, forgetting her own sins. "You have barriers, Delaney. You saw what St. Paul did. You're next."

"And if I don't kill it? If I only widen the crack? What then?"

"Then I'll figure out something else."

Delaney seized Sloan's collar. She pulled herself close to Sloan's face, so she could feel her breath. "I will gladly die today, love. But when I do, it'll be to kill that thing. For certain."

"Do I believe you, or are those more empty words?"

She pulled away from Sloan. "Get in the car, both of you. We're not ruining this chance by charging recklessly. We need a plan. If we fail, this entire city is dead. Every single person. Got it, love?"

The archon turned its gaze toward them.

"Come on dears, MOVE~"

She yanked Anoka's cape for emphasis. If Anoka didn't respond, Delaney would abandon her. But for all her self-righteousness, it seemed she had no intention to die for nothing either.

They scrambled into the Corvette, Anoka on Sloan's lap in the passenger seat. Delaney turned the wheel and it swiveled around, surprisingly easy to handle despite the snow. Whoever owned this tacky kitsch at least had a mind toward performance as well as aesthetic (or anti-aesthetic).

She knew how to use the goofy stick shift too. Who knew how many vehicles she once used as transit between the two cities that comprised her territory. She adjusted the mirror to better see the archon behind them, and adjusted it again so its reflected face didn't blot her vision.

It fired a laser, but they spurted ahead down a suburban street devoid of traffic.

"Well, nothing like a thrilling escape to keep one refreshed," she said.

"You're awful," said Anoka. Although, seated on Sloan's lap, it was hard to take her seriously.

Delaney's eyes flitted to the mirror. The archon stretched above the buildings, but it no longer stared in their direction now that they were out of its range. It directed its gaze inward, toward the central city and its glass towers.

"So Sloan love, who's left? Leave any other girls alive?"

Sloan stared straight ahead. "Ramsey. Maybe someone else I'm forgetting."

"Oh, lovely. I hope this Ramsey girl is a real powerhouse."

No response, which Delaney took as an ill omen. The strong girls Clair probably spent already anyway. Nevertheless, Delaney's mind whirred with ideas, possible uses even for useless girls. She didn't feel much motivation, but the weight of duty still sagged in her mind from all those years telling herself the word "duty" meant something. And Sloan seemed to want it, so...

No, Sloan probably latched onto this whole defeat-the-archon thing as an alternative to thinking about what she just did to her only friend. Ha! All that work, all that effort, and not even a moment of triumph. Not even a single hurrah. She realized her mistake the moment she made it. So sad, so—

A bright pink blob manifested ahead of them. She slammed the brake and braced to swerve, but the car stopped instantaneously, with plenty of room to spare.

It was another pink car, smack in the center of the road, so big it blocked their way down either lane. The car lacked a roof and most of its windows. A lone girl sat on the hood, huddled in a Dalmatian fur coat, twiggy legs lit up by a cracked headlight.

"That's her. She must have followed me even though I told her not to." Sloan hefted Anoka off her thigh and exited the car. Anoka followed, and although Delaney disliked standing in the snow, she guessed she better get out too.

They had stopped just short of the freeway onramp, an ordinary stretch of abandoned road between periodically alternating stoplights. The streetlamps cast rings of light around them and most everything else in the vicinity was only shadow. In the distance, the archon continued toward the distant towers, long arms lifting and dropping arduously.

"Ramsey, get up," said Sloan.

Ramsey did not get up. She sat shoulders slumped and head down, twitching from the cold. Snow caked her hair.

Sloan snapped a finger in front of Ramsey's nose. "Ramsey."

Ramsey blinked and lifted her head. Overabundant makeup streaked her cheeks. Delaney knew at first glance this girl was in no shape to do diddlyfuck, another useless caboose to their hellbound train.

"Oh... Hi, Sloan. Didja win?"

"We have a problem, Ramsey. I need your help."

These words sparked a severe shift. Ramsey's eyes flushed with life and she leapt off the hood. "For real?"

"I need all the help I can get." Sloan pointed toward the archon. "See that?"

Ramsey looked. Her eyes widened. Had she not noticed it before? "What the hell is that?"

"An archon."

"A what? Sloan, where's everyone else? Clair and them? Did you..."

Sloan babbled an awkward explanation that Delaney no longer cared to hear, because someone was pounding on the inside of the Corvette's trunk. When she moved closer, she heard a muffled voice yell from within to be let out. The others were too engrossed in their conversation to notice, so Delaney supposed the poor girl would simply have to remain there.

"What happened to your followers, Ramsey? Where's Carmichael?"

Ramsey averted her gaze and shuffled her feet. "Oh, uh, well, they decided to leave. I didn't have my powers, so they listened at first when I told them to wait, but I guess they got fed up... Yeah. I mean, it's hard to blame them. Who'd wanna hang around regular me, right? Ha ha."

The person inside the trunk quit pounding. Moments later, a telepathic voice said: Hey, who's there, lemme out yeah?

Sloan, Anoka, and Ramsey turned their heads in random directions. Delaney tapped the trunk and waved. "Hey guys, I think someone's in here!"

Yeah, kinda dark? And cramped? Lemme out, much appreciated.

Delaney went to the front seat and pulled the lever to open the trunk. It flew open and a girl Delaney had never seen before flung herself into the snow. She rose, reoriented, paused when she noticed the archon, and then ignored it and wheeled on Sloan and friends as they crunched up to her.

"Okay, first. I want my gem back, now. Second, I want a detailed explanation of everything that happened while I was dead, because for some reason we got Godzilla here now. And third, who locked me in the trunk? It was you, wasn't it Fargo?"

"I did it so the Terminatrix wouldn't—"

The girl punched Sloan in the jaw. A surprisingly forceful blow despite the girl's spindly arms. Sloan fell back into Ramsey and Anoka, who propped her as she massaged a jaw.

Sloan spit blood. "Ramsey, you got Hennepin's gem, right? Give it to her."

Ramsey fished through her fur coat, found the gem, and handed it to the Hennepin girl. Hennepin snatched it, examined it closely, and transformed it into a ring around her middle finger, which she flashed to all assembled.

"Explanations, now."

"Clair is dead," said Sloan. Excellent phrasing, to eliminate your own hand in the act! Delaney was no stranger to that nifty linguistic trick. "So is St. Paul, Bloomington, Woodbury. And the Terminatrix." She counted on her fingers. "That leaves only us still alive in the city."

"Wow cool," said Hennepin. "Now uh, context on the kaiju clomping toward downtown?"

"It exists," said Sloan. "We're gonna kill it."

A terse, bombastic HA burst from Hennepin's throat. The solitary syllable caromed into the silent sky, its echo a complete laughter without any additional input from Hennepin's vocal chords.

"Uhhhhh no. Not happening." She turned on a heel and took a step away. "Back to Mississauga for me. Never shoulda come to this dungheap."

She walked the opposite direction of the archon, although probably more for dramatic effect than actual navigation.

Delaney tsk-tsked. "What a shame. We could use a girl who was actually competent." She assumed she was, in fact, competent, given her immediate desire to dip out.

"Looks like you could use an army." Hennepin did not look back. "Or an atomic bomb."

"You do know the rewards for killing an archon, right?"

"You got me all wrong. I don't play for money, I play to win. And part of playing to win is knowing when you can't."

Delaney wanted this theatrical little bitch to suffer like everyone else, but didn't know her enough. With prior familiarity, she could find the right words to sucker her into their suicide squad. So far, two strikes.

Before Delaney tried another tactic, Anoka stepped forward. With arms folded she cut a valiant, if pathetic, figure. "What about this city? You swore to protect it!"

Of course this would not work, but it did happen to be so ridiculous Hennepin stopped walking. "Ha," she said. Not as loud as before, but venomously sharp. "I'm no idiot. I can put two and two together. Shit like that monster don't show up every day. Something extraordinary went down while I was dead, and I got one good guess as to what it was."

Everyone looked at Sloan. Sloan looked elsewhere.

"Hm." Hennepin brushed back her hair. "I recall Kyubey saying once, that wraiths were like, the embodiment of human sin and despair or some shit? So if there's like, a real big wraith, it must have meant somebody did a real big sin, with a lot of despair involved? Gee, sounds wild, eh Fargo?"

Sloan wrung her hands together.

Astute deduction, Miss Ru!

Atop the Corvette sat the Incubator. Although it ostensibly looked at Hennepin, its eyes seemed to fall directly on Delaney. And probably everyone else.

"You—!" Sloan started for it, hand outstretched.

Please, Miss Redfearn, refrain from destroying this body. It'll take a few minutes to move another to this location, and time is of the essence.

Sloan's hand hung in the air, inches from its throat. The fingers curled inward until her nails dug into her palm and she lowered the fist.

As I was saying, Miss Ru is absolutely correct. Archons are created by tremendous sin and despair. And this archon in particular was created by the sinful act of Sloan Redfearn murdering Clair Ibsen!

"No..." Sloan gripped her head. "No! It wasn't, I was... She betrayed me first!"

Don't appeal your case to me, Miss Redfearn. I was not the one who decided what constitutes the arbitrary notion of "sin" in this universe. Perhaps someday you may meet the one who governs the conceptual framework of existence and ask her yourself. That's not what I came to talk about, though! I came, first and foremost, to congratulate you, Sloan Redfearn.

"What?"

You did it! You killed Clair Ibsen. That's what you wanted to do for so long, isn't it? Usually, Magical Girls only have one wish granted. You were able to make a second one come true, with some help of course.

"Did you trick her into this?" said Anoka.

You humans and your "tricking". I asked her to do a favor for me, and in return promised her the opportunity to fulfill her greatest desire. She did the favor, I granted the opportunity. And best yet, she seized that opportunity and saw it to fruition! Hence my congratulations.

"Shut up, shut up!" said Sloan. "You made your damn point. Is that all you came to do, rub it in? Why show up now, when you've been hiding so long?"

Delaney checked if Hennepin had slipped away during Kyubey's distraction. But that rat's appearance instead drew her in; she stood behind Anoka and Ramsey in a small semicircle around him.

I apologize for my absence the past few days. I needed to act discreetly due to the watchful eye of my employer. Fortunately, certain events have been set in motion that she no longer has the power to stop. Which means I can give you some advice for fighting the archon!

"You glorious bastard," said Hennepin. A term of endearment rather than reproach. "You love every moment of this."

I am quite incapable of love, Miss Ru. Anyway, I noticed you already managed to strike a serious blow by turning the archon's power against it! A commendable achievement. However, I recommend refraining from attempting the same strategy twice. It'll certainly learn from its previous errors.

Delaney could not be sure, but she thought the Incubator may have winked at her.

"Then what do we do," said Sloan.

Before Kyubey responded, a sharp, piercing wail pealed across the air. The girls looked skyward. The wail rose in pitch, then cascaded, then repeated again.

"The hell is that?" said Anoka.

"A siren," said Hennepin. "They think there's a tornado. It's telling people to go to the cellars."

Anoka balled her fists. "But that's the opposite of what they should do. They need to run, or it'll trap them in the miasma! Once it starts spawning more wraiths..."

She looked so determined, so fierce. Cute! Delaney drummed her fingers across the hood of the Corvette and balanced her chin on the back of her hand. "You sure know a lot about archons, don't you? Odd, considering how rarely they show up."

Miss Cheong has experience with an archon. That's really all you need to know!

"Don't use that name," said Anoka, lowering her head. "And I can answer for myself, thank you."

"Tell us how to kill it, Kyubey," said Sloan. "We don't have much time before it reaches downtown, so spill."

The Incubator curled up and swaddled himself in his plush tail. His eyes never wavered, although he did scratch at an ear. From what I can tell, none of you except Miss Ru has a Soul Gem in a particularly healthy state, is this correct?

Out of pockets and pouches, or from rings on their fingers, the girls (except, Delaney noticed, Ramsey) retrieved their gems and checked. Anoka's was half muddied, Sloan's a little healthier. But the overcharge from the Williston archon's cubes was gone. Hennepin's gem was basically spotless, and Delaney's...

Well, Delaney's looked pretty shitty! Funny too, because not only did she enter Minneapolis with lots of power, but unlike Sloan she had barely expended much magic since then. Possibly, when the Terminatrix stole her powers, the magic she used drained Delaney's gem, through a transfer of magical energy. But that was unlikely, wasn't it, Delaney? After all, gems get dirty for more reasons than simple use, teehee~

Ramsey avoided all eye contact.

This means you can't fight a battle of attrition! You'll tire yourselves really fast. So... you should formulate a strategy based around a single powerful attack!

"Kill it in one hit, eh?" Hennepin placed a jaunty hand on a jaunty hip. "Bosses like these stack HP like motherfuckers. You sure that's really our best bet?"

"So you're on our side now?" said Anoka.

"I'll watch from the sidelines. If you do manage to beat it, I'll swoop in for the drops while you're too exhausted to stop me."

Anoka jabbed Hennepin's chest with a finger. "Oh yeah? You might be surprised—"

"Shut up," said Sloan. "Kyubey, continue."

You've already damaged it. If you consolidate your powers into a single attack against the weakened area, it's entirely possible you could defeat it in a single shot!

"There's only one of us with strong offensive magic," said Delaney. "Unless any of Clair's goon squad wish to reveal hitherto-unseen abilities?"

"'Entirely possible you could defeat it in a single shot.' That gives me a lot of confidence, Kyubey," said Sloan.

It's up to you whether to fight or not. The fate of only approximately 3.5 million humans hangs in the balance, a rather inconsequential number considering your fertility rate.

Sloan gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. So impassioned! Much like Anoka. It's easy for stupid creatures to get worked up. At least Ramsey kept shuffling her feet and looking uncomfortable. Delaney sort of liked that little waif for some reason, though she struggled to understand why. It was a rather faint liking, anyway, easily ignored.

"Fine," said Sloan. "We'll get me close and I'll shoot it until either it dies or I do."

In the distance, the archon's face was a beacon through the black clouds of the storm-laden sky. Nearly obscured in its radiance were the towers of the city, including the Pillar of the Plains.

Delaney reached into her purse and found her phone. She checked the time. A shocking amount had passed. Indeed, they had weathered the entire night, though atmospheric conditions made such facts difficult to observe empirically.

"Sloan love, you told me once you had a finisher move?"

"I also told you it's useless. I need to be in direct sunlight."

So they might all get the chance to play hero after all. "I can get you into the sunlight, love."

"It's the middle of the night."

"It's seven in the morning." Delaney held up her phone as proof. "Seems like someone lost track of time!"

"Well as you can tell it doesn't fucking matter because there's no damn sun a million miles in any direction, so I dunno why you're even bothering to bring this up."

"I'm bringing it up, love, because as I said I can get you into the sunlight."

"Oh yeah? Then do it. Beam me up, Delaney."

Delaney sighed, folded her arms, and closed her eyes. How had she exhibited such patience with this irritable creature for so long? "We must get to the top of that tower."

She flung out an arm and pointed. Across the waves of suburb, past the behemoth archon, into the inner city: the Pillar of the Plains, its apex so above all others that even marred by an unfinished spire it scraped the canopy of clouds at its swirling pupil.

That description was, by the way, the last ounce of poetry Delaney had left to muster, and she didn't bother to speak it. The breath would be wasted on her audience.

"That's stupid," said Sloan. "You're sure you can do it?"

"Am I ever not sure, love," said Delaney. "Have I ever not had utmost faith in my abilities? Have I ever failed in that regard?"

"You've failed in enough other regards—"

Anoka sidled between them. "Now look who needs to shut up. If she says she can get you into the sunlight, I'll believe it. Not much else to believe."

Whatever your decision, make it soon! It won't take long once the archon gets to the center of the city to spread its miasma. With such a large space to manipulate, I have no idea what kind of labyrinth this archon might create. Plus, once established it would heal its wounds and set you back to square one. If that happens, I predict it'll take twenty strong Magical Girls or more to defeat it!

"There aren't twenty strong Magical Girls in this state," said Sloan. "There's not half that."

Anoka grabbed Sloan's coat and tugged her toward the Corvette. "Then stop arguing and move. We take these cars, drive to the skyscraper, get to the top, do the big attack, win. Really easy plan!"

The plan does have relatively few components, which generally corresponds with increased odds of success.

Hennepin began backing off. "Well, then I'll wish you guys luck. Ciao for now!"

Like a chihuahua Anoka clomped after her, wobbling awkwardly through the snow despite her determined posture. "Oh no. You're coming with us. Three million people will die, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Of course it meant absolutely nothing to her, Anoka. Have you not paid attention? Delaney was about to reprimand her for wasting more time—not like they needed Hennepin anyway, or anyone other than her and Sloan—but Hennepin stopped in her tracks.

"It couldn't really kill that many, right?"

Of course it could! Slowly and painfully too, harvesting the population to sustain it for as long as possible.

"There's no time for this," said Sloan. "If she won't come, we don't need her." She opened the door to the Corvette, though they should obviously take the Cadillac which actually, you know, seated more than two people. Delaney discreetly tapped her shoulder and pointed to the other car, which got the message across.

As they headed for the Cadillac, Hennepin spoke up.

"You idiots. Can't you guys use an ounce of strategic thought for once?"

Oh god, really.

"Look where that thing is compared to us and the tower. Wow! It's directly in between! To get to the tower, you'll have to drive straight through it. I mean, I guess you could circumvent it, but that would take forever, and you don't fucking have forever, now do you?"

"Armchair analysis, just what we need!" said Anoka.

"Maybe if you'd cut with the snark you'd see I'm actually trying to help. If you wanna get through that thing without it crushing you in one stomp you'll need someone to pull aggro."

Sloan had already taken the passenger seat. She beckoned for Delaney and the others to hurry up.

"It's kind of a simple concept? You send your beefiest meathead in front so the boss attacks them instead of the squishy damage dealers. Except we don't have anyone who can take a hit, so I'd suggest you find someone who's not all that useful to distract it instead, right?"

"We'll take our chances rushing past it," said Sloan. "Come on, let's—"

"I'll do it," said Ramsey.

From behind Delaney and Anoka she shuffled, her coat limp and loose around her to match her soggy stained hair. Out of the folds emerged a tiny hand clasped around a gem. It surprised Delaney that a gem so tainted could still not be taken by the Cycles.

"I'm a bad fighter. But I can drive. You guys take the Cadillac, I'll go in the Corvette. Maybe we don't need a distraction, maybe we can get by on our own. Why take the risk, though. Right? I'd at least be doing something useful, right?"

Nobody said anything.

The Cadillac had no windshield or roof or much of anything, but it turned on when Delaney keyed the ignition. Same enchants as the Corvette, in which Ramsey pulled ahead, flashing them a feeble thumbs-up before she sped up the ramp onto the freeway.

In the back "seat" (if you could call it that, more like an open lounge area) were Anoka and Hennepin, the latter at the last possible moment hopping in without a word of explanation and a sullen yeah-yeah-I'll-be-a-hero-too expression in which Delaney put zero stock because to be honest heroism is a thing that rarely exists. Everyone in some wicked fantasy would love to be a hero, and sometimes they even try, but when things get tough it all falls to pieces.

The Incubator watched them go, its red eyes the only color in a sea of slush.

The archon's distance from the towers was difficult to discern. Its cracked face was turned toward the city center, causing the full flame of the back of its head to blot away human perception.

"What happens if this finisher of yours don't kill it," said Hennepin. "Note Kyubster never gave a guarantee on that."

"I hope you didn't tag along to complain, dear."

"I just wanna know the backup plan."

"You're a smart girl, Hennepin. I'll assign you to make one. You'll be our chief strategist, what a fun title!"

It shut her up. Phew, because even talking taxed Delaney's energy. She rapidly leaked power, and her Soul Gem seemed darker now than five minutes ago, which made sense because she had little hope for this gambit, like Hennepin she heard how Kyubey phrased his sentences: Maybe, could be, possibly. Oh well! Delaney's true hope was that throwing her life away in a noble sacrifice, even an ineffectual one, might manifest some iota of positivity in her whole wretched life, the tiniest upward tick at the bottom of a graph that went down down down, into Quadrant IV of Delaney Pollack's Shittiness Chart, because in Christian theology nothing mattered except how you ended, deathbed repentance the only thing necessary, maybe a few thousand years of purgation depending on the sect but hey spared an eternity of hell right? Except Delaney knew well enough their Magical Girl religion lacked any theoretical basis in Christian tradition.

What shit. Come on, Delaney! Think something more exciting. One last perverted fantasy about your dear friend Sloan, for old time's sake?

She pressed the pedal harder. The Cadillac already pushed ninety. The wreckage left in the archon's wake rushed along the side of the freeway. Despite the ridiculous bulk of their vehicle, Ramsey's enchantments let it cross any debris that had fallen in their way.

It's close, said Ramsey. I'll get ahead of it, grab its attention.

The pink swatch of Corvette leapt ahead and shot down an offramp toward a street that ran mostly parallel to the freeway. Ahead, the hulking form of the archon raised an arm, dragged it across the air, and let it land upon clustered homes. Its many other limbs moved afterward, each step momentous, destructive, cataclysmic.

So uh, hey! Ramsey's voice chirruped. Fun fact, I actually hate driving. Why do you think I hired Carmichael? I mean, on top of the fact it's illegal for me to drive anyway... Ha ha. It was an annoying buzz. Now that she was out of sight, Delaney had no idea what briefly possessed her to like the ragged girl.

"Hennepin," said Sloan. "You told me about your powers earlier. How you use a crystal and like, manipulate light."

"Yepperoo."

Well, uh, anyway. Sloan! Thanks for everything. I wouldn't be here today if not for you, so I'll try to repay the favor, alright?

Yeah, thanks, said Sloan. "I've got an idea, Hennepin. You need to transform, though."

They were now so close to the archon that Delaney saw the pure white miasma that settled below it, covering the road ahead. On the parallel road below, Ramsey's Corvette veered left to avoid going in, taking a smaller street that branched at an angle. On the freeway, they didn't have that luxury. Delaney hadn't considered they'd have to pass through the light. Driving literally blind, kinda hard?

The archon's radiant head turned. Its limbs paused. The shoulders shifted, the back rippled, and it altered its angle to stare to the left.

It's looking at me, said Ramsey. Go!

Delaney slammed the gas and gripped the wheel to keep it from wobbling. Their speed was getting hard to handle even with Ramsey's enchantments. That made it more fun, though. Between the cities of Regina and Saskatoon is two hundred and sixty kilometers of empty prairie. Delaney alternated the cities biweekly, and each trek took three hours. Three hours she often whittled to two.

Though the archon turned, most of its limbs remained rising out of the road like columns of an ancient megalithic structure, sloped trunks of solid grief rising to an inconceivable spine. A long, coiled tail dragged behind it, scraping whole neighborhoods off the earth in pendulous swishes. At the end of the tail skittered a tremendous hooked barb.

They zoomed past the tail and beneath the body. The miasma was still ahead. It corresponded not to the body itself but the radiance issuing from the head, which the body currently blocked. For now, they traveled in shadow. Delaney flicked on the headlights.

"It's huge," said Anoka.

"When it croaks it'll coat the city in cubes," said Hennepin.

How you holding up, Ramsey? said Delaney. If the thing caught wind of them now, they were, in colloquial terms, "fucked".

It's shooting lasers at me, but they're kinda slow. I've nearly crashed on my own more than it's gotten close to hitting me.

Keep it on you, dear. If you get out of its range you've failed your purpose.

Uh, okay...

Who spends so much on cars she can barely drive? Ugh, stop thinking about it, focus on the road. They'd driven at incredible speed under this thing for like thirty seconds and still hadn't come out the other side, though they were close now. The road ahead languished in light as it curved toward the central city, bright but not so bright as to swallow everything—not directly beneath its gaze. Good, that's what they needed, Ramsey doing her fucking job.

And then, as if having that thought jinxed the whole operation, the light intensified. The road ahead disappeared in increasing gradations of total illumination. The head was turning back, no longer watching the way Ramsey had gone, and bringing the miasma with it.

Ramsey what are you doing dear.

Uh, uh, okay so, don't be mad, but, I maybe crashed in a ditch.

A ditch.

Yeah, um, behind a building. It can't see me anymore I don't think.

Thanks! Thanks for being a huge fucking failure! Don't worry, I'm sure if you believe in yourself you'll find a way to unbotch everything.

"You don't have to be that cruel!" Anoka said.

Um, said Ramsey, oh god, oh god no, oh god I didn't mean to—

"Faster," said Sloan. "Shut up and go faster!"

Those were words that at least staved off frothing disgust. Delaney quickly memorized the terrain before its last glimpse dissolved into a pure white stretch. Of course, the terrain could easily change from under them in the miasma.

Oh god I did it, I really fucked up again, oh god no I can fix this, I can get out of the ditch—

Shut the fuck up and let me concentrate, dear.

They soared into the white. She had to focus. No sideways motion at all or they would run right into the median and pow, curtains. Her hands locked, rigid and straight, correcting for the slight turns the wheel tried to make on its own. It's a long drive between Regina and Saskatoon. There's only straight road ahead. You sink into your daydreams, you're not seeing the road, you're not seeing anything. You can maintain that straightness by instinct while you think about anything else, any of your weird alien desires.

The archon howled. The ground rocked. Delaney held the wheel steady. The electric sound of a laser crashed freakishly close behind.

It won't get out it won't get out it won't get out

I SAID SHUT UP YOU STUPID BITCH, said Delaney.

Useless useless useless they were always right it's just what I am you know ha ha ha ha ha

After what felt like an endless interval, as if they were not moving forward but driving on a giant treadmill, they roared out of the light. Their direction had shifted, ever so slightly, and their left front wheel whirred dangerously close to the median. Delaney righted their course, checked the archon in the rearview mirror, and checked over her shoulder when she discovered the rearview mirror had gone the way of the windshield and roof.

The face of the archon spanned the entire road behind them, the crack between its eyes the only thing allowing any sense of it at all. Delaney maintained her foot on the gas. The towers were close now.

Imagine a triangle. A right triangle, where the right angle is Angle C while the other two are A and B. The distance between B (archon face) and A (car) is the hypotenuse, which in this case represents the archon's facelaser. Now imagine A moves away from C at a rate of one hundred and ten miles per hour (177.028 kilometers per hour for you fellow metric aficionados/Canucks!). The hypotenuse thus also lengthens second by second, so that the facelaser fired one second no longer reaches the car the next! This means, quite simply, that by moving away at such a rate from the archon, it cannot fire its laser in such a way that strikes them.

Ah, but Professor Delaney, isn't it totally possible for the archon to predict the rate of forward motion and correct the angle at which it fires its facelaser accordingly?

To which Professor Delaney replies: Idiot, do you think archons are good at math!

And because her thoughts seemed to predict the opposite of the immediate future nowadays, a laser crashed into the ground directly in front of them. Delaney hit the brakes and thank god for Ramsey's bullshit enchantments because the car stopped on a dime. Her body slammed against the seatbelt which became like a strip of solid stone and flattened the wind out of her lungs.

The laser burned bright before them. Sloan turned to Hennepin. "Now!"

Hennepin was already transformed into a goofy scientist getup, long lab coat atop crimson corset and frilly miniskirt, half cyberpunk half steampunk all slutty Halloween costume. She pushed back the sleeves of her coat and swept a hand in fingerless gloves (fashion catastrophe). Through the light-soaked air rippled a translucent sheen that built form and geometry until it became a tall prismatic crystal. Embedded deep within the stainless quartz was her Soul Gem, a smooth opal.

As soon as it appeared, Sloan summoned a flash of light from her fingertips. The flash subsided a moment later, dwindling into a single stream of light from Sloan's outstretched hand to the center of Hennepin's crystal. Like a prism the crystal captured the ray, filtered it through the opal, and sprayed a rainbow array to create a transparent image of the Cadillac directly beside them.

Before Delaney could ask when Sloan learned this particular trick, the facelaser lurched toward them. She jammed the transmission into reverse and drove. They moved toward the archon, caught between its laser and the pure white miasma that lay directly beneath its face. The flickering image of the Cadillac rolled alongside them, their four dumb faces transfixed, the tires jammed so that it simply glided across the road.

They were corralled. Delaney scanned for an offramp but saw none.

Hennepin twisted her hands to manipulate the crystal, which hovered beside her. It slowly rotated to alter the output of Sloan's light. The doppelganger Cadillac changed its trajectory, revolving around them, gradually rising into the air like a whimsical flying device from a Disney film fifty years old.

After the fake car gained altitude, Hennepin made a dramatic swoop of her arms, tilted the crystal, and sent the image through the air toward the archon's face. The small slits of eyes (far more than two, they opened and closed like sunspots or the eyes of Argus) peered in wonder at the thing that sailed toward it. Its facelaser ceased abruptly. It widened its mouth to charge another, all attention focused on the image.

Delaney hit the brake, changed gears, and raced forward. Hennepin puppeteered the fake car this way and that, flitting it around the archon's face, keeping it distracted. The towers stretched high before them, bent like fisheye lenses into the stormy swirl of clouds. The Pillar of the Plains drew closer and closer.

"We've got this," said Sloan. "We're—"

A sparkle of stardust burst around the Cadillac and the pink paint flecked off in thick embers. The dashboard changed from the high-tech array of dials and gauges into a series of bland instruments caked with hard water and dust. The seat cushions dissolved from leather to matted fuzz plastered with duct tape.

The speedometer went from one hundred and ten to seventy in a single instant. Then it dropped to zero as the Cadillac, if it were even still a Cadillac, stopped driving atop the snow and plunged its front wheels into the drift.

The front of the vehicle lost velocity before the back half, so the back half shot up. The entire car somersaulted and landed upside-down in the snow.

After a moment of blackness, Delaney wrenched her face out of the snow and spat slush. She tried to rub her aching head but her arm had become entangled with the steering wheel. Warm blood ran down her face. The engine continued to chug.

"What the fuck," she said. No clue if anyone heard her, so she tried telepathy. What the fuck.

What did you do Delaney? said Sloan.

I didn't do anything. The car just lost its enchantments.

Goddammit Ramsey, what the fuck are you doing out there?

No response.

We need these enchants back, Ramsey. Stop fucking around!

No response.

Hennepin's matter-of-fact voice cut into the silence. You're none too familiar with enchantments, are you Fargo? She wouldn't be able to turn them off from so far away. She needs to be close to absorb the magic back into her gem.

What? said Sloan. Delaney already knew what, though.

If her magic went out so suddenly and at such a distance, Hennepin continued, it means only one thing. I don't have to say what that is, do I? Now can we focus on getting unburied?

Something pattered in the snow outside. A knuckle rapped against the hull of the overturned car. "You guys alright in there?" said Anoka. "I got thrown out."

What's the archon doing? said Delaney.

"Uh, well, that car illusion's not flying around anymore, so it's looking straight at us."

Wait, said Sloan. Wait, wait. Hennepin, you're not saying that Ramsey...

No time, love. Use your weightless powers and get this car off us.

Sloan hesitated for two precious seconds. I can only make small things weightless.

Oh great. If Delaney knew that, she wouldn't have wasted time asking. Maybe if, when they first traveled to Minneapolis, Sloan were more descriptive about her powers, these time-devouring bungles could be avoided, but alas, Sloan lacked such forethought. Delaney didn't bother to tell the others to hold on. She summoned a bubble in the tight space between the snow and the car and with simple strained focus grew it to massive size. The bubble jacked the car upward and lifted the top half out of the snow.

Anoka pressed her face against the ground to see inside. "Hurry, it's charging an attack!"

Delaney found her seatbelt. Click! She flopped into the snow and struggled out, ignoring her mangled leg and not caring in how many places she broke her arm to extricate it from the steering wheel. She rolled out from under the vehicle and into Anoka's arms. Anoka dragged her away.

From her vantage, Delaney could not see Sloan. But Hennepin had contorted her body, halfway out of the car but halfway still inside, clawing at the snow as she struggled. "Don't leave me here you whores," she frothed.

The archon fired its laser. Anoka dropped Delaney and dove to grab Hennepin's wrist.

Delaney watched the laser sail across the sky and toward the car. Anyone could tell they had no hope, that Anoka only sealed her own fate with this ill-advised attempt to save Hennepin. Delaney wondered if she would see for a split second their bodies fry into cute skeletons before dissolving utterly. What pain would they feel, or would death be instant? Except, rationally, it was in Delaney's interest to keep them alive.

She summoned a bubble around them and yanked it away instants before the laser incinerated the car. No debris, only utter annihilation, simple erasure.

The bubble came to Delaney and burst, dousing all three of them in blood. Which had the added effect of healing Delaney's broken bones.

In the distance, Sloan was already at full sprint toward the Pillar of the Plains, leaping the side of the freeway to continue onto the street below. Delaney hopped up and followed. They had crashed well into the inner city, surrounded by skyscrapers, but they still had a block or three until the momentous base of the Pillar, its windows agleam with the distant archon light.

Hennepin and Anoka staggered after her through the snow. The archon charged another beam as its arms and legs clawed after them. The laser sailed overhead, forcing all save Sloan to duck, and slammed into the side of a smaller tower. A ripple spread through the wall of windows that built into a blast.

When the beam subsided, nearly the entire façade was in tatters, the supports bare and broken. Papers blew from the exposed offices in cyclones. The tower twanged, its metal adjusted, then it collapsed. First the upper stories dropped, whole roofs falling, debris shooting onto the street all around them. Delaney summoned bubbles to block the raining shards, each bubble popping after the first or second strike (power dwindling), thousands of smaller granules spraying against them, sticking in hair, cutting bare skin, searing cloth and snow.

"DON'T STOP RUNNING!" Sloan's voice somehow carried above the din.

After the uppermost floors collapsed, the tower gave way, bending around the middle like a flimsy toy. Tremendous cracks spread through its remaining surfaces and the top half slid sideways, leaning precariously over them. With a fearsome snap it dropped. For a moment it hung there, Macbeth's dagger enlarged into the Babel of man's infinite invention (what are these metaphors!). Delaney wasted no more time with bubbles. Flight was the sole option, her shoes scampering over the snow, please don't slip now. Sloan had already cleared the shadow under its falling form, hadn't even bothered to look back, ran as though she had no conception of the things she fled.

Delaney's arms pulled the air to propel her faster. The tower entered her vision from above despite her effort to stare only straight ahead. Closer. Closer. Closer!

And she burst from under it with space to spare, skidded into the snow, turned to watch the tower fall and saw Anoka staggering in the shadow behind her (Hennepin absent entirely). It became clear at a glance Anoka had no hope to make it.

Delaney summoned a bubble around her to pull her forward, but the next moment the tower hit the ground and crushed Anoka beneath it.

Oh. Whoops.

Well, not like she was too important or useful anyway! Delaney chased after Sloan, who never even looked back. Good, better she not know about Anoka. If Delaney had to waste even a single millisecond while someone bemoaned the death of another cannon fodder Magical Girl...

They scrambled down the last stretch of sidewalk to the Pillar of the Plains. Construction tape and orange signs told unsupervised personnel to KEEP OUT. A wide panorama of steps led to a lacquered mezzanine upon which the tower itself stood, its base buttressed by wide cylinders thronged with rose petal balconies. Three double doors formed the entrance beneath a vast overhang. Sloan did not bother to check if these doors were locked. She shattered their glass paneling with a sweep of her gun.

Delaney followed her into the tower. The grandiose lobby burst with ornate details, crystal chandeliers, marble columns, fountains, cherubim, tapestries, rugs, and general world class craftsmanship they had no time to admire. A wide spiral staircase rounded the interior column of the tower, while a single glass pillar in its center contained the elevators.

Sloan went straight for the elevator panel, but the instant she pressed a button a digital marquee above the doors flashed red.

DURING EMERGENCY PLEASE USE STAIRS.

"The fuck," said Sloan.

"Seems the elevators are smarter than you, love." Delaney pulled her by the coat. "Hurry."

"Where's Hennepin? Anoka?"

"Stairs await! Ready for your daily cardio?" She noted the number of floors on the elevator panel. One hundred. Of course.

They hit the stairs hard and fast, Sloan taking five or six or sixteen at a time with vast bounds that Delaney struggled to emulate. They coiled around the columnar structure of the Pillar, surrounded by curved panes of glass that stared with a slight tint onto the city beyond. The archon swelled huge as it squeezed between the rows of towers, scraping the skyscrapers. Its light streamed into the lobby and chased them as they ran.

One hundred was so many floors, and the archon destroyed a different tower with only one laser. Granted, the Pillar was larger, had more structural support, but better move quick.

Hey.

And quick they moved. Already they cleared five floors, the lobby minimizing beneath them, the skies rising around them.

Hey. This a bad time?

Delaney couldn't believe it. It was Anoka's voice. You're still alive?

I guess. Hard to tell. It's dark.

What is it, said Sloan. What's wrong, Anoka?

I think a tower fell on me. I'm buried beneath a lot of stuff. I think a bar or something's stuck in me.

Below, glass shattered. The hand of the archon closed against the side of the tower. Its fingers dug into the windows.

Just hold on, Anoka, said Sloan. Once we kill the archon, we'll dig you out.

Yeah, don't worry too much about that. Look, if it's a bad time, that's cool, tell me and I'll shut up. I'd just like to say—

It's a bad time, said Delaney. The archon's other arm dug into the other side of the tower. Its body rose against the glass, legs shuffling against the sloped curves, crawling after them with its sunlight head blotting out the floors they left behind.

Just talk, Anoka, said Sloan. There's no reason for you to... wind up like Ramsey, alright?

Ha. I'd just like to say, um, if you guys do manage to kill that thing or whatever... Okay, what I'm gonna ask is a lot, and I know there's probably no way you'll do it, but.

The archon's hand unlatched from its previous position and clawed into the glass above them. They had crossed maybe half the floors, probably way less than half actually, and it was already catching up. They had no time for this bullshit from Anoka. And unlike Ramsey it wasn't like some Cycles-related death would fuck them over by removing a critical enchant, so why the fuck was Sloan indulging her?

But if you're ever in Vancouver for whatever reason, or no, no wait, could you maybe just, write a postcard or something, to uh, 563 Madore Avenue, Coquitlam, uh, I forget the postal code, but it's the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Cheong, could you send them a letter and tell them, you know, hey, your daughter, she uh, died, in Minneapolis, or that's not even important, as long as they know she died—

What are you talking about, said Sloan. Just hold on and we'll get you out.

Yeah. A whole skyscraper fell on me. Everything hurts. Not getting outta here anytime soon.

The face of the archon rose to meet them. The stairs went white with light. Delaney summoned bubbles for shade more than protection, casting a red glaze everywhere. "Hurry," she hissed at Sloan, who seemed to be slowing down.

No, what the hell, Sloan said. That's the stupidest thing I ever heard, you're gonna give up hope for just that?

Huh...?

Basically the first thing you told me was you had a high tolerance for pain. What the fuck is a fucking skyscraper to you? I'm tired of watching girls die for shit that's MY fault, so DON'T FUCKING DO IT.

Delaney shoved a hand against Sloan's back. "MOVE!"

As long as you're still alive, you have a chance to change things. You're gonna live and you're gonna tell your parents YOURSELF—

The laser swept through the tower. It cleaved the staircase the moment Delaney seized Sloan and pulled her over the banister, onto a well-placed bubble that bounced them skyward. The stairs trembled, the entire helix aquiver at the removal of even a fragment of its framework.

Somehow, as they soared through the air toward another bubble, Sloan still tried to communicate to Anoka.

All you have to do is think about the future and you can live. The goddam moon could flatten you and it wouldn't matter!

The helix collapsed, coil upon coil cascading upon itself, falling around them into the white abyss below as they bounced from one bubble to the next. The claws of the archon crashed against the walls as it slithered in pursuit, wallowing its long body against the Pillar.

The bubbles Delaney summoned as platforms popped almost instantly as glass shards rained upon them. Delaney had to make three, four, five bubbles just to put down one they could hit before it burst, each bubble weaker than the last. The floors of each story dented inward, debris plummeted, Delaney had to summon bubbles above to protect them, and bubbles to protect the bubbles they needed to hit, so many bubbles, fucking bubbles, why had it been bubbles all this time, what kind of barrier was a fucking bubble, bubbles popped, that's all they did, the words "bubble" and "pop" were inextricable, fused at the hip, one of two verbs you could apply to bubble, the other being "float," pop and float and pop and float, up and up into the Pillar of the Plains, the whole city spread in endless sprawl three hundred and sixty directions around them, Delaney's arms wrapped around Sloan's torso, altering direction with each jump, a hundred tiny lacerations across her skin from the glass, and the archon scraping after, its light a rising pool always at their feet no matter how fast they leapt.

Then they hit the roof.

Literally slammed right into it, the brunt of the impact going into the top of Delaney's skull. They dropped but Delaney was quick with her bubbles and bounced them to the side, out of the stairwell and onto the hundredth floor. They rolled against solid ground until they hit a door.

On the door hung a sign: ROOF ACCESS. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

"Hurry, love."

Anoka? Anoka, are you there?

"Hurry, love!"

Delaney flung open the door. An alarm sounded, almost undetectable above the cataclysmic din, this veritable apocalypse rising from below with its god or antichrist urging it forward. They staggered onto the open roof, gated with unfinished edges, the beginnings of a spire. Construction equipment proliferated across the ramshackle space. The central swirl of the clouds coalesced directly above.

Delaney sagged against a stack of crates and raised a hand. A half-dome of coagulated blood formed around Sloan, tried to spread into a full sphere, and crumbled into solidified globs that slapped against the ground.

Her hand shook. She steadied it with her other hand. "Shit."

"Are you okay?" said Sloan. "Your hair is turning white—"

"Stand still, I'm fine." She bit her lip and purged all the giggling thoughts inside her and did not dare look at her Soul Gem. She needed only one more bubble. Her fingers tightened and cramped and the bubble tried to form again, a smoother consistency, surrounding Sloan on all sides, finally finishing as a flawless sphere.

She slumped and sighed. The bubble floated into the air. "Stay still, don't wobble. It'll break if you nudge too hard."

The bubble drifted up, between the half-finished arches of the spire, into the sky. This'll take me above the clouds? said Sloan.

Oh yes. Truthfully, Delaney had no clue. But magic was just belief, wasn't it? If she believed she could, if she purged all bland mathematical thoughts of cloud cover altitude, then it would be so. There you'll see the sun, nice and bright, shining just for you, love.

A pang dragged its edge along the inside of her stomach. She doubled over, her legs folding beneath her. The rooftop shook violently.

This is it, she thought. You've done everything you can. You need only live long enough for Sloan to pass above the clouds, then it's over. This lifetime of blackness, a blackness inescapable because it came from your own damn throat, thick like phlegm it clogged you, stopped your wicked heart.

The world will be better for your absence.

Sloan in the bubble floated higher and higher and smaller and smaller and still the clouds hung overhead. Maybe the bubble wouldn't make it. Maybe Delaney miscalculated. Wouldn't that be hilarious? All this effort, all those lives, and in the end it came to nothing, the bubble breaks before Sloan is even close, she plummets to earth like Icarus. Or worse yet—what if Delaney broke the bubble now? Wouldn't that be a devilish prank?

Ah, no.

Vast light clipped over the edge of the roof. She sagged away from it and held a hand for defense. The light broadened, widened, magnified. The glorious sun rose like it might over the nation of Japan, youthful and malevolent. Down the center of its celestial beauty the black crack contained nothing, a total unlight, emptiness incarnate unhidden by the fire around it. And all across its face opened eyes, never more than two at a time but each blinking so rapidly they gave the illusion of a face filled with them, eyes that gazed directly into her, pierced her clothes and skin, saw the black clots within her veins, the sludge that streamed through her circulatory system, the awful blood that composed her.

Delaney held her hands toward the light and invited its embrace.

Delaney, whatever happens, buzzed a little voice, I want you to know you, you were my friend. I didn't act like it, I said some angry things, but you've helped me all this time. You're right... I should have listened to you, I should have listened.

"How sad," she whispered, "because I despise you. All those emotions I could not comprehend and thought were something like love... I think it was hate this whole time."

She didn't whisper that. Her lips moved a little, but no sound came. The archon's face burned into her corneas.

I'M ABOVE THE CLOUDS. BREAK THE BUBBLE.

Delaney blinked, and a final note of clarity killed the distant bubble that contained Sloan Redfearn.

At first, nothing happened. Whiteness, the blinking eyes of the archon, the jagged crack. But after a few seconds the archon's gaze reoriented, the eyes tilted skyward, and the light that had enveloped her dissipated, leaving her vision glazed with odd colors but functional enough that she could loll her head and see what the archon saw.

The spiral of clouds parted at its center. The immediate effect was that a ray of sunshine—true sunshine—shot through and struck the light of the archon. But there, bathed in this cascading ray, hung the tiny figure of Sloan Redfearn, her coat spread behind her and her arms clenching not a Gatling gun but a colossal bazooka, twice the length of Sloan herself. Her already thin arms appeared comical compared to its immensity.

In the vast rotundity of the cannon's barrel, a light coagulated. Atomized particles built within it, stolen from the rays of the sun (her pale fire she something something), coalescing into an orb. More energy fed into it, it built until Sloan's small body disappeared in the brightness, until it seemed like the sun itself, their sun, had fallen from its Ptolemaic position at heaven's zenith and now surged toward the planet in ultimate doomsday. Delaney's mind went numb, her mouth fell open and her eyes screeched in agony. But she could not look elsewhere or even close her eyes.

From the orb burst a godlike ray. It descended, combusting all atmospheric elements in its path. Nitrogen, oxygen, argon, neon, helium assimilated into the resplendence, filled it with a rainbow that flickered across its long shaft like an electric pulse. Down the holy bolt sailed, down and down and into the upturned face of the archon, into its cracked visage, swallowing its light, creating a mixture of lights so fierce that everything became nebulous, a lack of existence, a vacuum of feeling.

The archon loosed a pixelated wail, digital and synthetic, compressed petabytes that spanned the whole of known and unknown music. Out of the senseless whiteness the black outline of its true face, beneath its shroud of light, reared back, a gargantuan human skull with a hundred eye sockets across it, each with a wide round eye. The crack in the center spread. Flecks of bone blasted outward to absorb into the nothingness. The eyes rolled up, melting, resolving into white dew that ran down the skeletal cheeks like milky tears.

Out of the crack emerged a four-fingered claw, its talons hooked as it reached into the stream of light, a many-jointed arm rising from where the archon's brain should be, stretching skyward for the source of its pain. But as it forced its way into the fire, its fingers bent back, the nails snapped and the skin peeled, stripping away to reveal only brittle bones along which spread fractured lines, until the fingers burst into dust and the palm dissolved into a stigmatic mark that devoured it whole. The many-jointed arm twisted, writhed, its flesh and musculature exposed, then swallowed too, and even the bones dwindled to long black streaks in the whiteness, until nothing remained.

The skull exploded. Like ceramic shards the forehead plate dispersed into the light until only the lower jaw remained, and then this too shattered. The light coursed further, into neck, into the endless spine, into the arms and the many scuttling legs, into the claws, into the tail, into the envenomed barb.

Then the light stopped. It simply cut off, no tapering, no dwindling, no gradual fade. It ended. The whiteness vanished. The city of Minneapolis returned, its many towers and wide flatlands, its circles of homes and cul-de-sacs and snow-sunk roads. The withered, blackened, charred frame of the archon, stripped of all flesh, clung to the Pillar a moment, then burst into a tremendous cascade of pixels—grief cubes—that rained down the side of the tower and into the streets below.

Nothing remained. Delaney slumped and watched Sloan Redfearn plummet from the sky.

Chapter 28: A Stage Dense with Corpses

Considering the amount of energy sapped during her finisher, which she had only used twice before and both in purely experimental scenarios concocted by (who else) Clair Ibsen, it amazed Sloan she had the perspicacity to realize she needed to soften her landing. So at the last moment she corrected her ragdoll body and instrumented an imperfect parkour drop against the tower's roof. Although she rolled to distribute impact, and even infused herself with the last dram of her magic to make herself lighter, pain was inevitable. It hit her hard and everywhere at once.

She lay face down. And closed her eyes. And felt the cold wind blow across her body. Yeah, might be good to lie here a long time. And not think. And die. Yeah, might be a good thing altogether.

Funny how, in Williston, in that cave with Winnipeg after the archon fight, funny how happy she had been, how she hugged Winnipeg (Erika, her name was Erika) and thought, briefly, that things might be nice, that she did good, that she had a friend. Did she feel any happiness now? No. Only a hollow, hollow void.

"Delaney," she whispered. "Delaney."

No answer.

They saved the city. They foiled Kyubey's plot, maybe.

And Sloan killed Clair.

Yeah.

Killed her.

And the Terminatrix, and others by extension: Woodbury, Bloomington, St. Paul, Ramsey, Hennepin, Anoka. All of them. Lynette too, all of them.

She lay face down.

Someone—Delaney—uttered a sharp, scratchy groan. Sloan opened her eyes. Delaney cradled her knees under her chin and trembled on her side, against the ground. Her hair was white, like Clair's.

It took a painful exertion, but Sloan pulled herself up and crawled toward Delaney.

"Hey. Delaney. It's okay." She placed her hand on Delaney's shoulder. "It's okay. The archon's dead."

It probably dropped a metric ton of grief cubes. Sloan searched the rooftop but they seemed to have fallen over the edge.

"Let's get you up, Delaney. Let's get down from here. Maybe the elevator works now." At least the storm had stopped. A serene gray pervaded the sky.

Sloan wriggled a hand under Delaney's waist and leaned her against a crate. Sloan had too little faith in her remaining energy to try and make her weightless, but that was alright. Sloan could carry her.

She started to get an arm under Delaney's legs when Delaney seized Sloan's collar and opened her eyes. They were bright red.

"Don't... touch... me."

"There's tons of cubes, come on..."

Delaney's ragged breath brushed Sloan's face, warm in the winter morning air. "You don't, even have the... decency... to die. After, everything..."

"What are you talking about? We stopped the archon. It's over."

Jagged laughter forced its way from Delaney's throat. "Over? No... Even now... you have no idea, what you've done. Always an idiot. Always... oblivious..."

"If you stay here you'll die," said Sloan. "Berate me after we get those cubes."

"You, you've... undone everything..."

Sloan grabbed Delaney's shoulders and shook her. "What do you want from me? Whatever I did, I'll fix it. I'll undo it. I'll stop Kyubey's stupid plan, whatever it is. Just let me get you out of here, okay?"

Delaney's head lolled to the side. Her hand slid into her pocket and emerged clutching a small pink wallet. She pushed it into Sloan's hands.

"The hell is this?"

"If you... if you're serious, if you... if you want to change anything, anything at all..."

Sloan undid the clasp and looked inside. The wallet brimmed with Benjamin Franklin's smug face. "What the fuck? You want me to donate to charity or what? Delaney, you're not thinking straight. Come on."

She angled her arms to wrap around Delaney's body, but then Delaney's gaze turned toward something past Sloan's shoulder and her eyes widened.

Never had Sloan seen fear in Delaney's face, or even any genuine emotion. But the horror in her crimson eyes was unmistakable. Sloan's own heart started to pound. She released Delaney and turned to see what was behind her.

It was a girl with pink hair.

She stood at the edge of the tower. Her hair hung in elegant strands, bound by a white ribbon on either side of her head. Her long bangs covered her eyes. She wore a beautiful white dress—never had Sloan seen a dress so beautiful—that flowed outward and exposed a celestial starscape within. Her tall boots sprouted feathered wings from the heels. Tranquility pervaded from her.

Sloan understood she saw no ordinary Magical Girl. Then she saw the girl's smile and knew why.

It was the same wicked, shark tooth smile of the dolls.

Sloan had no strength but stood anyway, clinging to the crates for support as she tried to summon a gun. She failed. The pink-haired doll stepped forward.

"Another enemy," Sloan said. "I'll fight it."

"She's... beautiful," said Delaney.

Sloan glanced from the doll to Delaney and back again. "You can see her? But the dolls are..."

Invisible. Still, Delaney's eyes followed each slow step it took.

"Are you, are you mad at me?" said Delaney. "I know I, I know I did bad things..."

The doll knelt by Delaney's side. It spread its reedy arms before her. Sloan roused herself from disbelief and tried again to summon her gun. This time it manifested in her hands, although its sudden weight caused Sloan to stagger sideways.

"Get away from her," she said. "Don't touch her!"

"Sloan, it's okay..." said Delaney. The fear ebbed from her eyes. "She's, she's not... she's not here to hurt me...!"

The gloved hands of the doll closed around the Soul Gem in Delaney's brooch. Sloan dropped her gun and surged forward, she had to get that thing away from Delaney, she had to—

She lost her balance and flopped on her side.

The doll's smile pressed close to Delaney's gem. The triangle teeth parted to reveal a black crevice. Sloan crawled across the ground and reached for the doll's brittle ankle.

From Delaney's Soul Gem, in one long breath, the doll sucked all the darkness and despair. A stream of black particles left the gem, reverting it to its pure, ruby red state. Then, the doll swallowed the grief in one gulp.

Sloan blinked, her hand outstretched. She could not understand. What deus ex machina was this? Saving Delaney at the last possible moment... Delaney regarded the gem on her shoulder with similar awe.

The next moment, in a brief flare of light, Delaney's gem vanished.

Delaney fell against the ground with a final exhalation, and her body disappeared entirely.

Gone.

Nowhere.

Dead.

That was...

The Law of the Cycles.

The pink-haired doll turned its head toward Sloan.

This was the fate of Magical Girls? This? Delaney, Erika, all the countless others, this was the Law of the Cycles? Was this Sloan's own fate? The exhaustion weighed heavy inside her, invited the pink-haired doll closer.

No, no, no. Sloan rolled onto her side and beat her legs against the floor. She propelled herself forward, gaining traction despite the scrapes that opened on her palms. The doll made no effort to stop her as she reached the door back into the tower. She rolled down a narrow stairwell and suffered the jabs as each sharp step dug against her spine or ribs or shoulders. Her momentum deposited her onto the hundredth floor of the Pillar of the Plains. She shuffled over the carpet, rising to her knees and stealing a glance behind her. The pink-haired doll smiled back, a warm smile despite the grotesque needle teeth.

The central column of the pillar, where the spiral staircase once stood, was now only an empty pit. A lone, frail walkway led across the pit to the glass tube elevator. Sloan limped for it, lurched into the control panel, and hit the only button: down. Was it still an emergency, did the elevator still function? The panel delivered the same admonishment: PLEASE USE STAIRS.

"The stairs don't exist!" She jammed her fingers between the elevator doors. Over her shoulder, the pink-haired doll incrementally approached. Sloan rasped at it to stay back and wedged her thin body into the widening crack, then forced the doors open with her shoulder until she slipped inside.

The doors shut behind her. She hit the button for the lobby and expected something stupid to happen, an alarm, a robotic voice demanding STAIRS, maybe nothing at all, maybe worse than nothing, maybe some vital component was missing and she would plummet to her death.

But the elevator descended.

She cried. All one hundred stories.

By the time she staggered out of the tower, having needed to leave the elevator at some point and climb down a portion ruined by the archon, she had stopped crying. She wandered in a daze down the long pavilion to the snow-covered street. A vast field of grief cubes, millions of grief cubes, twinkled on the white blanket.

Hennepin stood amid them. She scooped handfuls into the pockets of her lab coat. When she noticed Sloan she stopped and hailed. "Hey! You lived, nice job!"

She tromped through the cubes and studied Sloan up and down.

"Geez you look like shit. Where's your friend? She's dead, right?" She checked the tower over Sloan's shoulder.

"She's dead," said Sloan.

"Sick shit!" Hennepin patted Sloan on the shoulder and extended a hand to indicate the grief cube smorgasbord. "Means just two to split all this. You did most the work, and no matter what you think about me I believe if someone earns it they deserve it. I mean, I saw what you did. I wasn't even looking, then there's this bright flash in the sky, like fucking Independence Day, not like fireworks, I mean the movie? Like the alien ships, I mean. BWAAAOOOM. There goes New York, fragged off the face of the galaxy. Man I love that movie. That's legit what I expected, Minneapolis just GONE. Holy shit sorry, I gush when I get excited."

She gave Sloan a spontaneous hug. Sloan stood still, arms at her sides.

"Point is, I'm willing to split seventy/thirty. You get the seventy, duh. I can only take credit for the planning phase, oh and that car illusion. So obviously most of it goes to you. Not like it matters, there's so many I won't have to hunt wraiths for a fucking YEAR. You know what I could do with a year, Fargo? Jesus, I could even get a boyfriend!"

"What," said Sloan.

"Just kidding. Everyone knows Magical Girls are all turbolesbians." Hennepin cracked up at her own joke. She, too, started to cry as she flopped into the cubes and made snow angels with wide sweeps of her arms.

Sloan sat down. She searched the area in case the pink-haired doll followed her.

Instead, she saw Kyubey. He slithered through the cubes, leaving a trail where his lithe body wriggled. He stopped near Hennepin and stared down at her as she rolled and laughed.

Congratulations, you two! You defeated the archon. I actually had no expectation of your success, but you managed it.

Hennepin gave him the finger. "Fuck yoooooou, Kyuuubey. I ain't doing jack shit next year."

Unfortunately, Miss Ru, there is no guarantee any of these cubes will wind up in your possession.

Hennepin sat up. "The hell does that mean."

I mentioned I had little confidence in your success. Your odds were rather low, you understand. So I called some girls in advance to fight the archon in case you failed! Twenty of them, actually.

"Twenty," said Hennepin. "Is this a joke? I know your weird alien species has different standards of humor than we lowly humans, but—"

"There aren't twenty girls in this state," said Sloan. "Nomads, maybe. Not twenty good enough to do shit."

Exactly right, Miss Redfearn! Hence, I called them from a different state entirely. Illinois, to be exact.

Illinois? That was a real place? There were places in this world outside Minneapolis? No, wait. Sloan had heard of this mythical Illinois before. In particular, one city—

"You sent CHICAGO girls here? HERE?" said Hennepin.

In fact, I sent them here six hours ago, predicting the timeline of the archon's birth rather accurately, I may add. I could have had them arrive perhaps an hour earlier, but it turns out they were unneeded anyway.

"You rat, you goddam rat." Hennepin grabbed for Kyubey but he made a nimble dodge. "How could you, do you know what Chicago girls DO?"

I am aware they are remarkably efficient at killing wraiths compared to the average Magical Girl. I've already instructed them exactly where to find the spoils dropped by the archon, which is what they want. Although they were ultimately superfluous in this instance, it would hamper my future dealings with such a powerful set of girls if they believed I reneged on my promises—

Hennepin dove to seize him and missed again. He scampered across the cubes and scurried into a hole beneath the wreckage of a fallen skyscraper, his tail the last thing to disappear.

"No, no, no, no!" Hennepin pounded the ground. She clutched her head. "How long is it from Chicago to Minneapolis? Fargo, quick, grab all the cubes you can. Hurry!"

Hennepin shoveled cubes into her pockets until they overflowed. Sloan sat in the snow and stared vacantly.

After running off somewhere, presumably to unload her cubes in a more secure location, Hennepin returned to shovel more into her pockets. She did not even dent the twinkling sea. Sloan remembered a parable: a little bird who moves a desert one grain of sand at a time. Poo-tee-weet.

Time passed. Sloan wasn't sure how long. Then, from a street that crossed between the towers, a large gray vehicle appeared. At first Sloan thought it was emergency response, since a whole skyscraper fell and all, but it blared no sirens. Once its engine became audible above the wind, Hennepin ceased her futile effort and watched it too. It was a bus.

It drove straight for them. Hennepin swore under her breath. It could only be one thing. As it screeched to a halt, parking widthwise to block the street, the name painted on the side rendered it undeniable: CHICAGO LINES.

"The bastard," said Hennepin. "He timed it, he timed it so they would show up and steal our cubes, he timed it just for that!"

"Did you even listen?" said Sloan, disinterested. "He timed it so they would kill the archon. We weren't supposed to do that."

The door of the bus folded open. Two girls in golden medieval armor, helms and visors and all, leapt out and assumed a position on either side of the door. One held an arquebus and the other a blunderbuss. They aimed at Sloan and Hennepin.

"Don't move! You and this city are under the inquisition of the Holy Order of Chicago."

It begins, Sloan thought.

Two more girls, in the same golden armor, ran around to the back of the bus. They pulled open the handicap access doors and withdrew a long ramp leading to the ground. While they worked, more girls exited through the main door and secured a perimeter. Sloan kept a mental count. By the time the girls at the back finished placing the ramp, nineteen had appeared.

From the back of the bus, astride a machine stallion of shifting gold plates, which looked and moved every bit like a real horse, the twentieth girl emerged. She wore more elaborate armor than the others, distinguished by a long turquoise plume at the crest of her helm. One hand held the reins of her mount as it descended the ramp. The other clutched a halberd straight upright to match her immaculate posture.

The other soldiers bowed their heads and clutched a fist over their heart in sincere salute as the equestrian passed. The horse, its eyes azure and its nostrils flaring steam, trotted with graceful, long-legged steps through the uneven snow. It stopped before Sloan and Hennepin. The rider raised her visor.

"Identify yourselves."

Hennepin bowed her head like the other girls, although she did not mimic their salute. "I am Hennepin."

"Fargo," said Sloan.

"Where is Minneapolis," asked the girl on the horse.

"Minneapolis is dead," said Hennepin. "Fargo and I are the only survivors."

The girl on the horse processed this information with no change in demeanor. "Hennepin and Fargo," she said, "with the powers vested in me by the Empress Chicago, I place you under arrest for interrogation. We shall discern how these events transpired. If you are cooperative, you may be offered a position in the New Colonial Government of the Territory of Minneapolis, which I claim in the name of the Empress."

"The Empress," said Hennepin with a calculated dose of reverent awe. "Is she here?"

"Pah! The Empress would never depart her dominion to survey the conquest of a country backwater. The privilege of colonizing this territory in her name falls to I, Cicero, the third of Greater Chicago's Four Centurions, her stalwart Paladin." She pointed the spiked tip of her halberd under Sloan's chin. "You! Fargo, if such a sty even merits a Puella Magi. You will lower your eyes when you look at me."

Watching this surreal display, Sloan felt as though she had entered overtime, living past her life's intended finale, entering a world she was never meant to experience.

She began to laugh.

Laughter was clearly not the reaction Cicero expected. Hennepin inched away from Sloan and cast a sidelong glance at the nineteen armor-plated girls arrayed around them, who also had no words, only bafflement as Sloan laughed and laughed in their leader's face.

"I note the condition of your Soul Gem is especially poor, Fargo," said Cicero. "And yet I shall brook no insult. Seize her and prepare her for flogging! She will not be able to dampen the pain, as she is."

A pair of girls broke formation to grab Sloan's arms and force her facedown into the snow. But Sloan could not stop laughing!

"Yes, yes, flog me to death, why the fuck not?"

"Fifty lashes for the insult, and fifty for the profanity," said Cicero. "Now that you have entered the territory of Greater Chicago, you shall abide by its rules, which instill decency among Puella Magi and minimize general harlotry."

Another armored girl stepped forward. She held a rolled-up whip, like the one Ramsey used. With one quick crack it unfurled against the air.

"I don't mean to be rude or anything," said Hennepin (far away from Sloan), "but isn't one hundred lashes a bit much? I mean, I'm sure your rules are sound and all—"

"Leniency begets slothfulness," said Cicero. "The lashes begin now. One!"

The whip slashed Sloan's back. She cried out as her skin rippled into a thick welt.

"Two!"

The whip fell again. The pain magnified.

"Three—"

"Lady Cicero," said another girl. "The cubes!"

Cicero lowered her halberd and looked past Sloan. The other girls stared with her. Finally, since something of vague interest was transpiring, Sloan expended the effort to twist her neck and stare over her shoulder at the field of cubes.

It was like someone pulled the plug in a bathtub. The cubes, the whole great mass of them, slowly swirled around a central point. They jingled against each other, at first a small chime, but soon a roaring cacophony as they tumbled within the whirlpool. The cubes cascaded into the frothing hole at the center, a dark circle like a sheer puncture in the ground.

Sloan had departed the giving-a-shit phase of her life and attempted no explanation of what she saw. If not for the confused faces of the Chicago girls, she'd have thought it some kind of capture device of theirs, like a vacuum designed solely for grief cubes.

"Hurry, stop it, whatever it is!" Cicero said. "You, Fargo! You know something about this, don't you?"

"I don't know shit," said Sloan. Several Chicago girls tromped to the edge of the whirlpool and grasped for handfuls of cubes.

"Your continued insolence shall be remembered," said Cicero. "Until then, you shall explain the knavery taking place!"

"For the record," said Hennepin, "I know nothing about this, and have nothing to do with this Fargo girl, really."

"It's probably the time demon, Humbug Applebee," said Sloan, trying to remember Clair's final words. "From Teriyaki, Japan. Apparently she caused everything else to happen, so why not?"

"Is this girl touched in the head?" said Cicero. Hennepin shrugged.

The cubes drained faster. The bolder Chicago girls entered the outer currents, only to have the torrent sweep their feet from under them. Their fellows worked furiously to rescue those who fell and nobody did much of anything to stem the tide. In a remarkably short time, the vast field depleted to a stream trickling into the black hole.

The Chicago girls gathered around the hole once the last cubes disappeared. "Someone's down there!"

"Follow and apprehend them," said Cicero. "Those cubes are property of the Empress Chicago. Thievery shall not be tolerated!"

Nobody appeared eager to plunge inside. From Sloan's angle it looked like a bottomless pit. Nevertheless, at Cicero's stern command, they inched forward and aimed their weapons into it.

In a blink, the hole closed. Nothing remained save the ordinary city street. Not a stray cube, not a mark.

"They fled into the sewers!" said Cicero. "Hurry, after them. Don't let them escape."

The girls tottered to the nearest manhole and pried open its cover. One by one they leapt into the depths.

"You won't find them," said Sloan. "I don't know what happened, but it did happen, so it's part of Kyubey's plan. He wanted you to kill the archon, but I did that first, so really he didn't need you at all."

Cicero stuck her halberd under Sloan's throat, forcing her chin to rise. "You know more than you're saying. You will tell me, no matter what methods it takes to wring the information out of you!"

"Yeah." Sloan glanced down at her Soul Gem and all its darkness. "I doubt it."

"Don't expect death to come so easily." She snapped at a subordinate. "Bring the reserve cubes. Force feed them to her if necessary. We'll give her something much worse than lashes."

Sloan laughed some more. Laughing seemed like the only thing to do. Was this never going to end? She should have stayed on the rooftop and died alongside Delaney.

She should have—

A pair of arms wrapped around her waist and hugged her tight. Sloan glanced down at them. They were white and frail. Around one wrist was a band, and on that band was a luminous Soul Gem, brimming with energy. Sloan knew that gem.

Then Sloan sank into a pit of tar that opened beneath her, and everything went dark.

"Wow... those girls were something scary, weren't they?"

Sloan floated in a black void. Omaha's arms remained wrapped around her. Her body pressed against Sloan's back. Around them drifted the grief cubes dropped by the archon. They orbited like an asteroid belt, with Sloan and Omaha the heavenly object at their center.

"Where is this place. Are we invisible?"

"Ah... not quite. But don't worry, we're even safer. Here, nobody can hurt us, nobody at all."

Everything was only black. No stars or suns. Nothing but them and the grief cubes. Nor any oxygen. Sloan tried to breathe and couldn't. But somehow she needed no breath and could speak without air.

"This," said Omaha, "is the crevice between universes."

"Between. What? Omaha, I don't care. I think I'm just gonna die. Let that pink doll take me away."

"Ah, so you saw Liebe..." said Omaha. "She came for Miss Delaney, right? I knew Miss Delaney died somehow, because my wrist healed... see?" She held up her hand. "Anyway, not even Liebe can reach you here. Your Soul Gem won't become more tainted, no matter what you do. As I said... we're outside the universe. Its laws don't apply here. Nothing applies here..."

"What?!" Sloan struggled against Omaha's grip. "So this is limbo? We're stuck here forever?"

Omaha giggled. Except she was so awkward, it came out forced. "No, silly... I can come and go anytime I want. I can take you or anyone else with me. It's easy, really..."

A hole opened in front of them. Beyond it, the Chicago girls stood gathered around a miserable Hennepin. Omaha pushed Sloan outside, into the cold.

"—And once we've lashed you enough times to cover for your friend's insolences," Cicero told Hennepin, "we shall interrogate you thoroughly until we are certain your claims of ignorance are true—"

"Lady Cicero, she's back!"

The Chicago girls turned and regarded Sloan and Omaha standing in the street.

"Aw..." said Omaha. "Don't take it out on poor Miss Serena. Oh, um, I mean... Hennepin."

Hennepin knelt with her wrists bound behind her back and a fresh wound on the crown of her head. One eye was squinted shut. "Who are you and how do you know my name?"

"Hennepin doesn't know anything, really," said Omaha. "If you want to be angry at anyone... be angry at me!"

"Apprehend them both," said Cicero.

But before the Chicago girls took their first step, Omaha pulled Sloan back through the hole, into the void. The circle looking into Minneapolis sealed shut and nothing remained but darkness.

"See?" said Omaha. "You don't need to worry about anything."

"This is nuts," said Sloan. "You could always do this?"

"No, actually, I've never been able to do this until now. You see... hm... How should I explain? Well, it started with my wish. Maybe you've guessed by now... but I wished I could disappear."

Sloan mulled it over. "So your powers..."

"Yeah, pretty literal, right? I... was very unhappy with myself. And who I was. The Man Who Said He Was My Father told me he hated me... he told me I was wicked in the eyes of God. I wanted more than anything to just disappear... So nobody, not even God could see my wickedness. And that was what I wished when my Friend asked me to sign his contract..."

"Kyubey."

"If that's what you call him. He's an emissary of God. An angel! He gave me what I always wanted and was the only one who was ever kind to me."

"Omaha, look, you can't trust that guy. He's lying to you, like he lied to Delaney and Clair and me and everyone—"

"But actually, after I thought about it, I realized he hadn't really granted my wish. Not exactly. I could disappear, true. And in some ways I could hide from even the rules of this universe... but I could not escape them entirely. I asked my Friend about it, and he explained that while all wishes could be granted, they could only be granted to an extent allowed by the power of the girl who made the wish... A wish to escape the universe entirely would require a huge amount. Way more than I had..."

"But you got ahold of these cubes. Supercharged your Soul Gem. And then you could do things you couldn't before."

"Right!" said Omaha. "I got the power I didn't have when I made my wish. And so much more power to spare..." With a sweeping arm she indicated the cubes that gravitated around them. "It's like your wish. You wished to heal sight, so you gained the ability to see truth. Normally though, even with that wish, you never could have seen Liebe or the other dolls, or any of the other things you can see now. But the power of the Williston archon allowed you to achieve your wish's ideal state... Even now that your energy is almost gone, you still have that ability—it's become a permanent part of you, an extension of your wish. It was really important that you gained that ability too, or else the dolls might have killed you before you had a chance to defeat Clair. Miss Delaney also gained powers when she defeated the archon in Saskatoon..."

"So... Kyubey planned my wish to be what it was since the beginning."

"It's possible," said Omaha. "I don't know how my Friend works. I know he can see every single Magical Girl in the world, though... Maybe he just picked you out of the list? I'm sorry I don't have an answer..."

Could Kyubey have caused her twin sister's blindness? As part of his "plan"? Could all of Sloan's life have been created for his stupid fucking plan?

"M, maybe we shouldn't dwell on this," said Omaha. "I can see it troubles you. The point is, I've realized the ideal state of my wish. I can be invisible to everyone now, even God. Or, more importantly, Her greatest adversary..."

Everything. Had everything been for this stupid time demon shit? Was it Kyubey who kept Sloan isolated, who ensured she had no friends except Clair, who stewed the jealousy in Sloan's heart so she would make a very particular wish and gain a very particular power, solely to ensure better odds of his plan succeeding? What was Sloan Redfearn, a human or a cog?

"I know it's... hard..." said Omaha. "I, too, have had doubts... and I've done things I never wanted to do... Like, what I did to Miss Dufresne—I mean Miss Erika..."

"So Winnipeg's death, that was just another necessary thing? Step 529 in Kyubey's plan for world domination?"

"Miss Delaney's death was optional, he told me. But Miss Erika's was necessary. Either she would take most of the Williston cubes for herself or... or she would give you a reason to forget Miss Clair and never return to Minneapolis. Either way... it was important that she, she..."

Sloan clutched her temples and stared into the nothingness. "Everything. This was everything?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to kill her, or Miss Lynette, or anyone. I didn't want anyone to die, not even Miss Delaney and Miss Clair. Everything I did, I did because... because..."

"Because of the demon," said Sloan. "No, someone Kyubey told you was a demon. Demons don't exist, you idiot. He's lying so you'll assassinate some thorn in his side, someone who made a wish that mucks up his system, something like that. Demons don't exist, and if they did they wouldn't be some random Japanese girl—"

Omaha slapped Sloan in the face. "Demons DO exist! They do, and so does God! Are you so foolish to deny it, Sloan? Why do you think the Law of the Cycles exists? You saw Liebe, you saw what she wore! God sacrificed Her existence to absorb the suffering of all Magical Girls. It's in the Bible, haven't you read the Bible?"

All Sloan knew about the Bible was that some guy got eaten by a whale.

"I... I'm sorry I hit you, Sloan..."

Sloan rubbed her face. It didn't even hurt. "I'm too tired to care, Omaha."

"God sacrificed so much so we could be happier... And then this demon, this Homura Akemi, she, she, she enslaved God, made Her suffer, took control of the Law of the Cycles and made a MOCKERY of it, she runs this universe into the ground, steers it toward oblivion, she has spent her entire life hurting God more and more, she she she she! She!"

Omaha twisted up, folded her arms around each other, bent her legs, gnashed her teeth. She pulled at her hair and revolved in the void. She clutched at her own throat and squeezed.

"Omaha, stop it. Stop, Omaha."

For this, they all died. Now only Omaha remained, and this demon chick, and by the end they'd both be dead too. But it was easy to tell from the contortions in Omaha's body and the frenzy in her voice she was beyond reason. Much like how no matter what anyone said, Sloan never deviated from her path to kill Clair Ibsen. Kyubey sure picked the right girls.

Omaha comported herself and brushed back her hair. "I'm sorry... I got emotional. I didn't mean to... Well, I suppose I should stop avoiding the inevitable. The thing is, Sloan, my Friend told me to kill you now."

"Sure, why not."

"I mean... he said that, if you survived, I would have to kill you. So you didn't take the cubes. Just like I would have had to kill Miss Clair if she survived instead, which was possible. Or Miss Delaney, because I needed my wrist back. I hoped the archon would do the job for me, and it did most of it. But you..."

Sloan pulled aside the flap of her coat and exposed her Soul Gem. "I don't care, Omaha. Just do it. Then go to Japan and do whatever and realize too late you were tricked. That's the real Law of the Cycles: Kyubey tricks us, and we fall for it. Over and over and over and over."

"...I, I, I have to do something very scary, Sloan. I have to take this power you created for me and fight Lucifer herself. This is probably the most power any regular Magical Girl has ever had, and even then, it's still possible I'll lose... she's really strong, strong enough to usurp God. I mean, I have plans, and my Friend told me how to fight her, and all her weaknesses, but... I'm still scared. And... and..."

Sloan expected tears, but Omaha held herself together.

"And, well. I always thought that, you know, if the situation was different, you and I could maybe be friends. We've both been really lonely, and unlike Miss Delaney and Miss Clair I don't think you're a bad person, Sloan. And, and, and, my Friend said you really don't have a chance of affecting anything anymore. I already have the cubes, so there's no reason to kill you... I think if I had a friend like you by my side, I would have more confidence, and, and do better. You know?"

She clasped her hands around Sloan's and stared hopefully. Sloan closed her eyes.

"No, Omaha. I'm done. Leave me alone."

Omaha withdrew her hands. "Ha ha... Yeah, you're right. It was selfish to ask... I'm sorry. If you want, you can take some of the cubes, just enough to purify your Soul Gem. This city will need a new leader now that its Magical Girls are gone, and I don't trust those Chicago girls..."

"No, Omaha. I'm done. Like, done."

"Oh... I see." Omaha kneaded her hands together. "Yeah, I probably shouldn't disobey my Friend's order anyway... Who knows what weird consequences might happen. But, um, I still don't want to kill you. Killing a Magical Girl by breaking her Soul Gem, it's tantamount to... Well, you probably don't care anyway."

"I don't."

"Okay. I, I won't bother you anymore. You probably hate me... That's okay. I'm used to it, and I deserve it. The things I've done, I did to save God, but in doing so I flouted Her laws, so am I really doing what God would want? I don't know. I'm rambling. I'll, uh, let you go."

A hole back to the real world opened. It looked onto a Minneapolis street, still downtown but away from Cicero and company. The cold seeped through the opening.

"Goodbye, Sloan... I guess this is a real goodbye. But... don't feel bad about yourself. And don't die without, without closure, okay?"

"Closure," said Sloan. She drifted toward the opening.

"I don't know... Maybe, maybe find your family? They're in this city, right? They must be so worried about you. I know it's not much, but..."

"Goodbye, Omaha."

Sloan stepped through the opening and emerged in Minneapolis. She did not look back as Omaha shut the hole behind her. The distant sounds of Cicero barking orders carried in the quiet air. Sirens, too. Humanity was finally starting to wake up.

So, now she waited? For the pink-haired doll to come? With the storm over, a fog fell on the city, coating everything a misty gray. She checked her Soul Gem. Bad, incredibly bad, though she had survived for weeks, months in this condition in Fargo. Back then she had something to live for. The only thing she ever had to live for, really. Now that thing was gone.

Still, she better not hang around. Cicero's voice was close, and if Sloan had to die she'd rather it not be from medieval torture. The empty streets sprawled in all directions. The Pillar of the Plains loomed high above, shrouded in haze. Sloan had nowhere to go, which was the whole problem, right?

Well, Omaha gave a suggestion. Sloan had completely forgotten her family. Mom, Dad, Morgan. Probably worried sick about her. Might as well show up and die in their arms. Closure.

She chose a road and slouched toward home.

She did not get far before she became aware of a figure following her. It kept half-covered in the mist, a silhouette more than anything, but Sloan knew it must be the pink-haired doll. Except now Sloan had a mission, or at least a place to die, so she might as well stick to it. One last obdurate fuck you to the system.

It took an hour, maybe two, maybe three to limp all the way to her old home, the figure drawing no closer and falling no farther back. The house looked like she remembered, a little smaller maybe, homely, Christmas cheer on the lawn. Eaves and cornices.

She hobbled up the walkway and slumped against the door. She raised a weak knuckle and rapped it and waited.

Nothing. She tried the doorbell. Nothing.

Maybe they took shelter in the basement due to the tornado sirens. She tried the door but it was locked, so she mustered her strength and kicked it in.

No alarm. She staggered down the entryway, past the kitchen, into the living room. Nobody was there. Nobody, except for portraits of family members hung up around the house. None of which were anyone Sloan had ever seen before.

It was the right house. But the wrong family now lived here.

She flopped into an armchair. Had her family moved in the last seven months? They moved a lot when Sloan was young, because of Morgan's blindness. Always to places with clinics that promised the latest advances in optometry. Minneapolis was no exception, a mere ninety minutes from the vaunted Mayo Clinic (a drive Sloan suffered so many times because Mom said she had to "show support" for Morgan). With Morgan's blindness cured, why move again?

Probably for no reason than to spite her, finally and utterly. Deny her dramatic, tragic death and leave her with one final failure. Who the fuck knew.

Footsteps sounded down the entryway. The house's new owner? No, the figure that followed her. Alright, no more wasting time. Sloan accepted oblivion in this plush armchair.

Except the person who rounded the corner was not the pink-haired doll. It was Anoka.

"The fuck are you doing here," said Sloan.

"I followed you, doofus." Anoka limped across the room and dropped face down on the couch beside the armchair. Her feet dangled over the edge and twiddled in the air. Her cape hung in shredded ribbons, her armor had hundreds of punctures, and her face bled from gashes.

"I thought you died."

"Yeah well." Anoka stretched and yawned. "I got you to thank for not doing that. Your pep talk really got me going."

"Pep talk."

"You know. I had a whole tower fall on me, and some kind of spike or pole or whatever stuck through my gut—" (she rolled over and showed the hole in her stomach) "—and pretty much considered myself donezo. Then you gave me that spiel about telling my parents I'm sorry, and that got me moving. I hacked that pole out of me and busted my way from the tower and voila! Here I am."

Sloan stared between her knees at the carpet. It still had the stain from Dad's coffee cup snafu. "I'm glad you lived, Anoka."

"Where's your friend? Psycho chick with the bubbles?"

"Gone."

"Ah. Sorry about that, but it's for the best. I'd have a bone to pick with her if she were still here. Though I guess she did save my life once or twice."

"I'm the one you should hate. I caused all this. By killing Clair."

"Yeah..." Anoka propped her chin on the armrest. "You're probably right. I guess I don't really feel like picking a fight with anyone right now. Besides, you saved my life too. It's hard to hate someone who saved your life."

"If you don't mind, I think I'm gonna die now."

Anoka lifted herself off the couch with a huff. "What! You mean like, die to the Cycles? What the hell, you can't do that."

"I fucked up everything. I got everyone killed. And I destroyed the one thing that kept me going anyway. When I killed Clair, it was like, someone pulled a pin out of me. I kept moving forward to fight that archon, but it was the last few winds unwinding." She chuckled. "All this time, I could think of nothing but killing Clair. Getting her back for what she did to me. But in a weird way, she never stopped being my friend? What's a friend anyway? Just the person who makes you care about yourself."

Anoka said nothing.

"I deserve to die," said Sloan.

"Don't say that. You fought the archon and beat it. I'd consider that penance."

"Apparently I fucked things on a pseudospiritual cosmic level or some bullshit. That archon was part of a plan by Kyubey to kill some god or demon or whatever and I don't even know."

By now Anoka stood over Sloan. Sloan burrowed her face deeper into her hands.

"This is bullshit," said Anoka. "Self-pitying, sorry-for-yourself bullshit. You're gonna tell me these things after what you said? About how as long as you're alive, you have a chance to change things? What the hell was all that?"

Sloan shrugged. "I dunno. Sounded good at the time." Truthfully she didn't remember saying it.

Anoka seized Sloan's collar and forced her to look up. "No. Bullshit. If the Cycles haven't come yet, that means you still have hope, no matter how tiny. Don't let that hope be extinguished. Get the hell up, Fargo!"

Sloan wasn't feeling it.

Anoka let go and stepped away. She picked up one of the portraits scattered around the house. After a few seconds, she put it back down.

"I killed my friend too," she whispered.

Sloan thought she misheard. "What?"

"I don't know much about you, Fargo, but I know a little bit. You went to Williston and killed the archon there, didn't you?"

That didn't seem like the kind of detail Clair would have wasted time telling her subordinates.

"I thought so," Anoka said. "Do you know why that archon appeared there?"

Sloan was about to say it had something to do with the oil, how the men lived in tents and hung themselves and bought whores, but she remembered a distant detail, a corpse she and Erika discovered beneath the archon, half-rotted in the swamp.

"I ran away from home in Vancouver. Part of it was I was a weak Magical Girl in a competitive region. But that's more an excuse, and if there wasn't anything else, I would've stuck it out even if it destroyed me. I mostly ran because my parents."

Another story. Every girl had one.

"You know the stereotype about Asian parents. My grades were never spectacular anyway, and I wasn't good at the extracurriculars they made me do, but when I contracted it got way worse. I failed courses. They disciplined me heavily, talked about sending me to a private high school in the wilderness where I wouldn't be distracted by all the things they thought distracted me. I got fed up and ran away."

"And came here."

"I had talked to Minneapolis before. On an online forum for Magical Girls. She told me she had an opening and expressed interest in my particular skill. So I embarked.

"Outside of Calgary I met Gwen. She was a runaway too, her dad was abusive—you know, standard Magical Girl crap. Kyubey doesn't often contract girls with stellar home lives. We decided to make the journey together. Between Calgary and Minneapolis there's not much at all, prairie and a few scattered cities. Plus we heard rumors about Regina and Saskatoon and wanted to avoid it. So we basically went for a thousand-mile walk through total wasteland.

"We were fast friends, though. We had the same goals, similar pasts. Gwen was always cheery too, easy to get along with. She loved plants and stuff, she would grow us food. We would be in some freezing frontier outpost with no money and she'd grow an apple tree and we'd have apples."

"How long were you out there."

"Weeks. Maybe a month. We got lost a few times. Kyubey gave us directions but they were pretty unclear and we'd get confused. We hopped the border in Montana, wound up in Billings somehow, scuffled with the girl there. Followed a road, missed a fork. Eventually we found ourselves in Williston."

"And you had cubes all this time?"

"Yeah, well. That was the hard part, right? Cold, hunger, those are annoying, but they won't stop a Magical Girl. Cubes though, they don't grow on trees, despite Gwen's best efforts. We scrounged what we could. The really small towns don't have many wraiths but they also don't have many girls, so nomads can always make pickings. We didn't do great, but we had enough to sustain ourselves. Outside a few really hairy bits, like that brawl in Billings, we did well enough. And then we reached Williston.

"I misremembered earlier. I said we got lost and wound up there, but actually Kyubey suggested we go, because it had a lot of wraiths. All those oil workers. But the trek there was like, way bad. None of the towns leading to Williston had anything at all. Some nomad or another had hit them the night before, each and every time. When we reached Williston we were starving for cubes."

And did Kyubey plan this, too? Did he tell nomads to clean certain towns at certain times to make Anoka and her friend desperate? Sloan knew the direction this story headed. Anoka didn't need to say the rest, but she did.

"Starving people, they see a feast and get greedy. That's what it boiled down to, stupid stupid greed. Both of us. We were so weak, we were irritated and cold and hurting, we had spent the last two days in silence. We started to fight. I don't even remember the particulars. I started it."

Anoka paused for a long time.

"She ended it. She hit me too hard and my magic did its thing. She couldn't handle the pain. She—I didn't know this, because it never happened before, but if my magic is too strong for a girl, then her gem, it... She died in a no-name town in the middle of nowhere."

"And the archon spawned."

"Yeah. I got freaked and ran away. Kyubey told me what it was and said I had like literally a zero percent chance of killing it. I didn't know what to think. Did I kill Gwen? Did she kill herself? He told me archons were a manifestation of tremendous sin. Who sinned, me or her? Who did I hold accountable? It was easy to tell myself it wasn't my fault. So I did."

Then she went through Fargo and ended at Minneapolis. Fin.

"Why tell me this," said Sloan. "It's nothing like what I—"

"You said to me, when I was under that tower, to go home to Vancouver and apologize to my parents for running away. I'll do that, but before then, I'm gonna find Gwen's parents and tell them what happened. They won't believe me, they'll think I'm insane, and maybe they didn't care much about Gwen anyway. But I'm gonna tell them, and if they ever wonder what happened, they'll know."

The wind outside died to a faint rustle.

"If you do something wrong," said Anoka, "it's your job to set it right. That's always been my philosophy. I should've gone at that Williston archon even if I had no chance. It's too late for that now, so I'll settle for something else. Fargo. You never hesitated when you decided to fight the archon after Minneapolis died. Because you have the same philosophy, right? You believe things have to be corrected. Sin and punishment must stand equal."

"Killing that archon only made things worse," said Sloan.

"Then correct it. If you had the power to ruin something, it means you have the power to fix it."

"I'm glad you lived, Anoka. Please let me alone now."

Anoka folded her arms and stared at Sloan for a long time. Her gaze pierced Sloan's skin. So did the gazes of all the smiling members of a family Sloan had never seen or met, a surrogate family happy in its simplicity, one that displaced her real one, unhappy in its own special way.

"Okay," said Anoka. "I'm sorry I bothered you. Look, though. If you change your mind, here."

She withdrew a fist from a pocket and tossed a few scattered objects into Sloan's lap. Cubes.

"I swiped them before those gold armor girls came. I saw you and Hennepin talking but didn't wanna show myself, because I didn't trust Hennepin. Thought she might try to take the cubes herself."

"Thanks," said Sloan.

"It's never too late for atonement... Fargo."

She pivoted on a cracked heel and marched the way she came. Her footsteps clopped across the tile and through the open front door until they softened into nothing and Sloan sat alone in the house, alone with all the pictures.

Sloan slid her hands onto her sprawled legs. At least everyone being dead meant there was literally nobody left to talk to her, unless Ramsey or whoever suddenly arrived to tell an improbable tale of survival, appended to another tragic past...

Her hand felt something unusual in her pocket. She pulled it out—Delaney's wallet. She gave it to Sloan before she died. Inside was at least three thousand dollars in cash, plus a shattered cellphone and a few slips of paper.

Sloan took out the papers. They were notes Delaney had written to herself in loopy cursive.

WILLISTON — SLOAN REDFEARN (FARGO) / ERIKA DUFRESNE (WINNIPEG).

MINNEAPOLIS — CLAIR IBSEN.

MITAKIHARA — HOMURA AKEMI.

God fucking dammit. She had cubes, money, the name of a city, and the name of a demon. And the pink-haired doll had not shown, and everyone she had ever met who still lived and some who lived no longer were telling her, screaming at her the exact same thing.

"Fuck it."

That afternoon she boarded a plane to Japan.

END SECOND ARC

Chapter 29: It Still Revolves

FINAL ARC: MITAKIHARA

"Beef noodles again." Nagisa prodded a chunk of meat with her chopsticks and stuck out her tongue. "Bluh!"

From the other side of the triangle table, Mami Tomoe turned a page in her textbook. She sighed, audible enough to convey disappointment but not loud enough to appear unduly stern. Although, truth be told, dinnertime became a point of contention in their apartment too often for Mami's taste.

In 1853, Commodore Matthew Perry made his first visit to Japan.

Mami leaned over her notepad and wrote: 1853 — Matthew Perry. Her history studies had finally reached more modern events. Next came the Meiji Restoration, Imperial Japan, and World War II. Then a rather boring period of economics and recessions and whatnot. As for the rest of the world, they had cold wars and decolonization, embargos and missile crises, spies and secrets—

"Bebe, please. You must eat."

Nagisa swirled the noodles around the bowl and pushed down the beef chunks until they became stuck underneath the noodles and turned everything into a stew.

"I'm sorry it's not what you like. But you cannot eat cheese for every meal. It's unhealthy."

"I don't care!" said Nagisa. "I hate beef noodles. I want cheese!"

Nagisa hated beef noodles. Nagisa hated any kind of noodles. Nagisa also hated vegetables, tofu, fruit, dumplings, rice (how could anyone hate rice?), chicken, sushi, and basically anything Mami served unless it had a copious topping of cheese or was just a plain block of cheese. Oh, and desserts. Nagisa liked desserts. In the past, Mami told Nagisa that if she ate nothing but cheese, she would turn into cheese. But Nagisa had gotten older and in some regards wiser.

"Bebe, I won't ask again. Eat your beef noodles or you'll go straight to bed after you finish your homework."

Commodore Perry returned in 1854 and signed a treaty at Kanagawa that—

"But, but then who'll fight the wraiths with you?"

Mami licked a finger and turned the page. It showed a woodblock print of Commodore Perry and his officers. "I'll fight them myself. That's what I did before, so it's nothing I can't handle."

"You can't! The wraiths are too strong. You'll get scared without me to protect you."

Mami stifled a giggle. She rubbed her eyes and turned the page. "Well, Bebe, if that's the case, you better eat up. Or I'll have to brave it alone."

No further admonishment proved necessary. Nagisa stooped over her bowl and slurped big mouthfuls of noodles. She was a good girl, dietary habits notwithstanding. How long since Mami last splurged on her? Maybe, while Nagisa did her homework, Mami could slip out and buy a nice cheesecake at the bakery. Yes, it would be a fun little reward for them both.

She was trying to remember if she also needed to stock up on chamomile when her cellphone clattered against the glass table and played the ringtone du jour. Unusual for someone to call rather than text these days, but when Mami looked at the screen she knew why.

"Hello, Miss Akemi."

Nagisa quit scarfing noodles long enough to make a funny face.

"I need to speak with you and Nagisa, Tomoe," said Homura Akemi's cold voice.

"Very well," said Mami. "About what?"

"I would rather not say over the phone. Come to my apartment immediately. We'll discuss there."

The call ended with a click. Ah, Mami had missed Homura Akemi's spartan approach to phone calls.

"What's wrong?" said Nagisa.

"Miss Akemi wants us to go to her apartment to discuss something."

"Discuss what?"

"I don't know, Bebe."

Nagisa went back to stirring her noodles. She drummed her fingers against the table. "Do I have to go? I don't really like Homura..."

"Bebe, it's not nice to say mean things about our friends, especially behind their backs." Not that Mami could not commiserate.

"If I eat all my beef noodles, can I stay home?"

Honestly, Mami ought to call Homura back and explain she was too busy. It was not even a lie, because Mami had her studies, and Nagisa her homework, and they still needed to fight wraiths. Still, Homura never called anyone for a matter of small importance. Maybe Homura took Mami's earlier visit to heart? It did none of them good to divide into tiny two-girl factions. And Nagisa ought to have friends outside of only Mami. Two days ago, Madoka, Sayaka, and Kyoko joined Mami and Nagisa for a rousing five-girl hunt. They had a lot of fun, and Nagisa got along well with the others. Only Homura was absent. Could this meeting be about that? If so, it was probably not an invitation for closer collaboration between the Mitakihara Six. Quite the opposite, actually: another vague warning to stop prying into her and Madoka's lives.

Sigh. Yes, that was most likely. Mami had long since curbed her optimism for a change in Homura's demeanor, and the brevity of the call signaled no sudden wellspring of camaraderie. Nagisa need not attend a meeting laced with tension. If Homura had any pertinent information, Mami would tell Nagisa afterward.

"Uh, Mami? Are you okay?"

Mami brushed back a curl of her hair. "Yes, I was only thinking. I suppose if you're good and eat all your noodles, you can stay here while I go." It also meant an opportunity to surprise Nagisa with cheesecake.

"Hurray!" said Nagisa. She shoveled the rest of her noodles into her mouth in two sloppy gulps.

"Mind your table manners, Bebe."

Nagisa held up the empty bowl to show her, a goofy grin on her face. "Finished!"

"Very good." Mami marked her page and closed the textbook. Between housing a rambunctious preteen and an overworked almost-adult, her domicile had lost a bit of its spark, and as she gathered her coat and searched for her keys she made a mental note to find the time for a good cleaning, a note immediately lost between the English word for elephant and the formula for deriving the area under a curve.

She patted her pockets in case she had forgotten something, remembered her cellphone, and scooped it off the table.

"I'm going now, Bebe. You be good. And make sure you start your homework. I want to see it done when I come back!"

Nagisa nodded. "Bye, Mami."

Mami rode her scooter through the rhizome of Mitakihara. Cars passed in even columns of staggered tiers. The sun in its descent swallowed the sky. Mami lowered her helmet's visor to shade her eyes.

Commodore Perry, Treaty of Kanagawa. 1854. The interval from x to a of the function (t). Appending -ing to the end of the verb indicates an action takes place over a period of time. Examples: I am running. I was running. I will running. The g is silent? (What is ŋ?)

The moment before she passed under the bridge to Homura Akemi's district, she noticed someone atop it—someone watching her. Mami continued to the other side of the bridge and braked.

After a few seconds, a familiar face appeared above. In shorts despite the nippy weather, Kyoko Sakura reached into a colorful snack bag and munched a handful of its contents.

"Ah, Miss Sakura." Mami raised her visor and waved. "It's good to see you. Were you out for a walk?"

Kyoko wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I'm here for the same reason you are." She crumpled the snack bag into her jacket pocket before vaulting the railing and landing near Mami.

"Yes, I assumed Miss Akemi would extend her invitation to the other Magical Girls of the city. Has Miss Miki accompanied you?"

"Nah, I'm flying solo." She reached into a different pocket and retrieved a box of offbrand pocky. How could a girl devour such junk in such quantities and maintain an athletic physique?

Mami banished the thought. "Since you two live together, it seems it would make sense if you came together—"

"You know how Sayaka feels about Homura. I almost didn't come myself." Kyoko leaned against the wall and gnawed a pocky stick.

"I can understand your sentiment. Nagisa elected to remain behind as well. Although perhaps we're too harsh on Miss Akemi. Outside of a general lack of social acumen, she has done no slights to any of us, at least as far as my awareness extends."

Kyoko shrugged. "Meh. She rubs me like the kinda chick who just snaps one day. Look, I'm beating around the bush. Mind me hitching a ride?"

Out of her pocket she pulled a coin and flicked it to Mami. Mami caught it; 100 yen. She tossed the coin back. "Of course you can ride, if you don't mind going without a helmet."

Kyoko only gave her a look. No, Mami supposed, Kyoko was not the helmet kind of person.

They spoke little as Mami steered the scooter into the neighborhood that concealed Homura Akemi's apartment. She had to focus on the route, because the labyrinthine network of streets pullulated here like nowhere else in Mitakihara, so that it seemed either its construction had been unplanned like the fringe cities of the third world or else someone planned it to deliberately befuddle. Mami went this way only a few days prior and already it seemed as though the directions had changed, entire blocks of shuttered structures shifting on axes to open new pathways and obscure old ones, roads twisting of their own volition in ways antithetical to an orderly, reasonable world. Mami took wrong turns multiple times, which she corrected only after periods of uncertainty (was this the right way? were those the homes she saw before?). She understood Kyoko's reluctance to traverse this area on foot, or alone.

Eventually they reached the fork in the road at which lay Homura Akemi's apartment, although for an apartment it was rather large and Mami had suspicions about Miss Akemi's ability to afford it, considering her ominous lack of family or a job. She parked the scooter under a streetlight in the process of flickering to life.

"By the way, Miss Sakura," she said as she removed her helmet, "I intend to prepare a cheesecake for Nagisa tonight as a small treat. If you would like to join us, you're perfectly welcome. I extend the invitation to Miss Miki as well."

Kyoko was already digging into a bag of potato chips. She propped herself against the streetlight and tossed back her ponytail while she waited for Mami. "Nah, gotta kill wraiths tonight. Try calling Sayaka, she might be down."

"You and Miss Miki won't be hunting together?"

"Me and 'Miss Miki' probably won't be talking much the next coupla days." Kyoko bit into another chip. "You done yet?"

"Yes, my apologies. Is this something you wish to speak about, Miss Sakura? You two seemed to be getting along just fine on that big hunt two days ago—"

"Smiling for the cameras," said Kyoko. "And no, I'm not in the mood to talk. Let's do this already."

They approached Homura Akemi's apartment. Mami knew about the tension between Kyoko and Sayaka, and in fact her last visit to Miss Akemi was in part to discuss it. But their convivial attitude when Miss Kaname brought all five of them together gave the impression they had weathered the storm. Now that she thought about it, they remained rather separate while fighting the wraiths... A worrying trend. Kyoko lived at Sayaka's home entirely out of Sayaka's goodwill. A deterioration of their relationship could spark a domino effect throughout the city. Kyoko might leave entirely.

Vicissitudes of fortune to such a severe degree spelled worry for Miss Miki, too. Mami recalled she brushed shoulders with the Cycles years ago, something about her friend the musician, and it had taken a nigh miracle to rescue her from that pit. Mami made a mental note to speak to Sayaka at the earliest opportunity, a note immediately lost between the silent(?) g in -ing and the circumstances of Chancellor Hitler's rise to power in Weimar Germany.

At the door of the apartment, she and Kyoko shared a moment of hesitation, and then Mami rang the bell.

The door opened immediately. Homura stood in the entry, her head slouched slightly and her eyes narrowed. "Hello, Tomoe. I see you could tear yourself away from your studies long enough to come."

"Hello, Miss Akemi. I have been rather busy lately, with my college entrance exams this spring, but I will always respond to a request from a friend."

"You brought Sakura along as well."

"Yeah, I'm right here," said Kyoko. "Gonna let us in or what?"

"Of course. Follow me."

Homura led them inside. Her apartment remained the drab, depressing space it had always been, lacking both warmth and homeliness. More like an office lobby than a home, with exposed machinery that dangled from the roof and a menacing pendulum of twin scythes, supposedly a clock, although it could have found a place in a museum of modern art. The tableau of floating papers and screens confounded too; every screen was blank and the papers were written in the Latin alphabet (and not in English). German, perhaps? Mami had too little free storage in her mind to cram German in there as well.

"Take a seat," Homura offered. Mami and Kyoko sat on a sofa, only for Homura to remain standing.

"Will Miss Kaname be joining us?" said Mami.

"You need not worry about Madoka."

"Let's cut this quick, I got fish to fry," said Kyoko. "Why'd you call us here?"

Homura plucked a paper from her faux bulletin board and perused it. Her eyes flitted over the page while she ignored her guests. Did Homura know German? Perhaps it was not German, but a code of her own devising.

After a few moments filled by the tick of the pendulum, Homura looked up. "A dangerous girl from America either has arrived or will be arriving in this city soon."

"What?" said Kyoko. "That's it? What's one girl gonna do against six of us? There's a reason Mitakihara never gets flak from neighbors, y'know."

Homura replaced the paper on the wall. "This girl is exceptionally powerful. If you take her lightly, she will kill you."

"Oh yeah? She got some kinda neat trick? Like time travel or what?"

"She can turn invisible," said Homura.

Mami had refrained from reacting until Homura explained more, but already incongruous details stacked upon one another. "Excuse me, Miss Akemi, but how do you know about this? I assume you keep an eye on the happenings outside of Mitakihara, perhaps even across the entire prefecture. But predicting the arrival of a girl from America would be an exceptional feat, especially considering her invisibility. Someone you cannot see must be particularly difficult to—"

"To track?" said Homura. "Yes. You can say she has been difficult to track."

"I don't mean to impugn your honesty, Miss Akemi. Nor do I doubt you believe what you claim. I would simply like to know how you know these things."

The scythe pendulum ticked. Homura stared at her papers and screens. "The Incubator led me to learn it."

"Kyubey?" said Mami. "He didn't tell me or anyone else about this girl. What's her name, do you know?"

"She has no name," said Homura.

"This is nuts." Kyoko bit into an apple (where did she store all her food? She only had so many pockets). "What Magical Girl's gonna fly across the damn ocean specifically to come to our little city? What's in it for her?"

Homura's shoulders tensed. She faced her papers and gritted her teeth as she ripped another one out of the air and gave it a cursory glance before flicking it aside. "I expected you would not believe me."

"It's not that we don't believe you, Miss Akemi. We simply want to know more details."

"Very well. This unnamed American girl has a personal vendetta against me. I have never met her, but she learned about me somehow and intends to kill me. I am only warning you as a courtesy. She may try to use you or the other girls in the city as a way to attack me."

While Homura's back was turned, Kyoko got Mami's attention and gave her a look. As if to say cuckoo, cuckoo. Mami returned a stern glance and hoped Kyoko would hold her tongue. Homura Akemi always exuded a somewhat paranoid vibe, which only deepened when she shut herself away from everyone except Madoka Kaname. Mami did not want to use the word insane, but perhaps... overeager? Who knew what contraptions her mind conceived. Maybe she got in an argument on an online forum, someone made idle threats, and a frightened mind transformed them into the grand narrative she told now. Plenty of Magical Girl discussion boards existed; in simpler times, Mami had frequented a few herself, and chatted with girls in Sapporo and Fukuoka. (When she got the rare moment, she ought to check in, if only to reassure her internet friends she had not died. She made a mental note to do so, a note immediately lost between the Germanic roots of the English language and the carrying capacity of Kyoko Sakura's pockets.) The internet was the refuge of those with little in their daily lives to support them, and Homura's clandestine nature struck Mami as the exact type to become entangled in its clutches.

"Thanks for the chat, Homura!" Kyoko hopped to her feet and stretched. "But, yeah, looks like it's high time to bounce."

"You both think I'm making this up," said Homura. "What is it you don't believe? If I told you instead that a girl from a neighboring city was coming to seize Mitakihara for herself, would that suffice? Would you exercise caution then? Or is it simply that you refuse to believe me in particular?"

Mami tugged Kyoko's sleeve to sit her back down. "Miss Akemi, neither of us have anything personal against you. I, for one, still count you as a friend and ally, despite our recent lack of contact. But even you must admit your story seems somewhat outlandish."

Homura's gaze remained fixed on her papers. Perhaps, Miss Akemi, a little friendly eye contact might make people more amenable to you? "Believe what you want. I don't intend to waste time convincing you."

Again, Kyoko popped up. She took another bite of apple. "Next time just send a text, yeah?"

Mami folded her hands on her lap and sighed. If Homura called them over for no more than this, she would have rather stayed home. However, best to leave things amiable between them all. "Miss Akemi, while I'm uncertain on some of the details of your story, I can assure you Miss Sakura and I shall be on high alert for any foreigners in the area. There's no reason for us to grow lackadaisical. Do you happen to have a picture of this girl? It will help us remain vigilant if we know what we're looking for."

The screens flickered a moment with static. The pendulum swung back, forth. Homura pulled a page from the wall, examined it, replaced it. "I cannot show you a picture of her. Considering her power, a picture would be less than useful to you anyway."

"Then why are we here," said Kyoko.

"I am telling you to be on your guard. Protect yourselves and your friends. You have all become complacent. None of you have faced a real challenge in some time. This makes you vulnerable."

Kyoko headed for the door. "I can still kick the ass of any chick in my way."

Mami rose as well. She sensed the conversation would only worsen if allowed to continue. "Miss Akemi, I thank you for the warning. I will be sure to keep alert and inform you if I notice any suspicious behavior. Miss Sakura will do the same, right?"

"I see this chick and she won't be an issue anymore."

"I guarantee you will not 'see' her," said Homura.

"You get the point!"

"It appears you do not."

With a casual and unobtrusive motion, Mami stepped between them. "The point is, Miss Akemi, we will remain alert. I'll tell Nagisa to be careful as well, just as I am sure Miss Sakura will tell Miss Miki. Is that right, Miss Sakura?"

Kyoko withdrew a sucker from her pocket and stuck it in her mouth.

"In any case, Miss Akemi, thank you for showing enough concern to warn us. Perhaps in the future we will speak more often. For now, I'm afraid I left Nagisa unattended. I should return to her."

"Yes, that would be wise." Homura turned to her papers and did not bestow the courtesy of showing them to the door.

They left. The aneurysm of a conversation ended. Their refusal to believe her came as so little surprise she wondered why she bothered inviting them. She snapped her fingers and the floating screens flickered back to life. They displayed profiles for the surviving girls from Minneapolis, a few chief players from Chicago, some other odd theories Homura had explored. The foremost screen depicted the unnamed girl "Omaha." A list of statistics stretched below a picture of her from the last time she appeared in the world. Curious blank spaces followed MOTHER and FATHER and DATE OF BIRTH.

"An uncanny resemblance, wouldn't you say?"

She tilted back her head and peered over her shoulder. On the cusp of the room's shadow sat the Incubator. His tail swished as the pendulum swayed at his back. Around him, only blue eyes in the darkness, lurked the dolls not currently assigned to a task, including the four she had dispatched to Minneapolis.

If you refer to the similarities in appearance between Omaha and yourself, then yes, you do look rather alike.

"In fact, we look so alike, my dolls became confused and let Sloan Redfearn escape. And then Sloan Redfearn killed Clair Ibsen. I believe you know the rest."

The murder of Clair Ibsen caused a massive release of energy in the form of an archon. Amazing how the sacrifice of only a handful of replaceable girls can create so much power. With that archon alone, we will reach our quota for this month and have enough spare to cover the deficit of the previous month. Alas, you seem to have strict and arbitrary injunctions against anything that may create the energy needed to save this universe. Witches, archons...

"I'm not in a talkative mood. You heard my conversation with Tomoe and Sakura. I know what you're really planning, Incubator."

Oh? The Incubator crawled into the light. The dolls stepped in tandem, their eyes fixed on his expendable body. I noticed you harbor the impression that Omaha is coming here to kill you, although I don't know your reasoning.

"Determined to play your charade to the end, are you?" Homura flicked aside the screen with Omaha's profile and pulled a screen that showed the final moments of the Minneapolis archon. "When my dolls reported why they failed to kill Redfearn, I grew curious. I already assumed you used this Omaha to enact your plan while you maintained a veneer of innocence. I regret not looking more closely, but that too was part of your plan, wasn't it?"

What do you mean?

"My powers of omniscience are limited. I can only sense what I try to sense. So you supplied me with distractions to ensure I remained ignorant of your hidden cards. Sloan Redfearn was the most obvious. Her powers of illumination, coupled with her barefaced intentions, made me focus on her and ignore the seemingly less relevant girls around her. I should have scrutinized Delaney Pollack, Clair Ibsen, and Omaha—your true pawns."

An interesting hypothesis.

The video of Minneapolis continued to play. Pollack succumbed to the Cycles and Redfearn blundered to the streets below, where she met Serena Ru. Ru's profile drifted nearby, though as far as Homura divined she served no greater purpose than as a weapon in Ibsen's arsenal.

"But that was not your sole deception. By the time I learned the truth, they had done what you asked. Ibsen instigated the conflict, Pollack helped Redfearn continue it, and Omaha defended Redfearn from the Terminatrix and my dolls. It appeared I had no choice but to applaud your scheme for its success, consider a fitting punishment for you, and enact greater restrictions to prevent you from abusing the lives of girls for your own ends again."

The Chicagoans arrived. Their leader, Laquesha Kabwe, interrogated Redfearn and Ru. They spoke a lot of words, but none that explained what happened soon after.

"I was going to prohibit you from collecting grief cubes for a week."

Across the entire planet? Are you mad? The amount of wasted energy—

"Save your protestations, Incubator. What I will do to you now is far worse." She dragged the corner of the screen to expand it as a vortex opened in the sea of grief cubes. "Quite interesting, don't you agree?"

Yes, quite.

"I have accounted for every surviving girl in the vicinity. Sloan Redfearn, Serena Ru, all twenty girls from Chicago. Even Lily Cheong, who hides in that alley there." She pointed. "Except, strangely, there's one girl I cannot find at all."

It is possible that vortex was caused by Omaha. If she used the cubes to maximize the power of her Soul Gem, the ability to—

"Conceal herself even from me. That fits with my findings. One moment Omaha is in this world, albeit invisible. The next she is not."

A Magical Girl suddenly disappearing is a rather frequent occurrence, however. You call it the Law of the Cycles.

She stopped the video and banished the screen to the back of the pile. The Incubator could be as dense as he wanted, he was not changing what she planned for him.

"I checked with Liebe, Omaha was not taken. Allow me to preempt your next question: Why does Omaha's disappearance make me think she's coming to Mitakihara? Simple. After I observed her acquire the Minneapolis archon's cubes, I grew suspicious. It took all day, but I watched time from Omaha's life. Her childhood, her first meeting with you, and her second, and so on. 'Interesting' conversations, you could say. You told her a lot about me. Homura Akemi, the demon of Mitakihara. I have to hand it to you, you never told a single lie."

The Incubator curled up on the floor and tickled his ear with his tail. The dolls surrounded him.

"Bravo, Incubator. You disguised a plot to assassinate me as a mere plot to acquire more energy. You made it so far, too. I might have been forced to concede defeat if not for one thing."

And what is that, Homura Akemi?

"I'm going to kill you, Incubator. All of you."

The Incubator registered her words with no shift in demeanor, even as the doll Stolz emerged from the shadows and impaled him on a pin-shaped spear. Stolz hoisted him like a banner as the other dolls emerged from the shadows and skipped in a circle around him. They chanted:

Ticketack Ticketack Tauf!

Die Maus lief die Uhr hinauf

Eins schlug die Uhr dann

Hinunter sie sprang

Ticketack Ticketack Tauf!

The ears and tail of the Incubator bobbed up and down. This is rather inconvenient.

"You should sound more worried," said Homura. "Do you think I would enslave something I could not kill?"

I don't doubt you have the power to kill me, Homura Akemi. But without me, who will contract new Magical Girls? The entire population would swiftly go extinct. Wraiths and curses would run rampant over the entire world. Isn't that antithetical to your aims?

Homura seated herself and crossed her legs as her dolls paraded around the apartment. She caught Dämlich's attention from the procession and ordered her to bring refreshments. "I have prepared for the possibility I might need to eliminate you, Incubator. My dolls will assume your duties. If Liebe can handle the Law of the Cycles, they can certainly do what you do."

Logistically, that's quite unrealistic. In the time it takes me to tell you this, I am in communication with 273 Magical Girls and 39 prospective Magical Girls, far more than your fourteen dolls. Additionally, as far as I can tell they communicate solely in German, which only a minor fraction of Magical Girls speak.

Ticketack Ticketack Tauf, sang the dolls. Dämlich returned with a goblet of lemonade, which she hurled at Homura's head. Homura ducked slightly to evade.

"They'll learn other languages," said Homura. "The transition will be rough, but if they waste less time pointlessly deceiving girls, they'll manage it."

Well, if you're set, will you begin immediately?

The dolls brought the Incubator's impaled body to the pendulum and took turns holding its neck in the path of the blades only to pull it back at the last possible moment.

"I don't see why not."

Excellent! With your dolls preoccupied by assuming my duties, Omaha will have no trouble defeating you. Then my species will send a new representative and operations can resume on Earth properly.

"A quaint bluff, but flimsy at best." Homura still wanted lemonade. She told Dämlich to bring another, and not to throw it this time. "I checked Omaha's abilities and calculated their limits given an infusion from the energy of the Minneapolis archon. Considering her genetic makeup is identical to mine, she harbors similar maximums to my human form. However, I'm not quite human, am I? I'm on an entirely different plane of existence. Training her to escape the laws of the universe and thwart my omniscience was a clever trick, but if she seeks to destroy me, she must do it in this universe. She cannot win such a fight."

Dämlich returned with a chalice, which she nearly upturned on Homura's head but Homura grabbed her wrist before she could. She pried the drink away and sipped, only to spit immediately. Sour, no sugar at all.

Of course Omaha can't defeat you in a fight! No Magical Girl could. Were that the issue, the presence of your dolls would be irrelevant. But your dolls don't defend you, do they?

Homura turned to demand a third glass of lemonade and stopped halfway. She stood abruptly, upsetting the table. Her dolls continued to play with the Incubator's body, their chants and songs filling the room.

"Stop, stop it now!" she snapped. They froze immediately. Faulheit dropped the shish kebab with the Incubator. In an instant all went silent save the sway of the pendulum.

Is something the matter, Homura Akemi?

"All of you, to Madoka, now! NOW!" She swung her arms at them, seizing Dämlich and Schwarzseherei and pushing them toward the door. The dolls twittered in panic and rushed in every direction. They phased through walls and melted into shadows. Homura scampered after the stragglers and made sure they moved.

She stepped over the twitching body of the Incubator and sprinted to the wall of screens and papers. She pushed the papers aside and grabbed the screen with the pink frame. No no no no no, it's a bluff, it has to be a bluff.

The screen flickered on. It showed the bedroom of Madoka Kaname, empty. Homura gripped the screen with both hands and navigated its view through the house, into the hall, no Madoka here, to the kitchen where Tomohisa played with Tatsuya, come on she must be here, somewhere, she has no plans tonight, her schedule this hour is only "homework," where was she, WHERE WAS SHE?

She switched the view to the bathroom. Obscured by steam and a curtain, the silhouetted form of Madoka Kaname bathed in the shower. Madoka's primary guards, Selbstsucht and Eifersucht, played patty-cake on the tile floor. They glanced up at Homura and waved.

Homura pressed her forehead against the screen and breathed relief. "She's still there."

Yes, you do keep her rather well protected. It'll take Omaha some effort to get to her, although you've already made a grievous tactical error and don't know it yet.

"Oh yes? And what is that?"

You'll learn soon enough. Your fixation on Madoka Kaname is quite a crippling weakness, I'm afraid. But you were going to kill me, correct? Since you've realized the perils of trying to replace me with your dolls, you have two options, really. You can kill me anyway out of an irrational human notion of spite and replace me with nothing. I predict in a week with no new Magical Girls contracted, several cities around the world will destabilize. In a month, the entire world will. Wraiths will multiply in untold numbers. They will kill Magical Girls in droves, creating a feedback loop that magnifies their reproductive rate. The curses will infect nations and governments. Wars will begin. Within a year, the detonation of the world's nuclear arsenals will eliminate human society as you know it.

"It won't take me that long to kill Omaha."

Assuming she wants to fight you. She's perfectly safe where she is now, after all. She can afford to wait a year while the world collapses around you, anticipating the moment you give in and send your dolls away.

"Fine." Her shield materialized on her arm. "I'll turn back time to before Omaha receives the grief cubes. You have no idea how many times I went back to save Madoka. If I have to do it again, no matter the cost, I won't hesitate."

Please, Miss Homura. Do you think I would expect a girl to defeat you if they were susceptible to time magic? I told you and you discerned it yourself: Omaha has escaped the laws of this universe. Time doesn't exist where she is. You can go to a different timeline and kill a version of her before she acquires the grief cubes, but the Omaha from this timeline will continue to exist, ready to appear whenever an opportunity arises.

On the screen, the other dolls congregated in Madoka's bathroom. They clustered around Madoka as, wrapped in a towel, she examined split ends in the mirror.

"You... you..."

I thought this through very carefully. Since you do have the power to kill me, it left little room for error. I designed my plan so that if it failed prior to Omaha acquiring the cubes, you would not know the plan's full extent and only punish me with moderate severity, if you punished me at all. In fact, this is the third time I have attempted this plan. The two previous attempts failed before a sufficiently powerful archon could be created due to errors made by the girls I enlisted, who were then liquidated with you none the wiser. However, I am quite pleased with the Minneapolis girls. They managed to achieve all necessary parameters...

Homura pulled herself away from the screen. She collected herself, adjusted her hair, stood straight. She approached his body. It continued to twitch on the stake. "You've made your point. I will leave you alive to continue your duties. Until the moment I kill Omaha. Then you die."

How rational! This is the optimal outcome for everyone. Now, there will be no interruption to the energy harvest until either Omaha defeats you or, in an unlikely scenario, you defeat her.

"I already established that she cannot defeat me." Homura picked up the spear and held the Incubator's face close to her own. "Let Omaha wait all she wants. I will never, ever let my guard down. I will ensure Madoka Kaname is protected every moment of her life. If you think I will ever flag in my devotion, you are wrong."

Yes, but that's the exact mindset that makes you so predictable! Remember how I said you already made a tactical error? You're about to discover what that is now.

She swung the spear against the ground and crushed the Incubator to a furry pulp. When she tossed the flesh-strewn spear aside, it rolled across the ground and to the shadows, where two elliptical eyes waited. They belonged to Feigheit, the doll Homura assigned to watch Nagisa Momoe.

"What is it," said Homura.

Feigheit stumbled out of the shadow. Obvious distress painted her face. She scurried to Homura's side and whispered:

Vermisst. Vermisst.

Nagisa scratched her head. Math was sooooo haaaaard, and Mami wasn't back yet to help. She could divide a big number by a small number, but how was she supposed to divide a big number by a big number? She propped her chin on the table and stared at the problem in her book. She tilted her head like an owl. The problem stayed the same.

This is dumb! Her eyes wandered to the pantry. Surely Mami stashed some cheese there... But Mami had asked Nagisa to finish her homework. If Mami returned and she wasn't done, she would be so disappointed. Nagisa bit her lip and gripped her pencil and wrote some numbers down. 413 divided by 39. She could do this.

She dropped the pencil. No she couldn't! She hated math, hated it hated it hated it! What good was math anyway? When would she ever need it in real life?

Her eyes glanced up from the page. A platter with a small piece of cheese sat on the table before her.

Her brain barely registered the fact. The cheese went from platter to hand to mouth in an instant. Gorgonzola! Her favorite! (Well, besides mascarpone, brie, gouda, feta—what was she thinking, they're all her favorite.) By the time she finished savoring the morsel, her eyes settled on a similar platter farther down the room.

She licked her lips and grinned. Sneaky Mami had come home and set up platters around the house for Nagisa to find, had she? Well, super sleuth Nagisa would leave no cheese undetected! The next was a strong Munster. When she finished it, she noticed a plate farther down the room, and another beyond it, leading in a trail to the closet where Mami kept the mop and stuff. Nagisa inched toward the closet, devouring each cheese she passed, her mind already devising fantastic images of the special surprise that waited inside. Surely a massive cheesecake, or an entire block of Roquefort. Oh, what could it be, what could it be?

After plopping a chunk of mozzarella into her mouth, she grabbed the closet handle and yanked it open. But no cheesecake awaited her, no Parmigiano-Reggiano or even a nice cheddar.

In fact, nothing awaited her. Beyond the closet door was only a black void.

"Uh, Mami...?" said Nagisa. She leaned toward the darkness. If this was Mami's idea of a joke—

Two hands reached out of the void and pulled her inside.

Chapter 30: Intrepid Fantasyscape

The storm, which cleared when the archon died, delayed most flights, but it also opened a lot of seats. Sloan only had to wait a few hours while workers cleared the runways. In the terminal, TVs played the news. Supertornado in Minneapolis. Fifty confirmed casualties, hundreds missing.

She boarded a half-full plane and snoozed four hours to LAX, where she had a short layover before her journey to Mitakihara. For some reason, flights to Mitakihara departed on the hour.

Although she left Minneapolis at sunset, it was still sunset in Los Angeles. Through the terminal's panorama window, orange light spread down an endless highway lined by palm fronds. No snow. They called Los Angeles the city where Magical Girls go to die. But to Sloan it seemed rather tranquil.

The Incubator crawled from beneath the seat of a yuppie businessman adjacent Sloan. What are you doing, Miss Redfearn?

Taking a much-needed vacation. This Mitakihara place seems like a popular tourist spot.

The biggest challenge of communicating via telepathy was you made unconscious facial expressions while you spoke with your mind. Normally Sloan gave zero shits, but surrounded by all these people she got self conscious.

I suspected Omaha might disobey my order and leave you alive, but your behavior is rather irregular. The Incubator clamored up her body to rest on her shoulder. You have no reason to go to Japan, Miss Redfearn.

That so? Cuz the way I see it, I started whatever this is. I should see how it ends. You afraid I'll muck up your plans?

The businessman looked up. She realized she was staring intently at him and diverted her gaze.

Oh, there is no possibility you'll affect anything in Mitakihara, Miss Redfearn. Even assuming you were at full power, all six Magical Girls in Mitakihara far exceed your ability.

Darn, and I thought I was pretty tough too. What do they feed these Japanese girls, Lucky Charms?

A flight attendant announced they would begin boarding the disabled, children flying alone, and Premium Advantage Deluxe customers. Sloan was technically a "child flying alone," but her ticket was only good if someone else didn't show.

Mitakihara is a vortex of karmic destiny, which increases the potential of its Magical Girls. Four have ascended to higher planes of existence, and the two that haven't can still defeat you handily.

I'll find out myself.

But why? I don't understand this illogical action. Homura Akemi has very little to do with you. You said before that you don't care about the conceptual frameworks that guide the universe. You should be thankful you're still alive, honestly! You only had a fifty percent chance of defeating Miss Ibsen. Coupled with the odds of surviving the archon, Omaha, and the Chicago girls, the fact that you're here is already improbable.

The flight attendant scanned boarding passes under a red light. When the last wheelchair-bound passenger rolled through, they called for passengers with A-level boarding passes.

Kyubey, lemme ask a question. If Clair killed me instead, would it have still created an archon?

Of course! The two of you were evenly matched, making it impossible to rely on one over the other. So I ensured the situation would lead to success no matter who won. The only true threat of failure came from neutral third parties.

Like the Terminatrix? A full crowd swarmed the gate. Sloan might have to wait another hour for a flight that wasn't full.

Yes. The primary purpose of a Terminatrix is to eliminate possible archon events before their inception. When selecting Terminatrixes, I look for three criteria: Powers suited to fighting Magical Girls, impartial neutrality, and a tendency to view oneself as less than human. The latter two criteria minimize the sin of a Terminatrix killing another Magical Girl, so they can avoid creating an archon themselves. In fact, had situations been different, Delaney Pollack and Clair Ibsen would have made phenomenal Terminatrixes!

The attendant called Group B. Sloan tapped the armrest as sweater-garbed families clotted the aisle. You mentioned this whole sin thing before. You said if I had complaints about what I did being a sin, I should take it up with the person who determined what sin is.

I was speaking hypothetically. Do you truly intend to petition your case to Homura Akemi? I doubt she will care much about what you have to say, if she speaks to you at all.

You got me all wrong. The damage is done. I can't change that.

Then why go to Mitakihara?

The last of Group B filtered through the gate. Only a few scattered figures remained in the terminal. The flight attendant asked standby passengers to come to the front.

Sloan stood and Kyubey hopped off her shoulder to follow alongside. I doubt you'd understand, Sloan said. Chalk it up to irrational human emotion. If I'm no longer important, why do you care?

Kyubey ceased walking and scratched an ear with his back paw. I suppose if there's no convincing you otherwise, it doesn't matter. I am quite certain you will make no significant impact in Mitakihara one way or another.

The flight attendant, who wore a Santa hat, rifled through papers as Sloan held her boarding pass above the beleaguered mob around her. Maybe so, Kyubes. But hey, you know that human game called chess?

I presided over its invention.

Sloan played with Clair. One of Clair's endless array of talents. Clair won every time, except when she let Sloan win. Then you know what happens when a pawn reaches the other end of the chessboard, right?

The attendant grabbed her boarding pass. "We have room to take you, ma'am," she said. Sloan pushed past the other prospective passengers and entered the tunnel to the plane. She flashed Kyubey a thumbs-up as she went.

Eleven hours and thirty minutes between Los Angeles and Japan. Eleven hours and thirty minutes of petrification as they chased the retreating sun and maintained time at its twilight hour. Sloan slept half the flight with her head propped against an elderly guy in the window seat, woke with a migraine, and glazed through the inflight movie.

Erika Dufresne. The Terminatrix. Woodbury. Bloomington. Lynette Ibsen. Clair Ibsen. St. Paul. Ramsey. Delaney Pollack.

Those were the names. Most weren't even names, but she could not remember. She had heard Bloomington and Ramsey's real ones at some point, and the Terminatrix had some alias related to Los Angeles, like all Terminatrixes. But those were the names, nine fingers on her hands, with only one lonely thumb to account for them all.

Or did it extend beyond that? What about Anoka's friend, the rotted cadaver in the swamp in Williston? What about the fifty confirmed casualties in Minneapolis, the hundreds missing?

Anoka said that as long as you still live, you can fix everything. Sloan herself said that to Anoka. But the dead don't come back to life.

She took Delaney's paper out of her pocket. MITAKIHARA — HOMURA AKEMI. Do good deeds. Atone. Except in the end, Delaney gave up. Whatever Sloan did, she would not give up until she was satisfied with herself and her life and could look in the mirror and maybe smile a little. Maybe, if she didn't give up, and did something good, it might absolve Delaney, too. Like a passed baton. And Clair.

For some reason she thought most about Ramsey. Of all nine fingers, it was Ramsey that kept coming to mind. Because the others, Clair, Delaney, she could in some way distance from herself. Even the Terminatrix Sloan killed with her bare hands, who believed herself less than human. No matter how much blame Sloan tried to devour for herself, she could not avoid the other forces that demanded their deaths. But Ramsey... It took so few words for Sloan's sister Morgan to save Ramsey seven months ago. And it would have taken so few words to save Ramsey again. A simple Good Job. The words were easy, anything to give her hope. Sloan could have said them. But Sloan said nothing and Ramsey died. The others failed partially of their own flaws. Or someone else dealt the deathblow. Sloan brought Ramsey into the fight, chewed her up, and left her in a snowfield somewhere to vanish. Two words might have saved her.

What could she do to fix Ramsey? What could she do to fix any of it? Was focusing on Ramsey only a way to ignore the sin that sustained her in Fargo, that propelled her into this mire: her blind wrath against Clair? How many good deeds to erase these sins? Did Homura Akemi know? Or the goddess Omaha sought to save? "Do good deeds" had an elegant simplicity that made it an attractive life philosophy. Sin was complicated. Goodness was simple.

She hated thinking about this crap. But she knew she had to.

For the rest of the flight she drifted in and out of consciousness, in and out of labyrinths and memories, faces and names from the annals of her life. More movies played. Flight catalogues, tourist attractions. Free dinner, taste of rubber. Peanuts and beverages. The old man beside her snored. The sunset never ended, the sea blazed like rust below.

After hours of this limbo, the attendant announced they would descend in Mitakihara soon.

Sloan leaned over the slumbering old man to look out the window, but saw only ocean. Then the land surged into view. An unfettered agglomeration of urbanity stretched from the coast deep into the hills, larger than Minneapolis or even Los Angeles. Was it all Mitakihara?

She pressed her face closer to the window and ignored the attendant's request she sit straight to prepare for landing. The city had towers, too, each its own Pillar of the Plains. The largest was absolutely monolithic. As she scrutinized it she had a weird thought.

"Is that... the tower in Dubai?"

The old man snorted, opened his eyes, and adjusted his glasses. "Oh, we're here."

"That's the tower in Dubai. I know it is. It looks exactly the same."

"Dubai? No, miss, this is Mitakihara."

Maybe it wasn't the tower in Dubai. Sloan was no tower aficionado, she only saw it a few years back on the news one day. But it had to be roughly as tall.

Unreal city. Did a demon really live here? Kyubey let slip that the city had six Magical Girls. One must be timebitch herself. The other five probably knew about their satanic sixth in some capacity. So the plan was simple, and her timing upon entering the city impeccable: Find the usual wraith haunts. Find the Mitakihara Magical Girls. Find Homura Akemi.

The kids were out full force tonight. They swarmed the arcade in droves, boys and girls in uniforms from every school in Mitakihara. Middleschoolers and highschoolers. Clustered by friend group, boys with boys and girls with girls, each group the same uniform. They danced, they laughed, they whispered. Neon lights flashed across their faces as they shared cotton candy and swirly lollipops and popcorn. They paid in tokens and tickets. Torrents of bodies gushed between the game machines and concessions stands. Jingle jangle jungle. Coins dropped in metal dispensers. Karaoke in the distance.

Kyoko Sakura leaned against the wall, hands in pockets. She rolled a raspberry popsicle between her teeth and let it gradually melt in her mouth. She checked her phone.

Sayaka and Mami, you ask them where to find wraiths, they tell you the obvious spots. Slums, red light districts. That's how they think. Bad places equal bad things. But they think too small, y'know? Too narrow. Kyoko knew the loneliness of a crowd. Knew that between these grinning faces, the most unhappy people lurked. Knew a good amount of these kids would go home and cry quietly in their rooms by themselves. Assuming they went home at all. But Kyoko was here to make sure that happened.

And also for personal reasons. She thumbed through her phone. Messages from Mami and Madoka and non-magical acquaintances at school. Even another goddam call from Homura, as if the first wasn't enough. Then her last text from Sayaka, three days ago:

k

Kyoko seized the popsicle by the stick and bit off a chunk. She swished the ice and ground it to mush with her teeth. Awkward enough they barely spoke in person, despite, you know, living together? But this bullshit really pissed her off.

At the risk of looking desperate (she had already sent Sayaka two messages since then), she tapped out a text.

wanna talk?

The message vanished into the slipstream. She scraped the rest of the popsicle off the stick with her teeth and flicked the stick into the trash.

Everything was getting bogus nowadays. First Sayaka being a moody bitch for no reason and now the bullshit with Homura's invisible girl. Maybe time to consider springing this city. Kazamino and the neighboring towns, she still had connections. Of course, she thought the same every time this happened. Eventually Sayaka would chill.

She pushed open the bathroom door. The sounds from outside muted into a series of stalls and sinks. She checked herself in the mirror, examined a tooth. In the closest stall a girl barfed while her friend held her hair. The types of people who made Kyoko's job easier. No matter the cause, vomit attracted wraiths like flies.

Her phone buzzed. No sense getting her hopes up, probably Mami. But the name said SAYA(^•I•^).

sure

Great, a one-word response. Excellent start. Kyoko tapped a reply.

imma kill spooky ghosts come over

A long shot, but if they met in person the chance of making headway went way up. Sayaka didn't take long to respond:

gonna clear dtown 2nite maybe next time

Figures. The bathroom door opened and a pair of girls entered, only to leave when they saw the girl kneeling over the toilet.

r u still mad at me? Kyoko asked.

im not mad at u

Oh really Sayaka? Coulda fooled anyone. You know, in most cultures, getting in someone's face and screaming that they're a quote "lazy bum" indicates the basic human emotion of anger. Kyoko might understand were the circumstance reasonable, but every damn time it was some stupid thing, clothes on the floor, snacks on the dresser, skipping school or copying homework. Always starts small. Sayaka telling her to clean up her shit or something. Then a snarky rebuttal, passive-aggressiveness, snide comments, and suddenly they're yelling and Sayaka storms out. Can't take a fucking joke and Kyoko has to grovel on her belly to patch things.

sorry i spent ur money 2 buy that cd. i thought ud like it 2

Kyoko should have just downloaded in the first place, but she got paranoid doing illegal shit on Mr. and Mrs. Miki's internet.

if u asked u couldve borrowed the money

Yeah, yeah. Kyoko knew this. The bathroom started to stink, so she wandered back to the arcade. High time she got to work anyway, although she finally had Sayaka talking so she shouldn't let the opportunity slip.

sorry. ill pay u back. lunch on me tmrw? ur fav place

She slid her hand in her pocket and retrieved a few coins, change after the popsicle from the vendor. Maybe enough for ramen. She'd pick a pocket before she went home tonight. A few bucks was cheap recompense for ensuring nobody got eaten by a ghoul.

ur just gonna steal the money kyoko

Dammit. The hell she expect? Kyoko didn't have parents to bum off an allowance. Ain't too many jobs for a sixteen-year-old chick, at least none Kyoko'd consider taking.

She elbowed a sluggish middleschooler aside as she meandered toward the exit and tapped a response:

its the thought that counts dummy

She hesitated before sending and sent it anyway. She pocketed her phone while awaiting an answer, driving against the flow of inbound thrillseekers to exit the arcade. Older kids leaned against the storefront and smoked cigarettes. The crisp winter air bit her bare legs.

Come on, Saya. Laugh. It's funny. You have a sense of humor. It's their thing, y'know? Kyoko does something stupid/lazy/morally suspect, Sayaka chides Kyoko, and instead of getting into a huge bitchfit they laugh and it's cool, because Sayaka isn't as uptight as she thinks and Kyoko maybe isn't that much a loser either.

Kyoko rounded the corner of the arcade to the darker areas behind its formidable concrete walls, a narrow passage lined with dumpsters and garbage bags. Here lingered more smoking teens, some with bottles, some necking on the walls. Boys and girls from different schools. The light from the street tapered away and shadows stretched down cobblestone. Her feet kicked through thick black mist. Miasma.

She transformed. Nobody in this alley watched her anyway. The next moment her phone vibrated. She extricated it from her costume, took a deep breath, and checked Sayaka's response.

brb someones at my window

"The fuck," she said aloud. Was that Sayaka's way of blowing her off? Their window was on the second story. Or did her hitherto-unknown secret admirer toss rocks to summon her to a steamy rendezvous?

wtf does that mean?!?!?!?!?!?! she mashed out before she tucked the phone into her boot.

Fucking whatever. She trudged deeper into the miasma. Her spear spawned in her hand and she tapped it against the wall like a blind man's cane.

"C'mere, wraiths. I ain't in the mood for hide-n-seek."

The alley looped around the arcade to the back entrances, where kids wound up after the kinetic energy fizzled. Where wraiths waited and preyed. She spotted a few slouched behind dumpsters, a few in doorways. They turned their staticky faces her way and mumbled bogus wraith words.

"Sorry pals, no free meal tonight. Let's go, get up and fight. I ain't got all evening."

Kyoko twirled her spear and propped it on her shoulders, doing some stretches while the wraiths oozed into the alley's central corridor. More efficient to fight them bunched up than pick them out the nooks and crannies. A few humans lingered too—a pale-faced boy, a girl in a long brown coat—but they seemed pretty space cadet. Miasmas did that to people.

She faked a warmup swing that turned into a real swing and decapitated the wraith sneaking up behind her. The other wraiths elongated their arms and groped with hooked claws, but she leapt against the wall, ricocheted off, and came down on the frontline with a heavy swipe to kill two. The rest stretched all the way down the alley. Maybe twenty, no number to scoff at. Normally she had Sayaka to help, but before then she handled herself just fine and she'd do so now too.

Between the first few wraiths and the rest she summoned a latticework barrier, partitioning them to prevent a stray attack blindsiding her. She impaled a wraith through his gaunt robed body, then separated her spear into chained links that whipped out to block an attack from another, which she kicked against her barrier before coiling the spear around him. The chains tightened and crushed the wraith to cubes.

Easy as pie. All she had to do was rinse and repeat. It was almost boring. Actually, as she brought down her barrier and placed a new one to section off the next three wraiths, she realized it was boring. Stab slice whip. Stab slice whip. The same three moves, no need to vary her style.

Had it always been like this? With Sayaka they did team attacks while cracking jokes. She searched her memory for her lone wolf days before Mitakihara. Guess she was less experienced then or something? There had also been other stuff to do, like mess around with the local Magical Girls, exert influence over territory, find a roof to sleep under.

She stopped bothering with barriers and attacked the rest at once, cleaving them with rapid attacks one after another. Too bad none of those boss monster wraiths were around. The mooks had bad drops, too. A cube or two apiece. Oh well, it paid the bills.

The last wraiths died and the miasma dissipated with a lonely wail. Its spell broke and the few humans blinked and started to stand, scratching their heads and looking around to wonder why the fuck they came here. Kyoko supposed being bored from lack of challenge was pretty small potatoes. Some chicks would beg for that to be their main malfunction.

She detransformed and checked her phone. Nada. Guess whoever was at Sayaka's window had more interesting stuff to say than old Kyoko.

It took more effort to find the grief cubes on the dark alley floor than it took to kill the wraiths. Even though they didn't drop much, it wasn't like she had to share with Sayaka. So overall a good take. Maybe she'd offer Sayaka some as a gesture of goodwill. She already knew Sayaka would refuse cubes she didn't earn, but it's the thought that counts, right dummy?

To leave, Kyoko had to get around the chick in the long brown coat, who limped in her direction with scraggly hair hanging down her shoulders.

"Move it buster," said Kyoko.

Coat chick reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper which her awkward long fingers unfolded bit by bit. Kyoko was about to just shove her aside when she realized the girl wasn't from around Mitakihara. Or Japan, for that matter.

Kyoko held the hand with her Soul Gem ring behind her back as she approached. "Yo. You don't speak Japanese, do you?"

The other kids left after the miasma broke. Meaning they were alone. Coat chick sure was foreign, but she wasn't invisible. Yet. Kyoko gauged the height of the walls and the placement of the dumpsters. Checked windows and estimated distances to any given exit.

Coat chick finished unfolding her paper. She read:

"Ho. Homyura Aykeemee."

Had Kyoko not already mentally associated this chick with Homura, it would have sounded like gobbledygook. Even then Kyoko couldn't be sure she was trying to say Homura's name, her accent was so thick.

"Look punk," said Kyoko. "This ain't your town. Scram, alright?"

Coat chick said something in English. Or German, or French, or whatever the fuck European language. English classes were prime Kyoko shuteye time, it could be Swahili for all she knew. The chick looked at her paper and tried again.

"Hummera Aykimmy. Hummera."

"Homura Akemi, dipshit. And you got the order backward." Why Kyoko bothered she didn't know. Clear this chick knew as much Japanese as Kyoko knew English.

Coat chick stepped forward. She was a lot taller than Kyoko and Kyoko found herself stepping back. Homura said she was extremely dangerous. Since it was Homura saying it, Kyoko hadn't thought about it much, but now she wondered her battle plan if this chick went invisible. Like a kung fu movie, the master teaching the pupil to fight what they cannot see while the hero blunders blindfolded into a bunch of stacked pots.

Fuck it. No reason to take chances.

Kyoko hopped back and transformed. Her boots skidded against the ground as her spear appeared in her hand behind her. With her legs braced, she could charge the moment the transformation finished. Coat chick looked sluggish. One good strike and—and nope, she already had a machine gun in her hands. No outfit change, same filthy brown coat. Like the coat was her outfit.

Kyoko jumped, slammed her foot down on the barrel of the gun, and forced it into the ground before it could fire. She whirled her spear around and conked coat chick in the side of the skull with the blunt shaft. The girl grunted and slammed into the wall, dropping her gun. Kyoko smacked her in the knee with the shaft and brought her to the ground. She dropped like a sack of potatoes.

The spear separated into segments linked by chains. As coat chick tried to rise, Kyoko wrapped the chains around her, making sure to get both arms. Coat chick thrashed, but Kyoko forced her to the ground, pressing a knee against the small of her back to keep her in check. Coat chick shouted more of her indeterminate language.

"Should be pretty clear by now I can't understand a word you're—"

Kyoko rolled aside as the discarded machine gun fired a vicious ray of light. So the bitch could maneuver it via telepathy? That put a new spin on things. The narrow corridor filled with the blaze as it ricocheted along the walls and rattled the dumpsters. Kyoko slid under and impaled the gun on her spear. The point plunged through the gears, the light cut out, and the barrel spasmed harmlessly.

By then coat chick had started to run. Kyoko yanked her spear from the gun and thrust it, extending it to trip up her boots before she made it far. The girl toppled again and skidded across the ground.

Kyoko leapt after her, spun the spear overhead, and brought down the blunt shaft on the girl's exposed neck. Boom, lights out. The girl did not try to rise again.

Was this your super dangerous invisible chick, Homura? Kyoko prodded the limp body. More coat than body, really. She knelt beside the girl's face and turned it over to inspect it. Sunken cheeks, raccoon eyes. Girl had been through the thresher. Her eyelid twitched in forced naptime.

Well. Kyoko checked down the alley. No soul in sight. So what was she supposed to do with this bitch now?

Mami exited the boutique ristorante, a full cheesecake in a bag strung from her shoulder. If she had time, she could fix one herself. But time came at a high price nowadays. She wondered if Homura used her time magic to squeeze in extra study hours. It would explain her flawless marks.

She deposited the bag in the basket of her scooter when her phone rang. She answered with a cordial hello-this-is-Mami-may-I-ask-who's-speaking.

"Mami, hey," said Kyoko. "You uh, you're good at English right?"

"Hello, Miss Sakura. I manage decent grades at school, if that's what you mean. Do you need help with an assignment? College entrance exams have me pressed for time right now, but I'm sure I can work in a session—"

"No, not that. Look, can you meet me at the arcade? I got a serious problem here."

She sounded unharmed, but Mami asked anyway. "Are you hurt? It's unwise to fight wraiths alone, you know."

"I'm fine, Mami. Just get over here, okay? I'm not kidding around. It's easier if you see for yourself."

"Very well. The arcade, yes? I'll be there in ten minutes. I'll see you then, Miss Sakura."

"Yeah, see ya."

Mami ended the call and sighed. Oh well, Nagisa could wait a tad longer.

Chapter 31: Borkman! John Gabriel!

Homura Akemi, elbows on knees, propped her chin and watched the screens. All showed the same: Madoka Kaname at her desk scratching a pencil across a worksheet. She gave a thoughtful pause and nibbled the eraser, a nasty habit. Behind her lounged ten of Homura's dolls. Stolz and Schwarzseherei rummaged through her dresser. Lügner burrowed beneath the bedcovers, Selbstsucht read a manga upside-down, Verleumdung danced on the headboard, Eifersucht played with the stuffed animals. Faulheit and Dämlich dragged a board game from the closet and made a mess of the pieces. Unterlegenheit hung out the window and Sturheit peeped from beneath the legs of Madoka's chair.

Madoka Kaname was safe. Homura had instructed her dolls not to let Omaha's appearance fool them. To beware black voids.

Nagisa Momoe and Sayaka Miki were missing, utterly. Homura's omniscience detected nothing. From an objective standpoint, they no longer existed within this universe. Their dolls, Feigheit and Schafskopf respectively, held to the outskirts of Homura's apartment and dared not disturb their madam.

"Go to Madoka," she said. "Join the others."

Wordlessly, they melted into the shadows. That left Eitelkeit for Tomoe and Kaltherzig for Sakura. Homura weighed the pros and cons of reassigning them too. Tomoe and Sakura were functional nonentities, irrelevant on the cosmic level to which this conflict had escalated. But Omaha might use them as hostages or else discover some unforeseen application for them. Homura beat her wrists against her head. She needed to think, see every possible outcome, derive a strategy. Was her plan to guard Madoka at all times with fourteen dolls and constant surveillance? It seemed foolproof. She watched back in time when Nagisa and Miki disappeared. The same for each: a black void opened in the fabric of reality and Omaha pulled them through when they investigated. Neither time had their doll been prepared to react. But with fourteen dolls, forewarning, and the watchful eye of Homura herself, surely...

Madoka tapped her head and scribbled an answer.

This was a scenario to which Homura was unaccustomed. She had suffered a hundred loops, but each failure allowed her to return more ready than before. Here she had an adversary she had never met and could not sense, who already claimed two significant pieces. The Incubator must have coached her on what to do upon arrival in Mitakihara. It was the only explanation for prioritizing Nagisa and Miki over the other two.

It was tempting to place Omaha as the opponent on the other side of the board: a creature genetically identical to Homura herself, marred by the same patterns of thought, the same crippling deficiencies, the same obsession. Wasn't that the classical definition of Satan? Adversary? Fitting she should be her own greatest. But Omaha was a tool. The true enemy was the Incubator, who had his own weaknesses. He could predict any number of outcomes, but only based on the assumption of rational actors. Homura had seen him caught unaware twice before.

Most likely, Omaha kept an Incubator with her in the void. Actually, no. The way his bodies communicated was unclear to her (hard to pick his mind, even with her powers), but he seemed to have a central hive that relayed orders to his vessels. It was entirely possible separating a body from the universe would sever its connection to the hive and render it a worthless dead animal.

If so, that meant her adversary truly was Omaha, and Homura had to approach the conflict under an entirely different set of behavioral assumptions. Omaha perhaps began with an Incubator-designed plan, but foreknowledge only held until the primary conditions changed. Homura knew the future every time she went back in time, and every time she prevented one thing, something unexpected occurred. Omaha was similarly limited, without the ability to reset.

Again, however, this assumed no method of communication between Omaha and the Incubator. Homura couldn't be sure of that. Perhaps if Homura killed the Incubator, she could pressure Omaha into hasty action. No, the Incubator surely instructed her on what to do in the event of his death: Remain inside the void and wait for the world to collapse.

Homura considered going back in time and killing Omaha before she acquired the cubes, despite the Incubator's warning it wouldn't work—just to make sure. But if she failed to kill Omaha for any unforeseen reason (and when trying to change a fated outcome, such reasons often transpire), she risked creating a second Omaha. Homura was not desperate enough to try it yet.

Okay, Homura, but what do you do? Sitting in this cold room for an hour had presented no solution beyond lumping all her dolls on Madoka. And the dread simmered that she was acting exactly how the Incubator expected, making the sole logical decision in face of such high uncertainty—remain defensive.

Madoka erased a line and blew the scraps from the paper.

Why did they have to do this? Why could they not let her be happy? She finally had the chance at a normal life, the life she deserved. Why her, why? Homura curled against the couch and stared at the screen. If she allowed the Incubator to do whatever he wanted to meet his "quotas," turn Magical Girls against each other and spawn archons every day, would that sate him? She should just kill him. Delete every shard of his existence. Seize Madoka and pull her into a perfect bubble. Damn the world. Damn the universe. As the embodiment of evil, who more perfect to damn them than Homura Akemi, right? Ha ha ha ha ha ha. All for Madoka, all for her. She was their God, after all! Their blood should repay her sacrifice. They needed no Mitakihara, no other humans. Only Madoka Kaname and Homura Akemi, the duality of good and evil, a universe could function with solely those two components. Yes, yes. Yes! The Incubator expected her to take logical actions. But an illogical one, to eschew everything, even the world, for Madoka—her love could be that strong—he could never comprehend—he could never foresee—

Something tapped her shoulder. Homura opened her eyes; somehow she had wound up on the floor. Kaltherzig stood above, holding a tomato. She let go and the tomato dropped on Homura's face.

Homura wiped the pulp from her eyes and propped herself up. "What do you want. Has Kyoko Sakura disappeared, too?"

Kaltherzig giggled and shook her head. Ritt fern, she said.

Ritt fern? That barely made sense. "You mean she went into a black void."

Kaltherzig whacked Homura's ankle with the blunt end of her spear. Ritt fern! Ritt fern!

"You imbecile, what do you mean?" But the doll only chanted: Ritt fern, ritt fern, ritt fern.

After several dull seconds of this Homura suddenly understood. Not ritt fern.

Redfearn.

She stood abruptly, pulled a screen, and switched its view from Madoka (still scribbling) to Kyoko Sakura. Sakura walked down a dark side street Homura recognized as near Mami Tomoe's residency. Tomoe herself was with Sakura, as well as Tomoe's doll, Eitelkeit, who waved at Homura as she marched behind the others.

Bound by Tomoe's ribbons, unconscious, was Sloan Redfearn of Fargo, North Dakota. The brown coat and beastly hairdo were unmistakable, but Homura pulled up Redfearn's profile to be absolutely certain.

Her? Here? She was the Incubator's red herring, and she had done her job. What more use could he have for her? She lacked subterfuge, intelligence, or even relevant power at this point. She could see Homura's dolls, sure. But Omaha, as Homura's clone, could already do that. What was the point? Sakura and Tomoe, acting alone, had already subdued her.

She used another screen to follow Redfearn back in time via accelerated rewind, back to the alley where Sakura knocked her out. She watched the brief fight. Nothing interesting. Rewound again, traced Redfearn to the Mitakihara airport, through customs, onto a plane, across the Pacific Ocean (hours of Redfearn doing nothing condensed into thirty sped-up seconds), and finally to a Los Angeles terminal where she spoke with the Incubator. Homura stopped the tape and eavesdropped on their telepathic communication, in which the Incubator failed to convince Redfearn not to fly to Mitakihara.

Homura stopped the playback. So the Incubator didn't want Redfearn to come? It was possible he put on an act to fool Homura. But why?

The only reasonable hypothesis was that Redfearn would serve the same purpose she served all this time: A distraction. Anything to divert Homura's attention from Madoka.

Well. Her shield appeared on her arm in a shimmer of purple light. She reached behind it and retrieved a Beretta M9. The Incubator probably expected her to ignore Redfearn based on the logic that she was harmless. He probably expected her to remain paralyzed in this apartment, watching Madoka. That would be the logical assessment of a logical creature whose understanding of Homura Akemi involved unabated passion for Madoka Kaname. But if Homura refused to leave her apartment, she ceded too much ground. And Redfearn, now involved with Sakura and Tomoe, might be able to operate in more insidious ways. Best to eliminate the distraction before it consumed more of Homura's mental faculties.

"Watch the screens, Kaltherzig. Inform me immediately of anything suspicious. I will not be gone long."

Mami unlocked her apartment door, glanced to ensure nobody saw her cart an unconscious foreigner through it, and invited Kyoko inside. "It seems you will be enjoying some cheesecake after all," she said as she shouldered the bag from the bakery.

"You don't seem too worried about all this," said Kyoko.

"Nagisa, I'm home," said Mami. "And I've brought company." The triangle table had Nagisa's homework on it, but Nagisa was no longer in the room. Well, the unexpected proceedings caused Mami to return past Nagisa's bedtime. She probably tucked herself in for the night, which was rather responsible of her, although the mess she left on the table counteracted that.

She offered Kyoko a seat. Kyoko remained standing. Mami's ribbons lowered the foreigner onto the cushions near the bookshelves, ensuring she did not hit her head against anything.

"It's weird, y'know?" Kyoko leaned against the wall and folded her arms. "Homura drops ominous warnings about a foreign girl, and she shows up same day."

Mami carried the bag to the kitchen and removed the cheesecake. Since Nagisa had fallen asleep, it would have to be saved for tomorrow. After cutting a slice for Kyoko and placing it on a small plate, she opened the refrigerator and shuffled aside several blocks of cheese to make room for the rest. "A rather striking coincidence, but you said she used no invisibility powers, correct?"

"She had tons a chances, but I dunno," said Kyoko.

"That means either she has refused to use them for some reason or she is a different girl entirely." On returning to the living room and handing Kyoko the slice, she examined Nagisa's mess on the table. The silly child left a problem half-finished. "Either way, it's best we discern her reason for coming here. As long as she remains bound, she cannot escape. Turning invisible will not help, not that she can do anything without her Soul Gem anyway."

"She had this, too." Kyoko unfolded a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Mami. Mami looked it over. Handwritten script. Homura Akemi and Mitakihara were clear enough. The only other word she recognized was Minneapolis. A city in America, if she remembered right.

Kyoko took out a muddy Soul Gem. "Take this too, it's hers. I'll just lose it if I gotta watch it."

"Thank you, Miss Sakura. From what I can tell, this paper is merely a list of names. I can look up the ones I don't know to see if they mean anything."

Mami did a quick search on her cellphone. As she suspected, "Minneapolis," "Winnipeg," and "Fargo" were cities in the United States and Canada. (Fargo was also an old American movie, but Mami doubted that meant anything.) "Williston" had a few different results, but also happened to be to a small town near the other cities. Meanwhile, "Sloan Redfearn," "Erika Dufresne," and "Clair Ibsen" returned no relevant results. Given the pattern established by MITAKIHARA — HOMURA AKEMI, they probably belonged to Magical Girls in the respective cities.

None of it explained anything, however. Who were these girls, and why was Homura listed with them?

Kyoko finished wolfing down her cheesecake slice. "Think we should call Homura?"

A loaded question. Kyoko had already abstained from calling Homura for a reason. Mami agreed with that decision. Homura struck Mami as one who let her preconceived notions blind her. When she became fixated on a certain path, she missed all other avenues. The odds of a peaceful resolution would be highest if Homura Akemi remained uninvolved.

"We can sort this out on our own for now," said Mami.

"Figured." Kyoko checked her own cellphone, frowned, and put it away. "Anyway, you gotta talk to her. The only English I know is 'hello' and 'fuck'."

Mami sighed. "Very well."

However, her own fluency in English had never been tested conversationally. It was her best class in school, certainly, but a decent comprehension of the grammar and pronunciation plus an alright vocabulary only took one so far. Madoka Kaname, who spent three years in the United States, could probably communicate more effectively, if more informally. But Kyoko contacted Mami first, which spoke to her confidence in Mami's abilities. Mami had to admit she may have fostered unrealistic expectations by insisting the others use English or Latin names for their attacks (how could Kyoko say she only knew those two words when Mami distinctly recalled teaching her 'Latticework Barrier' and 'Driving Spearpoint Attack'?), but ultimately it mattered little. As the senior Magical Girl of Mitakihara, it fell to Mami Tomoe to establish good relations with visitors and extend hospitality toward guests.

Speaking of which, perhaps she should brew tea? Tea transcended language, after all. No, the girl was already stirring. Mami supposed tea could wait.

Mami knelt beside her. "Hello," she said in her best English. "Are you awake?"

The foreigner tossed a little, though the ribbons kept her in place. She cracked open an eye and twisted her mouth into a groan. "Ugh... unh..."

"I knocked her block pretty hard," said Kyoko, who had not-so-surreptitiously purloined a bag of pistachios from Mami's kitchen.

"Feel free to help yourself to anything, Miss Sakura," Mami said. She turned back to the foreigner and tried again: "Hello! Are you awake?"

The foreigner blinked twice. Her eyes scanned the apartment, recognized Kyoko, and settled on Mami. Mami smiled at her. "I apologize because I tie you. My name is Tomoe Mami."

She realized she forgot to switch the order of given name and surname for her Western conversational partner. She smiled wider to conceal the error.

"Tomummy," said the foreigner. She seemed a tad dazed.

"I apologize because I make mistake," said Mami. "My name is Mami Tomoe."

The foreigner blinked again. She said something in English, except she spoke far faster than Mami expected. It started with the word "Where" and included Kyoko's second English word.

"I apologize, ah, you can repeat?" said Mami. "My English is, ah, very okay."

The ribbons rustled as the foreigner tried to pull her arms free. She stared at Mami for a moment and repeated, very slowly: "Where. The fuck. Am I."

"She say what she's doing here?" asked Kyoko.

"Not yet." Mami searched her English vocabulary for the right words and arranged them in a proper order. "You are at my home. You are safe, no worry. I am not hurt you. I apologize, I mean say I am not hurting you." She must remember those pesky -ing words.

The foreigner's initial daze wore off and she motioned at Kyoko with her head. "She hit me." Slow enough for Mami to follow.

"She is my friend. Her name is Kyoko Sakura. She is not hurting you also. My name is Mami Tomoe. What is your name?"

"Fargo."

"Faago," said Mami. She tried again. "Fargo. Fargo." Fargo was one of the cities on the paper. Was it both a city and a girl's name? "I apologize, I am pronounce your name correctly, Miss Fargo?"

"Yes," said Fargo. She immediately segued into a long and fast paragraph, from which Mami discerned several individual words ("Mitakihara," "someone," and what was probably a butchering of Homura Akemi's name) but no overarching meaning.

"What's she saying, what's she saying?" asked Kyoko.

Mami told her to be patient. When Fargo stopped, Mami said, "I apologize, I am very hard to understand you, Miss Fargo. Can please repeat? Very very slow." She motioned with her hands to indicate slowness. Oh dear, this was shameful. Kyoko seemed unaware of it, at least.

Unfortunately, the foreigner stared with a piercing gaze that left no exasperation hidden. "I. Need to speak. To Hummera. Akeemy."

"Miss Homura Akemi is, ah, unavailable." Mami dug deep into her mental dictionary to remember that one. "Please, you can say to me instead."

Fargo glanced at the ribbons wrapped around her arms, legs, and torso. Mami smiled hopefully for a few moments punctuated by the crunch of Kyoko devouring pistachios. But Fargo said nothing and indicated no intention to speak.

Okay, fair enough. Mami conceded she had pressed too quickly and eschewed many basic standards of politeness, which she attributed to her uneasiness in expressing herself in English. She simply needed to slow down and start over.

"Miss Fargo," she said, "would you like some tea?"

"Tea," said Fargo.

Mami nodded. "I have chamomile. Very good tea, you would like?"

Fargo attempted to shrug, but the ribbons hampered her. "Okay."

Phew! Mami hurried to the kitchen. Tea was much more her element. Trying to remember all those English words taxed her heavily, especially with the knowledge jumbled in her head from her college entrance exam studies. With more time to prepare, she would speak more fluidly, but Kyoko's call had been rather sudden.

"Wait, so what did she say?" said Kyoko.

"She said she wanted tea," said Mami as she prepared a pot on the stove. "You are more than welcome to some yourself, Miss Sakura."

"I mean, awesome, I'll have some, but you guys said a lot of words just for tea."

"Diplomacy requires finesse." Mami smiled at Fargo, who watched from the cushion. The pot began to heat up, but no sense watching it boil. "She certainly seems set on speaking to—"

The next moment the entire world went still. Blondie froze midsentence, holding up a pretentious finger. Ginger's hand stopped with a handful of nuts halfway to her open mouth. The flame under the teapot did not flicker.

The ribbons around Sloan's body were gone.

She became aware of a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes followed the hand to the arm to the dour Magical Girl standing beside her. The girl had a round shield on her other arm, which hung at her side.

"Hello, Sloan Redfearn. I removed your binds only to prevent Mami Tomoe from interfering. Otherwise, I expect you to remain seated."

The girl was interesting, but the transfixed state of the rest of the room made Sloan even more interested. Everything had a dull blue sheen. It reminded her of when Omaha grabbed Sloan to make her invisible. The rest of the world got blurry and dark then. This new girl, who looked a lot like Omaha with no glasses and different hair, seemed intent on maintaining a physical connection to Sloan's shoulder for the same reason.

Only one other thing in the room remained unfrozen: the dark-haired doll who pranced around the triangular table in the center of the apartment. The doll had been there since Sloan woke, but since Blondie and Ginger obviously couldn't see it, and it didn't look aggressive, Sloan never bothered to mention it.

"Hey, mysterious girl," said Sloan. "You speak English better than Blondie?"

"Language is a trifle for a being on my plane of existence."

Sloan stared at her. "You're Homura Akemi. Aren't you?"

"I would prefer if you at least pronounced it correctly," said the all-powerful time-devouring demon who was actually a petite Asian chick. "Ho-mu-ra A-ke-mi."

"Okay, well I got a question for you: Are you actually a demon?" Judging from the state of the rest of the room, she certainly had the "time" part down.

Homura Akemi made a melodramatic flip of her hair that was supposed to look apathetic and actually looked anything but. "I am the embodiment of evil and the adversary of God. If that does not constitute the definition of a demon, I do not know what does."

Sloan stifled a snort of laughter. "Ooookay. Sure. Can you sprout devil horns? Breathe fire?"

"I do not have time to chat." From her pocket she drew Sloan's Soul Gem. She placed the gem on the shelf over Sloan's head so Sloan had to crane her neck to see it. Oh boy, another person threatening Sloan's life. Like she hadn't seen this before.

"Seems we got a whole lotta time, considering you stopped it and all."

"My opponent, your friend who goes by Omaha, is unaffected by such things." To heighten the comedy of the situation, Time Demon Homura Akemi drew an ordinary handgun from her shield and aimed it at Sloan's Soul Gem.

"Oh, is that your demon weapon? They shoot Berettas in hell nowadays? Look, if you wanna kill me, sure. You're the embodiment of evil, after all. Though it seems your friends Blondie and Ginger aren't in too bad shape. They demons too?"

"They're not my friends," said Teen Satan.

"Whatever. Look, Homs. You apparently already know about Omaha, so I guess I don't have to warn you. But the reason she's after you is because all this demon crap you're spouting. Probably if you chilled out and talked to her like a normal person she'd realize there's not some celestial war going on, and then maybe you wouldn't all kill each other?"

Lucifer Junior narrowed her eyes. "I cannot tell if you are actually an idiot or merely pretending to be one."

"I mean, I'll own up to being a total dumbass. I let Kyubey trick me into killing my friend, and a lot of other people too. But really, I'm getting sick of all these normal teenage girls acting like they're some kind of monster. Like they're inhuman just because they did some bad stuff. Clair, Delaney, and now you. What the hell'd you do to become the 'embodiment of evil'? Kill someone? Boohoo, I did that, it only made me a piece a shit, not a goddam demon."

On the other end of the apartment, the dark-haired doll took Ginger and Blondie's frozen bodies and posed them like ballet dancers. Little Miss Hellspawn snapped at the doll to stop, and the doll did not stop.

Homura tossed her hair again (not so dramatically this time) and returned to Sloan. "Why are you here, Sloan Redfearn?"

The million dollar question. "I'm here because I saw a lot of people die for something I did. I don't want Omaha to kill you and I don't want you to kill Omaha. I don't care if you're a demon or not. I just want to fuck over Kyubey and do something right."

Homura's face remained emotionless. Her gun remained aimed at Sloan's Soul Gem. A true demon, Sloan figured, would neither hesitate in killing nor kill her so painlessly. Come on. Where's the torture? Firebrands and rusty nails? If a quick death constituted the embodiment of evil nowadays, evil sure pussied out.

"Farewell, Sloan Redfearn."

She fired her gun. The bullet zipped out and slowed to a stop inches from Sloan's Soul Gem, frozen like everything else.

"So when you start time, that means it's curtains—"

Homura removed her hand from Sloan's shoulder.

After Redfearn deanimated, Homura returned the fuming handgun to her shield and snapped again at Eitelkeit to stop moving the bodies. The daft thing had placed Tomoe and Sakura in a Shakespearean pose, Romeo and Juliet. Or Lear on the heath. Not that it mattered. Tomoe and Sakura were smart enough to piece things together regardless. A disorientating shift, a phantom gunshot, a shattered gem.

Then they would ask Homura questions.

Perhaps that was the Incubator's gambit? If he predicted Homura to kill Redfearn, did he somehow engineer events so Tomoe and Sakura would connect the murder to her and impede her progress because of it? Was Homura merely paranoid? What if the Incubator's plan was nothing more than to let Homura stew in a stalemate and wait for a blunder? She considered pulling Redfearn's gem from the path of the bullet, even raised her hand. But she forced it down.

Why not just kill Tomoe and Sakura, too? Certainly the Incubator would not expect such a seemingly illogical action, although it was a perfectly reasonable solution. Omaha unstuck herself from time, so once Homura killed her it would effectively delete her from not only present and future existence but also past. Which meant, after Omaha died, Homura could rewind time to before Tomoe and Sakura and Redfearn's deaths, and resume as though nothing had happened. What if Homura took it further and killed the Incubator? It would cause a rapid dissolution of the world, but once Homura defeated Omaha—however long it took—she could then return to a point before the world's decay.

No, no. She considered more ramifications. If the Incubator died, it might become impossible to kill Omaha at all, with Omaha defaulting to a strategy that involved waiting for Homura to let her guard down. Which would never happen. So the world would simply end with only Homura and Madoka left alive upon it, and still Homura would have to watch and wait and watch and wait because as long as she watched and waited Omaha would not strike but the moment she stopped watching and waiting Omaha would strike. Worse yet, Homura had to consider the possibility that subjecting Madoka to the apocalypse would stimulate her memory of herself as the world's savior. Could the Incubator have planned for that as a contingency? How could he plan for something with no precedent? How does one plan for a god?

Homura balled her fists and waved them at imaginary targets. This was so idiotic! What good was having literally all the time in the world if all she did was think in circles and doubt herself? She would stick to the original plan. Redfearn dies, Tomoe and Sakura live.

She exited Tomoe's apartment and left Eitelkeit to reenact whatever scene with the true dolls of Mitakihara. The frozen world sat still and silent around her. Trees bent in a motionless wind, birds suspended as if by fish wire. Homura cranked the cogs inside her shield. The trees shook, the birds flew. And Sloan Redfearn died.

She untransformed and retrieved her cellphone. It was yet another window through which she could see anything she desired. First, however, she had received a text message from Madoka:

Hi, Homura! When do you want to hunt wraiths tonight?

Homura replied:

I'll be there soon.

She switched the screen to show the interior of Mami Tomoe's apartment. Much what she expected: Shock on both their faces, Sakura staying back while Tomoe rushed to the side of the crumpled corpse. She shook the body and said, "Miss Fargo? Miss Fargo?"

The broadcast was interrupted by Homura's phone suddenly ringing. The call came from Kaltherzig.

"What is it," said Homura. "What's happening?"

Attacke! Attacke!

Homura took off in a sprint toward Madoka's house.

Chapter 32: Poo-tee-weet?

Mami shook Fargo's body but nothing happened, the girl remained dead, the shattered remnants of her Soul Gem sparkled across the carpet. "Fargo, Fargo?"

"What the hell," said Kyoko. "What the hell!"

"I don't understand." said Mami. "This makes no sense, I had her gem, how did it get here? How did she get out of her binds?"

"This is fucked up," said Kyoko. "This is—"

Homura stopped time on the off chance it stopped whatever was happening at Madoka's residence. She eschewed her usual transformation, the one to maintain a façade as a normal Magical Girl in front of Madoka and the others. This time she used her true Soul Gem, hidden in the back of her hand.

A swirl of black feathers cloaked her in a black-feathered dress and from her back burst black-feathered wings that carried her into a galaxied night sky. The household of Madoka Kaname lay exactly 5.067 kilometers away, a distance that shrunk at a rate of 146 kilometers per hour. The math whirred in her brain alongside the incalculable echo of

MADOKA

MADOKA

MADOKA

which despite her omniscience crowded so many thoughts that the more logical scions of her psyche grew loath of the trisyllabic drone that prevented the basic calculation of predicted time of arrival—

—Which was, by the way, now. She crashed headlong through the sunroof of the Kaname household and landed with an abrupt flip of her body and a massive beat of her wings. Tomohisa Kaname alone beside open refrigerator, Tatsuya in bed, facts instantly processed as Homura sprinted to Madoka's room. She kicked open the door and materialized a bow fletched with arrow, drawn tight. Her twelve dolls (all but Eitelkeit and Kaltherzig) formed a tight dome around Madoka and aimed their pin-spears outward like a porcupine.

Opposite them stood Sayaka Miki, somehow immune to time's stoppage. She wore her usual attire, a knight's costume, a cape strung from her neck by a clasped collar. Around her ankle was a rope composed of void, which extended out the open window to the yard below.

"Ah, transfer student," said Miki. "Figures you show up—"

Homura loosed her arrow for the Soul Gem above Miki's belt. Miki flipped onto the ceiling and clung like a spider, but Homura's arrow altered its trajectory midflight to pursue. Undaunted, Miki drew a cutlass and parried the arrow, which then exceeded its short interval of maintained momentum in nontime and froze into a tube of light angled at the wall.

"Gee, not one for talking, are ya?" Miki brushed back her cape. Several more swords appeared in a circle around her, their points embedded in the ceiling and their hilts dangling. "Bummer, cuz I got a lot to say to you, Homura Akemi."

"Everything you say is predictable." Homura nocked another arrow. Her dolls watched eagerly.

Even assuming Miki had regained her memories as a conceptual being assisting the Law of the Cycles (or, more theologically: an archangel), she still dwelled within the universe and thus stood subject to its laws. The black cord that extended from Miki's ankle offered the only explanation for her immunity to stopped time, so Homura diverted her aim from Miki herself to the cord. The purple arrow flashed into the line of void and vanished without a trace.

"Come on, transfer student. The whole point is it's outside our universe. You can't just break it like a regular rope. Use your head, will ya?"

"So you are partially inside and partially outside the universe," said Homura. "Allowing you to interact with it while ignoring its laws."

"There we go, that's better! Seems you got a brain after all." Miki, upside-down on the ceiling, tapped the hilt of a sword with a finger to wiggle the blade. "I guess that means stupidity won't fly as the excuse for what you did to Madoka. Leaving what? Evil? Or would you call it love?"

The obvious bait dignified no response. Homura would rather not listen to this irresponsible, selfish dolt blather any more than necessary. Her mind processed a thousand potential battle strategies, not the least of which was ignoring Miki entirely and following the black cord to its source, where she would presumably find Omaha. A dangerous risk, because a fully unoccluded Miki might have the power, given enough time, to defeat Homura's dolls and seize Madoka.

Homura reverted from her archdemon state to her normal Magical Girl outfit. The confines of the Kaname household, which she would rather keep somewhat intact, demanded less expansive combat.

She pulled an AK-47 from behind her shield and fired. Miki rolled from the ceiling to the floor as a trail of bullets chased her. She hurled a blade at Homura and Homura raised her gun to deflect it but the sword froze in midair upon leaving Miki's grasp, transfixed by stopped time. The image of a swordpoint angled before her eyes gave Homura momentary pause, upon which Miki capitalized by lunging with two blades for Homura's midsection. Homura flipped back, kicked one blade out of Miki's hand, and deflected the other with her gun, causing the tip to jam within the barrel. She tossed the mangled AK-47 aside and drew twin Minebea PM-9 submachine guns, which she raked across the ground as Miki scurried in flight.

Miki might be immune to time magic, but their respective weapons still put Homura at an advantage. Since bullets traveled faster than swords, their initial burst of momentum carried them farther before they froze, giving Homura longer effective range. Which was always Miki's problem, wasn't it? Swords went out of fashion centuries ago for a reason. Miki's entire ensemble was terrifically anachronistic, an antique unsuited for modernity. She should adapt to the times, though Homura feared that would require an entire remapping of her torpid, hypocritical personality.

Not that much would be lost should such remapping occur.

Despite her handicap, Miki inched closer to striking range, forcing Homura to take slow steps from Madoka's room toward the hallway. When she ran out of bullets and reached for a Browning Citori double-barreled shotgun, Miki used the brief lull to strike. Homura prepared to defend herself, but before the blade came down, a pin-shaped spear sailed through the air and ran Miki through. She sagged forward, stuck like a butterfly.

Homura's dolls cheered. The boldest, Stolz, rushed forward with another spear at the same time Homura aimed the shotgun at Miki's face.

Miki flung out both arms and two swords shot in opposite directions. One nailed Stolz through the neck. The other stuck in the barrel of Homura's gun at the same time she pulled the trigger. The gun exploded with a steel screech and launched Homura through the door into the hallway.

Though now embedded with shrapnel, Homura was exactly where she wanted. When Miki ripped her body off the pin and charged, Homura already had out an M4 carbine. The bedroom was one thing, but in such a narrow corridor Miki could not dodge everything. One bullet struck her shoulder, another her knee. Her splattered blood stuck in midair.

Led by Stolz, who now wielded Miki's sword as her new weapon, several dolls pounced on the staggered Miki from behind. She defended her gem as they plunged their spears into her.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" said Homura. "My dolls are experts at inflicting pain. It's hopeless, surely you see that. While the more I think about you the more revolted I become, you are a friend of Madoka's. Throw down your blade and I'll put you back in your proper place, with no memory this ever happened."

Miki flung the dolls off her with a tremendous heave. Already, reams of placid magic enveloped her and healed her wounds. Of course such a tenacious thorn in Homura's side would have regeneration magic.

Oh well. It merely meant Homura must crush her into submission.

"I won't stop fighting until I've freed Madoka," Miki said, eyeing the dolls as they encircled her. "Until justice has returned to this universe."

Verleumdung strayed too close and Miki launched her out the window with a swift kick. As the other dolls attacked, Miki threw her cape around herself. Stolz slashed at the cape but Homura knew Miki had already vanished. To regroup with Omaha, or to gain a tactical advantage in this fight? She caught sight of the thin rope of void twisting through the grid of frozen bullets and splattered blood strewn from Madoka's room to the hallway. It snaked between the dolls, between Homura's feet, and ended—

Behind her. Miki's cape blossomed out of the ground and swirled aside to reveal its owner, blade already swinging at Homura's head. Homura turned to take the brunt to the side of her face while a second blade went for the back of her hand. Momentary panic flickered as she shielded the hand with her body, causing Miki's blade to run her through the side. Dark blood oozed through her clothes. The dolls twittered in terror and pulled Homura away before Miki could strike more decisively.

"A long time since anything has touched me," said Homura. "At least death granted you some martial ability, Miki."

The blood ran down Miki's blades. "I wanna know, demon. I just wanna know why. I thought Madoka was your friend."

Homura localized her time magic to her wounds and accelerated their regeneration. Her blood dried. "Madoka has been happier these three years than she has ever been before. She has known no pain, no anguish. And you come here speaking of justice. As if your selfish actions have done anything but make her suffer."

"I can't deny I did some pretty childish things back then," said Miki. "But this is about now—"

Homura drew an M24 sniper rifle and aimed for Miki's gut. Miki shut up in time to throw herself to the side, but the bullet sailed through her exposed midriff nonetheless, missing the gem but cleaving flesh in a paralyzed spray. Homura discarded the rifle, retrieved dual Berettas, and went wild. Miki absorbed more shots, each knocking her another step down the hallway as she staggered to maintain her footing. Blood kindled intricate arabesques on the air, ornate patterns destroyed when Homura walked through them.

"You were foolish to fight me, Sayaka Miki."

Waves of healing light bathed Miki, but Homura pumped bullets into her sagging torso faster than the regenerative magic could act. When Miki reached the end of the hallway, she took a step behind her but found no more ground. She fell. Her faux-heroic form rolled down the stairs and collapsed at their base.

Homura leapt gracefully over the banister and landed directly on top of Miki. She slammed the butt of her pistol on Miki's skull. It made a satisfying crack.

"It would be irresponsible to kill you."

Crack.

"Madoka would ask where you went."

Crack.

"Or maybe I could eliminate her memories of you."

Crack.

"I know her mind well. It would be easy."

Crack.

"I doubt you're an especially integral part of her memories anyway."

Crack.

"Maybe it'd even make Kyoko Sakura happier if you never existed."

Crack.

"It's difficult for selfish people to have friends."

Crack.

"You don't fight to save Madoka."

Crack.

"You do it for your own petty revenge."

Crack.

"Is that justice to you?"

Crack.

"Satisfying your self-righteous notions of morality?"

Crack.

"You're lucky to have been graced by Madoka Kaname's presence."

Sayaka Miki's skull was a bloody mess on the carpet. It had mostly caved in, the cracked plate bent into a mush of misused brain. Her dull eyes stared forward and her mouth hung agape.

And yet her Soul Gem had not shattered, which meant it would only take a few moments for her to regenerate. One shot and this pest would forever be gone from Homura's mind. And Madoka's. And everyone's. Unremembered and unloved. How was that for justice?

Homura aimed her gun at Sayaka's Soul Gem.

However.

This was a person Madoka cared about. A person Madoka had known since childhood and toward whom she still harbored positive emotions for reasons inexplicable and mysterious. But Sayaka Miki posed a danger to Madoka that Madoka could not fathom. Homura had to honor Madoka's wishes, but she also had to protect Madoka from harm, and Madoka's trusting, forgiving nature was what allowed her to fall in league with such weak people.

The beginnings of Miki's magic swept over her bloodied body. The head started to reconstruct itself, the eyeball blinked.

No need to make a rash decision. Homura dropped her gun and grabbed one of Miki's blades. If she severed Miki's leg, it would remove her attachment to Omaha's void. Then Homura would have time to consider all variables and reach a more logical decision.

Or simply remove her Soul Gem. No, better to take the body as well. To maintain her part in the stage play of Mitakihara.

She lifted Miki's blade. Surprisingly lightweight, built for agile strikes rather than powerful. Suited for a sixteen-year-old girl with little in the way of muscle mass. Toylike. Without pause she brought it down on the narrowest part of Miki's shin. The blade sliced through stocking and flesh and stuck in the bone. Homura wrenched the blade out and brought it down again, which was enough to sever Miki from the void tether. Her wound instantly ceased bleeding as her body faded into the motionless background. Her regenerative magic stopped.

One problem solved. The dolls snickered, spread along the stairs and the hallway like fable breadcrumbs back to Madoka's room. Selbstsucht and Eifersucht reenacted Homura's victory over Miki and the other ten applauded.

That was twelve, all here with her.

Which meant—

None—

Were watching—

Homura bolted from Miki's body and barreled aside the dolls as she stormed up the stairs and through the field of suspended bullets that became active the moment she bumped them to clatter into walls or shave her skin until she skidded into Madoka's room where Madoka sat.

Nagisa Momoe, a thin trail of void tied around her ankle, stood with her hand outstretched for Madoka's shoulder.

"Oh, uh." Nagisa shuffled her feet. "Hi, Homura."

Homura dove at Nagisa and swung whatever was in her hand, which was Miki's blood-dripping blade, except halfway through the swing the blade vanished, poof, gone, blood and all, which meant Miki's magic had cut out, but Homura couldn't ponder the specifics because while she flopped an empty fist through the air Nagisa seized a toy trumpet and blew a raspberry that fired a bubble out the horn and directly into Homura's face.

The bubble popped with an explosive clap and Homura sailed backward, out the door, into the same wall she crashed into before, this time breaking the support beam and collapsing a sheet of plaster like a torrent of sand.

Through destroyed blocks of wall and broken planks Homura watched Nagisa reach again for Madoka Kaname, one touch all it would take to pull her out of the timeless world, one simple statement afterward all it would take to remind her who she was, and then and then and then and then EVERYTHING—

"NO!" Homura pulled her arm with the shield from the wreckage. The stopped gears unstopped. The cogs and inner machinery whirred.

Time turned backward. Forty-five minutes backward.

The wall around Homura repaired and she only just managed to climb out before she was sealed in. The bullets and blood vanished. The Kaname household returned to its stable prior state, the only things unmoved being the dolls, Homura, and Nagisa.

Madoka Kaname disappeared from her room, because forty-five minutes ago Madoka Kaname was in the shower. Nagisa regarded the empty chair and desk with bafflement.

Homura hissed at her dolls: "Defend her!" Wordlessly they plunged through the wall and into the bathroom.

By all appearances, Nagisa still had not realized what had happened. She searched Madoka's bedroom as though Madoka would be there, hiding.

"Uh, uh." She backpedaled as Homura advanced on her. "Uh, uh please don't hurt me."

Homura seized her by the suspenders of her stupid outfit and slammed her against the wall. "I'm seeing a pattern here." She hoisted Nagisa until her feet dangled off the ground. "Homura Akemi is so singleminded that she is especially susceptible to distraction, is that right? You sent Miki first because I would be more emotionally invested in the conflict with her and forget about you, or Omaha. Even now Omaha remains in the shadows. Are you another distraction?"

Nagisa squirmed beneath her grip. "I, I don't know what you're talking about..."

"My dolls can keep Madoka safe long enough for me to arrive, when they all defend her. Or else Omaha would have taken her already." She pulled Nagisa higher, to eye level. "You tried to fool me by using Miki as a distraction. I won't be fooled again. Besides, I now have Miki—"

No. No, she did not have Miki. Why else would Miki's sword have disappeared? Omaha rescued her body the moment Homura ran for Madoka's room.

"Well, I have you, at least." She examined Nagisa up and down. The girl was almost a teenager. Probably about to cause a whole host of problems for Mami Tomoe. There were already signs of contention, mostly centered around the dinner table. How would Tomoe react when Nagisa harbored interests beyond cheese? Tomoe lived the life of a sexless catlady, but doubtful Nagisa would follow the same inclinations.

After this ordeal, the world must be restructured. Memories and situations altered. Alternative ways to placate these mewling kittens.

"Hold still. I must remove you from Omaha's magic."

"N, no!" said Nagisa. "Don't touch me."

Homura retrieved a katana from her infinite arsenal. It would do to sever the foot. Although unlike Miki, Nagisa lacked swift regeneration. Oh well.

"No matter what you do," Nagisa continued, "Sayaka and I will save Madoka! We'll set this world right again. Please, Homura..."

"If please could stop me, I would have stopped ages ago."

"Okay," said Nagisa. "Guess I gotta try something else."

She stuck out her tongue and blew a raspberry that shifted pitch into a whistle. In the small square window of Madoka's room appeared a gigantic white face with psychedelic disco eyes and a toothy grin. Its long nose, tipped by a puffball, broke through the pane while its head smushed to follow. Homura leapt back and onto Madoka's desk as the face popped into the room with a sudden expansion, returning to its full round shape.

Nagisa's witch form, Charlotte. Now an extension of Nagisa herself after Nagisa's ascension to the conceptual realm. Which explained how, despite time remaining stopped, it could continue to move without a tether to Omaha's void.

Charlotte was another distraction. Homura swung Nagisa into the wall and drove the katana at the Soul Gem on her waistband. But Charlotte lashed out surprisingly quickly and clamped Homura's arm between its triangular teeth. One toss of its head and the arm wrenched out of the socket.

Blood spurted down Homura's side. She hurled Nagisa away and buried her face behind the shield to retrieve a grenade by the pin with her teeth. The pin slid out as Homura tossed her head to throw it.

The gears in her shield turned. Time resumed. The grenade exploded in Charlotte's bloodstained maw.

The blast threw Homura back. The wall between Madoka's bedroom and the bathroom collapsed and Madoka shrieked from behind her shower curtain, the twelve dolls crawling over her like a swarm of beetles. Charlotte crashed through the other wall and into the backyard. Its long body scraped grass and tomato plants and trellises and the fence to the neighboring yard. A dog bolted from around a shed and yapped at it.

Out of her shield Homura dropped an Uzi. As it fell she kicked it with the back of her heel, caught it in her remaining arm, and fired into Charlotte's long black torso. Candy-colored blood spewed out.

In the corner of her eye Homura saw a shimmer of polka dot bubbles. A battered and burned Nagisa scampered across the remains of Madoka's room, enveloped in a transformative effect that changed her from a human into a small fae thing with a head like a candy wrapper. It bounded for the window spouting gobbledygook that emerged as bubbles of text from her mouth. Mean Homura, bad Homura read the bubbles.

This girl had too many alternate identities. It was annoying.

Homura fired but fairy-witch-Bebe-Nagisa tumbled out the window. Madoka sheathed in a towel screamed from the bathroom. Homura ignored her to watch Nagisa zip into a tiny black hole that floated in the air. Omaha's void. Homura prepared to follow but the hole closed the moment Nagisa escaped inside.

The normal world remained, much more ordinary-looking since Charlotte disappeared when Nagisa did. Homura dropped the Uzi and investigated the bleeding stump where she once had an arm.

Madoka pattered into the room. She clutched her towel tight and demanded to know what happened. Was Homura okay, she asked? Her arm...

Homura smiled. Even in a situation like this, Madoka's first thought was for others. How could Miki and Nagisa demand to know why Homura did what she did when every moment spent in Madoka's presence affirmed her decision?

Sirens wailed. Neighbors shouted. Tomohisa Kaname dashed in with a frying pan and pulled Madoka behind him.

Homura raised her shield. The gears turned and so turned time. All reverted; the holes in Madoka's room, the splatters of blood, the ruined desk and bed. Tomohisa went back to the kitchen and Madoka to the shower.

Only Homura's arm remained missing, but that too she could fix. She accelerated time for the bleeding stump and the arm regrew like a salamander's tail. Bone emerged, flesh and blood and sinew and musculature compounded around it, followed by nerves and thin skin. Her hand reformed with all its intricacies, the unique pattern of intercrossed lifelines. Even the sleeve of her uniform rebuilt itself to cover the white arm's nakedness. Once it finished, Homura reverted to her normal attire and put the shield away.

Funny how Sayaka Miki's ill-chosen wish granted her only a single facet of Homura's power.

Water sprayed from a shower nozzle the next room over. Homura stood at the window and watched outside. Grass bent in the gentle wind. The moon glimmered among the stars.

Eventually the shower turned off and a towel whipped across a body and clothes were put on and a door opened. Madoka wandered into her room yawning, the twelve dolls in procession behind her. She blinked when she saw Homura.

"Homura? Oh, you surprised me. I didn't expect you so soon."

"If you knew we would be fighting wraiths tonight," said Homura, "why did you take a shower?"

Madoka scratched her head and smiled. "I like a hot shower when it's cold out, even though I know it wastes water... I'll wash again in the morning anyway."

"That's good," said Homura. She turned away from the window. "Would you like some help with your homework?"

Chapter 33: Poor Grendel's Had an Accident

That uncanny feeling. Déjà vu. As though this situation played out before, a little different, but mostly unchanged. A feeling too weak to be predictive (this happens next, et cetera), but manifesting a retrospective foreknowledge, or at least momentary familiarity. If considered rationally, Mami knew for certain she had never seen this brown-coated foreigner before, and definitely never took her inside the apartment. Maybe the familiarity came from a likeness to a movie character, or a dream. Mami never remembered her dreams nowadays, but images could resurface when sparked by seemingly random stimuli.

"Wait, so what did she say?" said Kyoko.

"She said she wanted tea," said Mami as she prepared a pot on the stove. "You are more than welcome to some yourself, Miss Sakura."

"I mean, awesome, I'll have some, but you guys said a lot of words just for tea."

"Diplomacy requires finesse." Mami smiled at Fargo, who watched from the cushion. The pot began to heat up, but no sense watching it boil. "She certainly seems set on speaking to..." The words she intended to say momentarily slipped her mind. Then she remembered: "...to Miss Akemi."

"Yeah I got that." Kyoko scratched the back of her head. "Tell her she gotta make do talking to us."

"I insinuated as much. Perhaps tea will ameliorate her mood."

Kyoko sat on the counter, swaying her legs and fiddling with the spice rack. The foreigner scanned the framed photographs of Mami and Nagisa on the walls.

"Kyubey probably knows her deal," Kyoko said.

"Yes, but it's rather difficult to coax him to say much at all, wouldn't you agree?"

The kettle whistled. Mami poured three cups and offered the first to Kyoko, who sipped greedily and hissed after she scalded her tongue. Mami carried a tray with the remaining cups and placed it on the triangle table near the foreigner.

After a moment of concentration to switch back to English, Mami asked: "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure, whatever," said Fargo.

Drinking tea with arms bound by ribbons seemed a considerable challenge. After ensuring Fargo's Soul Gem was secure, Mami waved her hand and allowed the ribbons to disperse. While she picked up the second cup and took a dainty sip, Mami kept a close eye on Fargo's movements.

Fargo tried nothing foolish. Instead, she cracked her neck and relaxed her joints and stretched her arms. She took a cup and swigged it before coughing and knocking her chest with a fist.

"It's good," said Fargo.

Mami smiled as Kyoko joined them at the table. "Thank you. I make a big amount. Please ask if want more."

Fargo took another sip. The poor thing needed a wash, and a haircut, and new clothes. That coat did her few favors beyond concealing her considerable gauntness. But enough of that.

"Okay," Mami said after allowing everyone a few moments to savor the tea. "Miss Fargo, you want to speak to Homura Akemi? Yes?"

"Yeah. I have a warning for her." The tea soothed the pace of Fargo's speech to a speed Mami more easily understood. Even then she had to think about the word 'warning,' she knew she had heard it before, although the context escaped her. Would it be rude if she excused herself to retrieve her Japanese-English dictionary? Or worse yet, if she interrupted the conversation periodically to shuffle its pages?

She took a safer approach. "What means, warning?"

"What means warning." A dull look in Fargo's eye. Then she figured it out. "Oh, you're asking... Um. Warning. Like, uh, danger. I... have to warn... danger is coming..." She gesticulated.

"Danger." Mami knew that one. "It means caution?"

"Yeah, yeah, like caution," said Fargo. "I have to caution Homura Akemi. It's important."

"At least she's saying Homura's name better," said Kyoko. "It's awkward as hell for me not knowing a word you two are speaking."

"Patience, please. I am making progress." Mami turned back to Fargo. "What is the caution? What is the, ah, danger?"

Fargo took a deep breath. The steam from her tea wafted around her.

"A girl. A Magical Girl—a Puella Magi. Wants to kill Homura Akemi."

"Kill," said Mami. She made a stabbing motion with her hand. "You mean, kill?"

"Yeah," said Fargo. "Kill dead. This girl is very dangerous. She can turn invisible. You know the word invisible?"

Invisible. Inbijiburu. Mami stared into her swirling tea. Before, she only gave partial heed to Homura's concerns. But now... Mami scanned the room. An invisible girl could be inside the apartment with them and they wouldn't know. She could be in the other room, where Nagisa lay in bed...

No, remain calm. Mami knew an effortless method to detect the unseen. Under the pretense of pausing for a sip, Mami focused her mind on the threads of a large quilt. She closed her eyes, as if savoring her tea, but actually to improve the mental image: a quilt loosening into a grid of threads, each no thicker than a human hair, spreading thinner and thinner, until to the naked eye the threads were themselves invisible, mere shimmers of color easily broken if trod upon. She opened her eyes and placed her teacup back on the table. The lines in her mind became lines in reality, spanning her apartment, weaving between the furniture, wall to wall, door to door, stretching down the hallway to the bedroom, crossing over Nagisa and Mami's beds, Mami's well-made and Nagisa's a tangled lump of blankets and sheets.

Neither Kyoko nor Fargo noticed the threads that surrounded them. Time to test their practicality.

"Miss Sakura, if you don't mind, would you fetch the kettle?"

Kyoko shrugged and stood. "Sure."

Mami smiled at Fargo while Kyoko went to the kitchen. Every thread she passed snapped, but Kyoko remained oblivious. Even with her back turned, Mami sensed the exact location of each broken string. Any movement within her apartment would now register in her mind.

"Yes, Miss Fargo. I know the word invisible."

Kyoko returned with the kettle. Mami thanked her and poured each fresh cups while her magic repaired the threads Kyoko snapped. The rest of the apartment was still; Nagisa must be fast asleep, as her bed did not stir.

"Her name is Omaha," said Fargo. "The invisible girl, I mean."

The teacup in Mami's hand paused halfway to her lips. Homura said the invisible girl had no name, one of many unbelievable things she told them. Clearly she simply did not know the name but refused to admit gaps in her intelligence. If Fargo knew more than Homura and wanted to help, the two might have a beneficial conversation after all.

"Okay," said Mami, "I take you to Homura Akemi, yes?"

"You will?" said Fargo. "Really? That easy?"

"Yes."

Kyoko turned a page in Nagisa's workbook, left open on the table, and slurped the dregs of her tea. "This talk going anywhere?"

"Miss Fargo knows about Miss Akemi's invisible girl. She wants to warn her."

"Or she really is the invisible chick and wants you to take her straight to Homura. Classic subterfuge, y'know?"

"Without her gem I doubt that plan will lead to anything."

Kyoko plinked the teacup on the table. "Maybe she's an accomplice. Finding the way to Homura while the real invisible girl follows. This shit's way too fishy."

Fargo's eyes turned to whoever spoke. Her coarse demeanor did make her somewhat suspect, and Mami had her own misgivings about the entire affair, but—"I feel confident I can handle this situation," she said. She at least knew the invisible girl wasn't watching them currently.

The bag of pistachios lay empty on the table. Kyoko rifled through it as though a stray nut might fall out, then checked her cellphone. "Whatever. Might as well bite the bullet. It's Homura's problem, maybe she should solve it anyway."

Fargo said something in English. Mami's mind was switched off English mode, but the exasperated tone carried clearly enough.

"I apologize, please be patient," Mami told her. She turned to Kyoko. "I understand your frustrations, Miss Sakura. There's no need for you to be involved. I'll take Miss Fargo to Miss Akemi and the two of us will resolve the problem."

Kyoko stood and slid her phone into the back pocket of her shorts. "Yeah right, first interesting thing to happen here in months and you want me to stay outta it?"

"Miss Sakura, I didn't mean—"

"I beat her up to begin with, so I'll see this through." She regarded the window and bit her lip. "I guess. It's whatever."

Something was on her mind. Anxiety about the invisible girl? No, of any of them Kyoko was least likely to flinch at a fight. More likely it was something to do with Sayaka Miki, since Kyoko kept checking her phone. Should Mami ask about it? She didn't want to appear nosy. But it seemed to Mami the issue ran deeper than Kyoko realized. Such were the moments when a neutral third party could prove the flashpoint for a satisfactory resolution.

"I do not mean to pry, Miss Sakura, but is it possible something else worries you? About Miss Miki, perhaps?"

Kyoko grumbled. "Bah."

"If you wish, we can talk about it on the way to Miss Akemi's apartment—"

"No, not that." She retrieved her phone, pressed some buttons, and showed Mami the screen. A text message from Sayaka Miki, received shy of an hour ago.

brb someones at my window

"That's last I've heard from her. I mean, her not talking to me is nothing new, but..."

Hm. Ostensibly innocuous. All manner of people may visit a household, even at this time of night. Proselytizers, vendors, or a friend from school. Still, Mami could appreciate Kyoko's concern. Homura warned them to stay careful, and admittedly the first thing Mami did afterward was purchase a cheesecake.

"I have an idea. Miss Sakura, you go and check on Miss Miki. Warn her of the danger if necessary. I'll stay here, put some things in order, and tell Nagisa what's happening. Then we'll meet at the bridge on the way to Miss Akemi's. Is that alright?"

Kyoko mulled it over and finally shrugged. "Sure."

Mami set down her teacup, stood, and brushed off her pleated skirt. "If you run into trouble, don't hesitate to call." While she obviously meant trouble with the invisible girl, Mami hoped Kyoko caught the subtext: trouble with Sayaka. Mami of course would never meddle in the interpersonal dynamic of others without the consent of at least one afflicted party.

"Yeah." Kyoko hesitated. Now she need only extend an invitation... But instead she said: "There's probably nothing to worry about."

Mami sighed and nodded. "Yes, you're right." She glided past Kyoko to the door, weaving and unweaving the grid of threads to grant her passage.

"See ya soon," said Kyoko. "Thanks for the tea."

"Goodbye, Miss Sakura."

Once Kyoko left, Mami closed the door and took stock of the room. Teacups and homework cluttered the triangle table. She shuffled Nagisa's papers into a neat stack and ferried the tray and kettle to the kitchen. There! Much nicer.

"What's going on," said Fargo.

"I apologize, I show you Miss Akemi very soon." Mami put more odds and ends in order, intentionally turning her back to Fargo. In doing so, she signaled she trusted Fargo to at least a small degree, which might produce reciprocated trust in turn. Without her gem, such trust was mere illusion, but maybe Fargo would not realize that.

Time to sweeten the pot. "I be right back. Please stay wait little moment more." Mami went down the hall to the bedroom. As she rounded the corner and left Fargo unattended in the main room, she tracked every significant movement with her threads.

All Fargo did with her newfound freedom was go to the wall where the pictures of Mami and Nagisa hung.

Mami creaked open the bedroom door and let a sliver of light slip inside. In the windowless darkness Mami's unadjusted eyes perceived only outlines.

"Nagisa," she whispered.

No response.

"Nagisa."

She opened the door wider and stepped inside. She felt her way past her own bed and toward Nagisa's. In the other room, Fargo strolled along the wall, pausing at each picture.

"Nagisa."

Mami's hand settled on the foot of Nagisa's bed. Gently she slid a hand through the covers, not wanting to startle Nagisa. But as her hand searched the blankets it struck nothing, no limb or shoulder or resting head.

"Nagisa?"

She patted her other hand on the bed, but nothing was there, it was flat and empty and cold and she heard the sound of nobody breathing but herself.

Light, she needed light. She staggered across the room and banged her knee before she found the switch. The room filled with light and revealed the truth:

Nagisa was not there. The beds were empty. The space between them empty, the open closet empty. Mami dropped to her knees and checked under the beds even though they were too low for Nagisa to fit. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

"Nagisa!"

She staggered back down the hallway and into the main room. Fargo stood by the wall and watched her, Mami paid her no heed. She searched the room but there was nowhere for Nagisa to hide, unless the cabinets? Could Nagisa fit in those, why would she hide there, why hide at all?

"Nagisa, Nagisa, Nagisa—"

Fargo said something in English, Mami's brain was not doing English right now. The closet! Mami hurried past Fargo and flung open the door but it too was empty, a vacuum, a mop, oh no oh no oh no oh no.

Don't panic, there's an explanation, calm down. The homework left open on the table—the problem half-finished—oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—

Cellphone. Mami mashed Nagisa's number and hit call.

A catchy jingle played from Nagisa's discarded backpack, muffled and taunting. Fargo said something. Mami held a hand for silence and tried to think, tried to piece things together, as if it were even possible, how could Nagisa disappear with no warning, it couldn't be that she, it couldn't be that she, oh no oh no oh no not that, not, not, not the Cycles? No, no it couldn't be, no it couldn't be, no it couldn't be.

She wrenched open the front door and stared over the railing into the apartment complex courtyard. Doors and windows encircled it like a conch shell, lit with yellow light. A few neighbors walked below.

"Nagisa!" she shouted. The neighbors looked up, looked down, kept walking.

Cycles made no sense, none at all, Mami monitored Nagisa's gem every night, it was absolutely fine, Nagisa was happy and healthy and Mami made sure of that, could it be homework? A homework problem? No that made no sense, no sense at all, sometimes yes girls had bad ends for small reasons but not that, not homework, it wasn't even a test, only a daily assignment, Mami tried to think back to their last conversation (before Mami left for Homura's—Captain Perry, -ing verbs), tried to remember Nagisa's mannerisms, were there any signs, anything Mami missed, how could she miss it, how could she have not seen something like that, it couldn't be, Nagisa must have left, but why, where, she knew not to go out on her own late like this—did she think Mami had tried to fight wraiths alone, did Nagisa leave to find her?—but Nagisa had Mami's cellphone number, she would have called, she NEVER would have left the apartment without calling or at least leaving a note, was there a note, did Mami miss a note?

She stumbled back into her apartment, legs weak and heavy. She shuffled through the pile of homework, scoured each page, but found nothing. Mami clutched her head and tried to think. Not Cycles. Can't be Cycles. Mami REFUSED to believe Cycles. But if not that—how else do girls just...

Disappear...

She looked up. Fargo looked back, mouth agape. On the wall behind her hung the photographs of Mami and Nagisa, at the park, at the beach, Nagisa with her citizenship award from school.

"Faago," Mami said. She didn't care she said it wrong.

Fargo said something in English. "What's wrong." Yes, she said what's wrong.

Mami braced her arms against the table to lift to her feet and staggered toward Fargo. She seized the citizenship award photograph off the wall and shoved it against Fargo's head, a quivering finger pointed at Nagisa's beaming face.

"You, know, her? Nagisa. Her, Nagisa."

"Uh."

"You know her? You know Nagisa?!"

"I, I don't know her," said Fargo. "I do not know her."

English words, what were English words? She knew the words in Japanese but not English, how could she ask the right questions? Nagisa couldn't be gone. Couldn't. What would Mami do without Nagisa? Without Nagisa what did Mami even have? Mami envisioned her entire world crumbling around her, beams and supports cracking, collapsing, an entire dome dropping to bury her. For years now Mami could proceed with certainty of direction in her life and order and logic and now she saw nothing, blank, a bad cold to block prognostication, lifelines severed, threads falling apart and leaving only void. Empty, nothing, she felt this void in her stomach. Like her whole abdomen was about to implode.

Fargo backed away with a nervous smile. "You uh, should calm down."

Mami clutched her side and bit her lip. All Kyoko's suspicions rattled through her head, could this Fargo be the invisible girl or in league with her? A black muddle descended and made it impossible to think.

Light enveloped her as she transformed. She flicked a hand and called a single rifle to it, which she kept aimed at the ground.

"You know Nagisa?"

Fargo shook her head. "I have never seen her. Ever." She held a steady hand toward Mami's shoulder and said something that sounded like body or blandy (blondy?). "Blondy, calm down. Calm down."

Put the rifle to Fargo's throat? Would do nothing, Soul Gem in pocket. But pain? Threat of pain? Fargo had a certain loose vibe Mami didn't care for, a certain smug unworried aura, the aura of someone hiding a secret. Or Mami imagined things? Oh, she could not think, she could not think like this! What was she doing drawing a gun on someone, but she could not think? She hadn't even exhausted all options and already desperation clung to her as though she already knew something was dreadfully irrevocably wrong in this world when possibly (possibly, hopefully) an innocuous explanation solved everything, Madoka or Sayaka or even Homura took Nagisa somewhere for some perfectly rational reason and here was Mami already flipping out and AUGCKH

She devolved the rifle back into ribbons and snatched her phone. Furiously she mashed typo-strewn messages to all the Magical Girls of Mitakihara, even Kyoko. Then she waited ponderous infinite seconds for replies. Paced the room, sifted Nagisa's papers, tapped the framed photo of Nagisa against her forehead as if to stimulate a lost memory of a late-night playdate, to no avail.

Madoka's reply came first:

Sorry, I haven't seen her. Is something wrong?

No no no. Mami clutched the phone tight. Someone must have seen her. In the meantime, what was she doing standing around?

She stormed out the door, searched both ways down the complex, chose one on a whim and marched. She made it halfway down the walkway when Fargo came clomping after her.

"Hey, you got my Jim, hey wait."

Mami paid her no heed.

"I don't like bean dead," Fargo continued. "I'm stain with you."

"Speak gooder English!" Mami snapped at her. "Can't... understand!"

She knew she was coming off as a raving lunatic. She was surprised how little she cared. Only one thing mattered now. By the time she left the complex, her phone buzzed again. Homura.

I warned you about this.

Apoplectic, Mami sagged against the sidewalk and curled her fist around the phone and stared into the concrete beneath her knees and contemplated the merits of slamming her skull until it broke open. She managed to hold things together. Nagisa was alive somewhere. If the invisible girl killed her there would be a body, and there wasn't a body so she was alive.

SHE WAS ALIVE, OKAY? And Mami would not, would not relinquish that belief until she had incontrovertible proof to the contrary. The thought triggered a brief subconscious image—Nagisa, dead—and Mami folded inward and groaned.

"Hey," said Fargo. "Hey, Blondy."

"Nagisa..." said Mami.

"Your friend, she's misseen. Right?"

"Misseen...?"

"Missing. Gone. Vanished. Do you know these words?"

Oh. Oh, yes, Mami knew. "Yes. I apologize I am so crazy. She, she, Nagisa, she, very important, to me..."

Fargo knelt beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. A breeze stirred the trees along the sidewalk. Leaves rustled into the silent street. The air was tremendously, devastatingly cold.

"I think your friend is okay."

Mami looked up. In the dark of night with only streetlamps to illuminate her, Fargo's face appeared even more hollow. Shadows filled the concave surfaces of her cheeks.

"You think, you think?" Mami tugged the flap of Fargo's coat.

"I know Omaha. She came here to kill Homura Akemi. Nobody else. This girl, Na-gi-sa, I don't think Omaha would..."

Don't think? Don't think?

"Look," said Fargo. "I want to make sure nobody dies. I will bring Na-gi-sa back, safe. I promise." She extended a hand to Mami and gave a wan, disheveled smile. Even in an uncertain language Mami read the uncertainty in Fargo's inflection. But at least something was there. And if anyone knew anything about this Omaha, it was Fargo. Actually, two people knew, but the other's response mocked Mami from the screen of her cellphone.

Mami took the hand and Fargo helped her to her feet. Before she could brush off her skirt, her phone buzzed again. Kyoko now.

saya gone too

She stared at the words. Was it bad that she actually felt relief? Because if Omaha took them both, it meant Nagisa would at least not be alone, wherever she was?

More rationally, the sudden disappearance of both, short of a cataclysmic coincidence, ruled out Cycles as the cause.

Mami texted back: Perhaps she is hunting wraiths? It was that time, after all.

checking her fave spots now, Kyoko replied.

It made sense. Mami ought to swing by the places she and Nagisa frequented in case a spurt of adolescent rebelliousness caused her to hunt on her own.

The hysteria passed. Now Mami could remember with shame her manic actions moments prior. "I apologize very much I so crazy," she said to Fargo with a humble bow. "Please forgive me."

With a casual wave Fargo dismissed her. "I've seen worse."

Mami texted Kyoko to be careful.

On scooter they zipped across town. Nagisa's child-sized helmet didn't fit Fargo so they rode with a flair of illegality that fit the rogue abandon with which Mami took corners. First stop the red lights downtown, chock full of pubs and drunkards. Mami told Nagisa to never ever go here by herself, for any reason, which made it as good a place as any to start. Streams of neon lined the sordid establishments, blurred and then clear as Mami slowed to a crawl to better see down the alleys. Decent wraiths, although the humans would have to fend for themselves tonight. No sign of children.

A young salaryman, tie undone, ambled from a storefront and aimed a whittled cigarette at Fargo, whose arms were locked around Mami's waist. "Ey doll," slight slur, "she yer date?"

The scooter trundled along. Mami craned her neck to see over the man's shoulder and into the next alley.

He persisted. "Why not pull over a sec, doll? I'll buy ya something nice."

Fargo unlatched a hand from Mami's waist and raised her middle finger.

The salaryman laughed and dragged his cigarette. "Y'oughtta teach yer foreign bitch some manners, doll." He kept pace despite his unsteady footing. A buddy trailed behind, calling for him.

Nagisa wasn't here.

Next they tried the hospital. Quieter, darker. Nagisa had bad memories of this place. Cancer, death, cakes mixed with syringes. Her mother. Real mother, that is. Not the replacement mother Mami tried to be.

Though Nagisa disliked this place, a negative connection was still a connection. Mami parked the scooter and took the grounds on foot, Fargo like a shadow behind her. If she gave Fargo her gem, they could split up, double their radius. Or Fargo might flee, turn invisible if she had that power after all.

Actually, this might be the perfect opportunity to test her.

They paused before the glass doors at the hospital entrance. Mami took out Fargo's gem and held it on an upturned hand. Fargo regarded it with suspicion.

"Take," said Mami. "We go, ah, other way." She gestured with her hands to indicate splitting up. "See more place. Find Nagisa more fast."

"You trust me?"

Mami had already strung a single thin thread, like the ones in her apartment, around Fargo's ankle. Wherever Fargo moved, Mami would know. If she bolted, Mami could tug the thread and reel her back, even if she went invisible. Only if Fargo fought rather than fled would it be truly dangerous. But if Kyoko defeated her handily, Mami wasn't worried.

"Yes," said Mami. "Trust. Remember, we find Nagisa, then we go to Miss Homura Akemi."

Fargo hesitated. Maybe she suspected a trap. If she did run, if she did fight... Then it solved things nicely, no?

Finally, Fargo took the gem. "Thank you."

They split up. Mami covered the interior while Fargo circled the grounds. The thread between them flitted and twisted through sterile corridors with their anemic scent and scrub-garbed nurses. No irregularities in Fargo's movements.

Mami received a text from Kyoko. Sayaka still missing. Running out of places to look.

Nagisa wasn't here. Mami and Fargo met at the hospital entrance. Fargo turned up her collar and breathed white mist. She held out her Soul Gem.

"You want this back? Or should I keep it?"

Rather obedient. Mami didn't know how to interpret that, but decided Fargo could hold it for now. The thread still tethered her.

The rest of the places on Mami's list took progressively less time to search. Nooks and crannies scattered throughout town, warehouses and factories, quays and shipping sectors, fisheries and the areas as low class as a city like Mitakihara got. Kyoko sent periodic texts, an echo of Mami's own. No Nagisa, no Sayaka. Not a single clue save the final text Sayaka sent Kyoko: brb someones at my window. Be right back. Except two hours passed.

Had someone been at the window in Mami's apartment too? Had Nagisa looked up from her work, noticed the stranger? Gotten up to investigate? Was she afraid, was the person threatening? Or did they look friendly? Nagisa knew not to answer the door when Mami wasn't home. If scraggly thuggish Fargo showed her face, Nagisa certainly would not scamper to greet her.

Easy during the long rides across Mitakihara for Mami to sink into these pointless, repetitive thoughts, exhausting all options, only feeling more the despair of Nagisa's absence. Clutching the hope that what was done could be undone, their friends rescued and this invisible girl defeated. But on a wharf near the end of the sprawled city, scooter propped against a NO SWIMMING sign and Fargo seated head-in-hands on a slick black rock, Mami had to concede Nagisa did not wander off on her own. She met the acquiescence with a tempered serenity readied during the past few hours they trekked across town.

Nagisa was gone. Mami texted Kyoko and suggested they go to Homura Akemi.

Blondie had a few pictures in her apartment. Sloan got the chance to look at them before the freakout. Apparently her friend, the small kid in the pictures, had gone missing. Nagisa, as Blondie said. If she disappeared suddenly Omaha probably did it. Hostage? The most reasonable explanation, but Kyubey mentioned multiple girls in Mitakihara had ascended to "higher planes of existence"...

Which was the sentence in Sloan's head when she saw the biggest picture in Blondie's apartment. Instead of only Blondie and Nagisa, it showed six girls, including Ginger and a chick in a cape vaguely reminiscent of Anoka. But the girls who piqued Sloan's interest were the last two, dark hair and pink. Dark hair because she bore an uncanny resemblance to Omaha. And pink hair because Sloan had only seen one other thing with pink hair: the doll that snatched Delaney.

Omaha described that doll as a "mockery." Of god. She said the time demon Homura Akemi killed? enslaved? this god. Before Sloan fully put the pieces together, Blondie burst out the bedroom hysterical, and they wound up running around the whole city in search of Nagisa.

Under normal circumstances, Sloan would have forgotten the picture, but she had a job to do here, which was solve this whole mess before some new damn catastrophe occurred, so she supposed she better stop not caring and start doing the opposite of that. While Blondie carted her across the slums of this weird fucking city (everywhere odd architecture, unusual objects—empty chairs—culture shock or something stranger?), she had time to put things together.

Pink was obviously important, because who the hell has pink hair. Dark was important too, probably the Homura Akemi of yore, though she had no hard evidence beyond a possibly-imagined similarity between her and Omaha. Blondie and Ginger seemed pretty pedestrian, Sloan doubted they had much to do with anything. If Sloan had to bet, she'd say they were the two out of six not "ascended to a higher plane of existence." Ginger's smack to the back of Sloan's head sure felt corporeal enough. If Nagisa were one of the demigods, it made sense why Omaha targeted her. No clue on cape chick.

Okay, cool. You thought about some stuff and reached some conclusions. Now what? Kinda the issue, right? Sloan had to do something. But it wasn't like Omaha was showing her face. Sloan had expected warfare in the streets. Fighting she could handle. Kidnapping not quite her forte.

Thinking not quite her forte. Now that Blondie's hysterics died down, things got boring. Where was Homura Akemi, where was pink hair? Sloan was stuck with the normal girls.

So when, sometime past midnight, Blondie turned and said, "We go to Homura Akemi now," Sloan gave a silent prayer of thanks to Omaha's bogus pink god.

They scootered down a straight street thronged by omnidirectional streetlights. Their two-bodied wheeled conglomeration had four shadows, one to follow, one to lead, and one on either side. The crescent moon hung huge in the sky. All night Sloan thought something was off about it, and now she realized: she saw stars inside the crescent. Which made no sense, because as fancy prep school taught her, a crescent moon was caused by how the sun reflected on its surface (the moon having no light of its own, so it snatched instead), while the moon actually stayed the same shape the whole time. This moon, the Mitakihara moon, looked as though someone had actually removed most of it, leaving only a curved husk luminous in the night.

Beneath it stood the Dubai tower. And beneath it a cubist painting of block structures, stretched to the horizon. She had never heard of this city before yesterday. It had no right being so big. In what year, she wondered, did they build that tower?

Blondie puttered to a stop beneath an overpass. The road ahead dipped downward to a neighborhood buried beneath the shadows of higher structures. As soon as they stopped, Sloan quit awkwardly clinging to Blondie's midsection and staggered off the scooter.

"Are you sure there's no other way for two people to ride that thing?" she said.

Blondie cocked her head. "I apologize, can you repeat?"

"Never mind." No cars passed this way. Sloan paced up and down the sidewalk. "Is Homura Akemi here?"

"Ah, no, Miss Homura Akemi is, ah, there." She indicated the road into the depths. "We wait for Miss Coco. You remember, hair like this?" She pantomimed a ponytail with her hand.

That was Ginger. What was the name? Coco? Easy enough. Homura, Nagisa, and Coco. Three outta six. Blondie introduced herself earlier but Sloan forgot.

They waited silently. Blondie held her helmet under an arm and stared into nothing. Sloan supposed the nice thing to do would be like, ask Blondie how she's feeling? If she's all right? She seemed close to this Nagisa girl. The silence verged on unbearable.

"So uh. What's your name?"

"Name," said Blondie. "Oh! My name is Tomay Mommy, I am please to meet you." She bowed her head. The curls in her hair bounced.

"Tomay... Mommy," said Sloan.

Tomay Mommy winced. "I apologize, I make mistake again. My name is Mommy Tomay."

"Uh." Sloan decided to stick with Tomay. Calling her Mommy, kinda weird. She extended a hand. "I'm Sloan Redfearn."

Tomay shook the hand. Her face scrunched slightly. "Suh... roan. Reddofaan."

"Close enough."

"I apologize I say badly."

"It's okay, I can't say yours either."

While they continued to wait, Sloan heard Tomay whisper under her breath: Suhroan, Suh-roan. White puffs accompanied each mispronunciation, thick under the streetlights until they dissipated in the night air.

Coco showed up. She hailed them in Japanese from the bridge above and casually hopped the railing to land beside them. Tomay greeted her in Japanese and Coco said some Japanese back and Sloan tried to be aloof and unobtrusive but despite her pronounced stoop she loomed over them both. Coco said something else and pointed at Sloan. Sloan waved from the hip.

Since no magic in hell would squeeze all three onto Tomay's scooter, they walked. Tomay and Coco continued their conversation and Sloan did her best to understand based on facial expressions. Tomay worried, eyes bloodshot from her earlier freakout, she spoke eagerly in contrast to Coco's blasé shrugs and trying-too-hard apathy. Sloan was in no way a stellar empath, but even she could tell Coco had a few cares of her own buried beneath the exterior.

Tomay eventually remembered Sloan's existence. "Coco friend also, ah, disappear? Is right word?"

"Right word," said Sloan. "Pink hair or blue hair?"

Tomay registered the meaning with some surprise. "How you know?"

Probably should've said nothing, now she'd get suspicious. "I saw the photograph in your apartment."

Tomay nodded. "Is blue hair. Her name is Saika."

Coco muttered something. Tomay whispered something back. Wondering what else Sloan knew, probably. God dammit, approach this with a plan, dingus. Get them to trust you. Best bet was play the dumb Americano, no speako Nippono, which was not a hard role to play considering it was exactly what she was.

"Tell Coco I wanna help find her friend too," said Sloan.

"Yes, thank you," said Tomay. She said something to Coco and Coco laughed. Who knew if the message came through, or if Tomay understood to begin with.

It took a long damn time to traverse the neighborhood on foot. Coco and Tomay spoke little and mostly in Japanese, so Sloan got a lot of time to chew the scenery. She smiled at the doll with the short black hair that followed them all across the city, now so commonplace Sloan barely even noticed her anymore, although the dolls were Time Bitch's flunkies (according to Omaha) so Time Bitch probably already knew they were coming. The doll winked an elliptical eye with a herky-jerky, mechanical motion. Sloan noticed a second doll, with platinum hair, in step with the first. When did she show up? Was she here the whole time? Though Sloan could see them, they had a tendency to slip her attention when they wanted. As if reading her thoughts, they covered their mouths and giggled.

The deeper they followed the winding trail into the thicket of pre-Corbusian structures, the more weird shit Sloan noticed. Silhouetted figures stood on the rooftops, attentive soldiers with bayonets and tall hats. Crows with purple skulls thronged on electric wires. They cocked their heads and welcomed more brethren onto their perches, crowding closer until they became jumbled black masses of feathers. Sloan thought about Clair. She actually always had the impression Clair hated birds, that her home was like that mostly because of her parents. Clair never voiced any distaste, and had that crow familiar which was ostensibly dredged from her own imagination, but still. Moments, scenes surfaced of a casual stiffness, a small flinch at a new avian knickknack.

Sloan stepped on something, rousing her from her thoughts before she thought too hard about Clair and did something dumb, like cry. She lifted her boot. The mangled remnants of a salamander stuck beneath it. They had salamanders here? Ones with fluorescent purple blood?

She pondered the blot on her sole until Tomay glanced back with a questionable stare and Sloan scuffled after them. Doubtful Tomay or Coco could see the salamander, or the birds, just as they could not see the dolls.

"I apologize," said Tomay. "We get a little lost."

Finally they came to a place Tomay outed as Homura Akemi's apartment. Other than its bizarre position between a forked road, it looked no more foreboding than anything else encountered thus far. It was past midnight but the lights were on.

Tomay and Coco exchanged a nervous glance. Tomay stepped forward and knocked on the door.

And waited.

Nobody answered.

She knocked again, louder. She called Homura's name. Coco stepped forward and gave the door a thorough pounding. It rattled on the hinges. She got on tiptoe and tried to see through the peephole. She went around to a window and tried to see through the curtains.

She and Tomay exchanged words. They knocked again and again and checked the windows again and again.

Sloan transformed, summoned her gun, and fired at the front door.

Tomay and Coco transformed seconds later and drew their weapons to point in Sloan's direction, but it didn't fucking matter because Sloan's light reflected off the door and blasted her in the chest. She flew back, skidded across the ground, and slid to a stop against the pavement.

The two dolls stood over her, stared down, and giggled. They muttered in another foreign language. German. All those guttural consonants.

"Are you okay?" Tomay rushed to her side. "What you do for?"

What she do for indeed. Of course all-devouring time demon Homura Akemi had defenses on her front door. Tomay helped Sloan up, but both she and Coco remained transformed, Coco with her spear unwavering and her eyes narrowed. Dammit Sloan, remember like, two minutes ago? Play the dumb American?

"Sorry." She searched for a viable excuse while Tomay healed her wounds by holding out her hands and exuding a yellow aura. No excuse came, so Sloan told the truth. "I got impatient."

Coco said something. Angrily.

Tomay winced. She whispered to Sloan: "I apologize, but would you please give your..."

Yeah, yeah. Sloan pulled her gem from her pocket and handed it to Tomay. Back to square one. The dolls pranced and chanted. Sloan stopped herself from snapping at them to shut up and making herself look even crazier.

After Sloan relinquished her gem, Coco still kept a close eye on her. Tomay focused more on finding a way to rouse Homura Akemi. She knocked on all the windows, one after another, and called out Homura's name. Eventually Coco joined in and left Sloan to sit on the curb. The fucker dolls took turns poking Sloan on the nose. Sloan wondered how hard of a swat she could pass off as warding away an insect.

The doors never opened, the windows never flickered, and no voice met those that called Homura's name. After an hour, long past the point when Sloan realized Homura Akemi would only speak to them if she wanted to, Tomay and Coco gave up and decided to go home.

Chapter 34: Reason / ??? / Justice

Stringent ablutions precede any contact with the Empress. In the lukewarm water Cicero scourged herself with a coarse sponge. Purge all filth. Purge all dead cells. She scraped until her flesh pulsed reddish, until she singed cleanliness into the skin. Arms, legs, hands, feet. Neck, shoulders, face, scalp. Chest, breasts, stomach. She made liberal use of Hennepin's soaps and shampoos, each with an exotic French title etched on their luxuriant vials. She eradicated hair with a straight razor, careful to cause no nicks. She doused the lather and scrubbed the smooth areas again.

Once the cleaning finished she stood beneath the nozzle and let the water pour over her. Her one moment to breathe. No subordinates, no superiors. Only her, alone in the square tile shower of Hennepin's apartment.

Ahhhhhhhhh.

Okay, enough. She cut the water, dried herself thoroughly, and put on smallclothes. She called for Berwyn.

The bathroom door opened and drained the room of its steam. Berwyn entered in a plain white dress, a bag under her arm. She placed the bag on the counter, left, and returned with hangers of white clothes which she implored Cicero wear. Cicero put them on diligently while Berwyn opened the bag and organized its contents neatly beside it. Undershirt, buttoned sleeved shirt (careful the buttons lined up), straight pressed pants, stiff belt (tight against her abdomen), pure white blazer. Cuffs sharp and straightened. Through the upturned collar Berwyn threaded a necktie and tied it. She checked Cicero front and back for lint, pulled off a smidge and rubbed it between two fingers.

"Please hold still, milady." Berwyn pinched a brush, comb, and small scissors deftly between her fingers and went to work. Cicero clutched the counter, watched herself in the mirror, and began to mentally brace herself for her impending encounter.

Makeup next. Berwyn knew cosmetics as well as she knew hair. She puffed cheeks, curled eyelashes, and applied lipstick with artistic sureness. Once Cicero's face looked like a glossy doll, Berwyn trimmed and polished her fingernails. She blew to dry them and made final checks of suit, face, and hair. She retrieved a bottle of perfume and sprayed an unguent puff on either side of Cicero's head.

"Is everything in order, Berwyn?"

"Aye, milady. You look ravishing."

"Do I pass the Guidelines?"

Berwyn flipped through the Empress's Guidelines for Etiquette & Conversation Iteration XVIII and reviewed each criterion with a confirmative eye. "Aye, milady. All of them."

Cicero exhaled. The other Centurions chose lieutenants with power; Cicero liked hers to cover strengths she lacked. "Thank you, Berwyn. You are dismissed."

"I merely do my duty, milady." Berwyn bowed and departed. Her footsteps pattered across the apartment. A front door opened, a front door closed.

Time now to peel the bandage.

Hennepin turned out to have a computer and peripherals of far higher quality than those Cicero brought, and she volunteered her access codes freely. The communications program stood open on the screen. Cicero took her seat and examined herself in the video feed. She preferred herself in armor, but Guideline for Etiquette & Conversation Iteration XVIII #7 (and its corollaries, #7a and #7b) stipulated the white suit and black tie. She tested the auditory input contraption to ensure her voice came through. Unus duo tres. Unus duo tres. Nihil.

She adjusted the volume slightly and searched for anything else to test. But she had nothing more with which to delay herself. She called the number.

Beep boop, the transmission program rang. Beep boop. On the third digital babbling the call was accepted. The image box went from black to the face of the receiver.

"Good evening, Madame Cicero," said the Chief Handmaiden. "Your appointment will proceed as scheduled pending a shift in humor in Her Munificence."

"Thank you, Chief Handmaiden."

The Chief Handmaiden tapped her pretty fingers across the board of keys. Her eyes shifted from the screen to her fingers and back. Her fingers paused; her eyes paused.

"Her Munificence has reaffirmed her acceptance of your offer of appointment, Madame Cicero. I shall transmit you to her shortly."

The image box went black. Cicero's clasped hands tightened. Always the worst part, wondering when the black would change to the Empress, trying not to blink when she first looked at you. Cicero held open her eyes near to watering.

On the image box appeared the Empress's study, dark save a single candle that cast bronzed light on a high-backed velvet chair turned away from the camera. On the wall hung a Caravaggio, Judith Beheading Holofernes, and beside it, The Martyrdom of Saint Ursula. Nothing moved. Cicero waited.

A hand on the rest of the chair lifted and turned a page in a book.

"Welcome, Cicero."

"Thank you for the honor of this communication, Your Munificence." Cicero bowed her head. "I hail you from Minneapolis and the lands I have claimed in your name."

A protracted silence. The Empress's hand turned another page. "Which lands are those?"

"Counties Hennepin, Ramsey, Anoka, Washington, Dakota, Scott, and Carver, Your Munificence. Including the cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. A human population of two million and eight hundred thousand. Upon implementation of our methods of wraith harvest, I predict the territory will sustain at least twenty-four Puella Magi, whereas before only seven—"

"We asked not thy predictions."

"I apologize, Your Munificence."

The hand turned another page. The Empress said nothing and Cicero dared say nothing in turn. Whether now or later, eventually she would ask what became of the archon. Cicero already fumbled a minor etiquette protocol, so surely the Empress must know something was awry. She would ask now: What became of the archon?

Instead she asked: "Didst thou read the prologue of De Pizan, as assigned?"

"Yes, Your Munificence."

"Which doth thou consider the most important virtue: Reason, Rectitude, or Justice?"

"I," Cicero hesitated, "I was unaware they were to be ranked. As virtues, are they not all pertinent? What is Reason without Justice, and Justice without Reason?"

The hand turned another page. "Astutely spoken. Indeed, the importance of all three virtues cannot be questioned. Allow us to rephrase: Which virtue is the foundation of the others?"

Foundation...? Cicero fidgeted, and then she remembered. "In De Pizan's allegory, Reason is the foundation."

"De Pizan lived and died six hundred years ago. She wrote to placate a certain learned population with certain assumptions about philosophy. Is it reasonable for the praying mantis to devour her mate?"

Cicero considered it. "I assume she does it for nutrients to bear her young."

"Precisely," said the Empress. "Animals operate in reasonable fashions to ensure the survival of their species. Mantids, swine, chattel, spiders, seahorses. The premodern thinker believed fauna incapable of Reason, that the virtue presided solely in the human. They believed so out of arrogance. Would a human female who devoured her husband be considered virtuous?"

"A human male helps raise the offspring—"

"Let us say a young urban female not unlike thyself is impregnated by an irresponsible young urban male. This male has no intention of raising the child, no intention of recognizing its existence. Is the female then virtuous for devouring the male?"

In some circles, Cicero thought but did not say. "I suppose she is not, Your Munificence."

"Of course." The Empress turned a page in her book and paused. A clock ticked. "Reason is Darwinism. Survival of the Fittest. A reasonable being prioritizes their wellbeing above the wellbeing of their fellows. Society cannot stand on such principles. What, then, is the virtue we must seek as foundation?"

Cicero tried to remember the assigned reading. De Pizan and the three allegorical ladies. "Justice," she said. "We must give each their due."

"Ah, of course." The Empress turned a page. "That is what is fair. Tell us, Cicero, how many Puella Magi under thy command receive more cubes from the communal take than they produce?"

Lyons, Stickney, Hodgkins, Clearing, Bellwood, Crestwood, River Forest. "Seven."

"Those seven girls shall have their wages reduced to what they deserve. Justice, no?"

"Ah, Your Munificence, please, I was merely..."

The Empress turned a page. "We were merely illustrating a point. Justice harbors its own inadequacies. That leaves only one virtue left."

Unfortunately, the one Cicero comprehended least. "Rectitude."

"Reason and Justice stem from the earthly realm. Reason dictates what one must do to survive; Justice punishes or rewards actions. They are physical, bound to corporeal nature, and thus suffer the same inadequacies of our frail bodies. But something came before the Earth, did it not?"

"God, Your Munificence."

"And what virtue guides God?"

By process of elimination, Cicero knew the answer. "Rectitude."

"Yes, Cicero." The Empress turned a page. Her hand, seemingly disembodied in the pale glow, tapped the armrest. "Rectitude. The division of right and wrong. The basis of morality. It comes from God, not Earth. It manifests to Puella Magi as Legem Cyclos; when our spirits grow so corrupt that we no longer distinguish right from wrong, God's intercession saves us before we harm ourselves or others. A reasonable God would not forgo the energy such corrupted souls produce; a just God would save only those who deserve salvation, of which there are truly few. Our God is one of Rectitude, then—one who saves because to save is right."

Cicero bowed her head. "Glory be to God."

"For dappled things," intoned the Empress. "Thy next assignment, Cicero, is to read De Pizan's chapters on Reason. Keep in mind our conversation today."

"Thank you, Your Munificence. I am edified."

The Empress turned a page. Judith beheaded Holofernes. The conversation on Christine De Pizan's Book of the City of Ladies ended. Cicero straightened her spine against the back of Hennepin's chair and braced for the next question.

The pause before the question lasted so long that despite her preparation it surprised Cicero anyway. "Now, what has become of the Minneapolis archon?"

"Your Munificence, when we arrived in Minneapolis, the archon had already been defeated."

"By whom?"

"By the remnants of the Minneapolis Puella Magi and others from outlying areas. Our initial assessment of the aftermath revealed two survivors: Hennepin of Greater Minneapolis-St. Paul and Fargo of, um, Fargo."

The Empress turned a page. "Remember to speak up, Cicero, and avoid stammering. Such debilitative patterns of speech ill become one of thy stature and bearing. We take it thou hast apprehended the survivors and secured the grief cubes dropped by the archon?"

Cicero's fingertips dug into the knuckles of the opposite hand. "We apprehended Hennepin and Fargo immediately upon arrival, Your Munificence, and located the grief cubes."

"How many cubes?"

"Thousands, Your Munificence. Perhaps millions. They covered the streets like a vast sea."

"Thou 'located' them, rather than secured?"

Never once did the Empress turn and look the camera in the eye. Never once did Cicero glimpse her face or any part of her body save the hand that turned the page. And yet she felt an eye on her, piercing and hot, like sun caught in a glass to burn ants and paper. "No sooner did we apprehend Hennepin and Fargo, Your Munificence, than a third party intervened."

"We dislike a tale without foreknowledge of its ending," said the Empress. "Hast thou the cubes currently?"

"No, Your Munificence."

The book shut. "Very well. Proceed."

"Yes, Your Munificence. We know little about the identity of this third party. She seemingly had the power to make herself and others disappear. We later located records in the wreckage of the deceased Minneapolis's home that described a Puella Magi with similar powers, operating under the name Omaha. We do not believe she is the same Omaha who presides over the city in Douglas County, Nebraska."

"She is not."

"This Omaha created a sort of... tear in the fabric of reality. I am unsure how to describe it. Into the tear she drained the cubes and took the apprehended Fargo."

The Empress's hand seized the candlestick and tilted it toward her. A single breath and the flame went out and the room was submerged in darkness, illuminated only by the dim phosphorescence of the computer monitor on which Cicero's own face sat projected. Judith no longer beheaded Holofernes, but the grandfather clock ticked. "This interloper thieved all of the cubes?"

"All but a paucity on Hennepin's person."

The outline of the Empress's hand stroked the armrest. Skeletal in the white light of the monitor. "We are disappointed, Cicero."

Cicero exhaled. She closed her eyes. "Say but the word, Your Munificence, and I shall turn my command over to Berwyn and dash my gem upon the ground."

"An archon is a form of God," said the Empress. "Demiurges. The Gnostic interpretation of YHWH. Yaldabaoth. They are gods of Reason and Justice but lack Rectitude. Nonetheless, their power is of a God; they create."

"Say but the word, Your Munificence."

"Their power belongs to us and no other, Cicero. No being but us on this Earth has the responsibility to wield it. Any other who acquires it is a danger to this planet."

"I am prepared to atone for my failure, Your Munificence."

The Empress sighed. "Oh, hold thy tongue. Hast thou scented the trail of this faux-Omaha and her accomplice, Fargo?"

Cicero raised her head. "My best trackers combed the city. Omaha's magical signature could not be sensed, but we were able to follow Fargo's on an unusual course through the city. She went to a seemingly random house and interacted with a Puella Magi whose aura was so minor as to be almost entirely inconsequential—possibly a vagrant. She then went to the Minneapolis airport."

"And?"

"We manipulated an attendant to give us access to the flight records. With Fargo's true name, which we learned from Hennepin and confirmed with documents from Minneapolis's house, we discovered she boarded a flight for Mitakihara, Japan, by way of Los Angeles."

"Mitakihara? Thou art certain that is the name, Mitakihara?"

"Yes, Mitakihara is the name of the city, Your Munificence. Why, is something the matter?"

The Empress sat silent in the darkened room. The fingers on her hand slowly rose and fell against the plush upholstery of her broad chair.

"What has the Incubator told you, Cicero?"

"He has been characteristically coy," said Cicero. "Hennepin has proven less than useful as well. She claims no knowledge of Omaha and little of Fargo."

"She claims?"

"Rest assured she has been subjected to the full gamut of our devices."

Another long pause. The immaculate resolution of Hennepin's monitor could not penetrate the shadow.

"It is possible," the Empress said at last, "that Fargo is a distraction to draw away our forces and weaken Chicago for an attack by Omaha. However, we must leave no avenue unexplored. We order thee, Cicero, our Third Centurion, and thy legion to travel to Mitakihara. Locate and apprehend Fargo. Pursue any information as to Omaha's whereabouts and the whereabouts of the archon's treasure. Such are the orders of the Empress of Chicago."

"Yes, Your Munificence." Cicero bowed her head. "With the powers at my disposal, it shall take but one day to forge documents and arrange a flight for twenty Puella Magi. I shall fulfill my duty as expediently as possible." Mitakihara, Japan. The moment the name appeared on a document in the terminal of Minneapolis-St. Paul, Cicero had a premonition she would end there somehow. "Your Munificence, if you allow me, may I ask a small boon to aid my mission?"

"Thou mayst."

"I request merely a Puella Magi learned in the language of the nation of Japan. Does such a Magi preside within Chicago, Your Munificence?"

"We grant thee permission to ask DuPage or Cook if a Japanese Magi is within their faction."

Cicero disliked conversation with either of her senior Centurions. "Thank you, Your Munificence. I shall not trouble them with an unlikely request. I have an alternative solution."

"Then we leave the specifics of the operation to thy capable hands. As for the consequences of thy failure in Minneapolis, we shall meditate upon whether to demote thee to Fourth Centurion and replace the rank of Third with Joliet. The verdict relies upon your results in Mitakihara. That is all."

The Empress's hand made a trenchant gesture of dismissal. Cicero pounded her chest with a fist and said, "Praise to Your Munificence!" The screen went completely dark and the call ended without another word.

Cicero sank into the chair. Conversations with the Empress taxed her so heavily. No wonder so few were allowed to speak in her presence; lesser Puella Magi doubtless could not bear such strain. In the brief solitude, Cicero tried to heal her frayed nerves. She listed her objectives:

Fly herself and twenty other Magi to Japan.

Locate and apprehend Fargo.

Learn the whereabouts of Omaha and the archon's cubes.

Read the next chapter of De Pizan.

Actually, shuffle Objective 4 between 1 and 2. She could most likely read the entire book on the flight. Not that she would; she must wait for the Empress to enlighten her as to the assigned chapter's meaning before she proceeded to the next.

The logistics of putting twenty-one Magi on a plane, and so close to Christmas... She had underlings for that. She stood, straightened her suit, and rolled her shoulders. Rubbed her eyes.

Demoted in favor of Joliet... Bah. Honorable suicide would be better than having her position as Third Centurion usurped by the Empress's wretch of a daughter. Not that usurpation was avoidable forever. Little secret the Empress had groomed the product of her loins as her successor. Wonder how DuPage and Cook would take that. DuPage especially.

She exited Hennepin's apartment. Elmhurst and Lombard leaned against the railing in civilian clothes, pretend-smoking cigarettes to blend into the heathen surroundings. They stood at attention and saluted.

"No disturbances, milady."

"The hallway is secure, milady."

Cicero signaled them at ease. "We have received new orders. Lombard, gather the legion. Reconvene them at the transport."

"Yes, milady!" Lombard saluted smartly and exited.

"Elmhurst, take me to the captive."

"Yes, milady."

She led Cicero out the back. They descended a flight of steps still slick with snow and came to the cavity at the cross-section of two structures, strewn with the garbage of the homeless men they had chased from the spot.

The guard, Norridge, saluted. "The captive remains captive, milady."

"At ease."

Hennepin lay on her side in a fetal position, rocking her nude body slowly as she clutched her knees and stared forward. The chain strung between her ankle and the sewage grate rattled with her shivers.

"Was the night cold, whore?" said Cicero.

Hennepin lifted her head, scampered to her knees, and prostrated herself at Cicero's feet. Her short hair plopped around her shoulders in a filthy mop, lit by a lusterless purple bang. "P-p-p-p-p-please..."

"Elmhurst, fetch the whore a blanket," said Cicero.

"Yes, milady."

Hennepin's head lifted. Her eyes stared up at Cicero. "Th-th-thank you s-s-s-so much..."

"What type of Asian are you, Hennepin?" said Cicero.

Gratitude gave way to confusion. "W-w-w-w-what?"

"Answer the question, whore."

"I, I, I'm Ch-Chinese..."

Elmhurst returned with the blanket and draped it around Hennepin's shoulders. Hennepin seized the edges and tugged it close.

Since Cicero detested to hear her stammer, she waited for her to warm a little before she spoke again. "How similar is the language of China to the language of Japan?"

Hennepin stared. "I, I can't speak either, so..."

"Disgraceful." Cicero crossed her arms. "Those who sever their connection to the past are doomed to wander estranged in the present. No wonder you turned into a female of such loose morals."

"C-can you speak African, then?"

Cicero scooped her by the throat and forced her against the wall. The blanket, pinned between Hennepin's back and the brick, dangled loose around her. "I speak Latin."

Hennepin squirmed and groped at Cicero's hand. Cicero dropped her.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Hennepin. She gathered up the blanket and shuffled into the corner among the filth. "My head, it's so dizzy, I can't think, I don't know what I'm saying..."

"Tis true, milady," said Norridge. "She raved in her sleep."

"P-please don't hurt me... I'll do anything, anything. I'll never swear again. I'll never even think about sex again."

Repulsive. A miserable creature, unable to bear a single night in the cold. If this girl knew even an inkling of the punishments Cicero endured in her wilder days, when she flouted the Empress's system in unenlightened ignorance, she would not be so quick to beg. She might act with some dignity. But what could one expect from a whore? She already sold her dignity to the groveling men who watched her "video game stream." Gluttonous, lecherous men, and she encouraged their voyeurism in exchange for a few transient dollars. I'll do anything, she said. Yes, she would. If she had even an inch of spine, stood up for herself even for a moment, things may have gone better for her.

Cicero contemplated inflicting upon her worse punishments. But she had more relevant business.

"I need you to speak Japanese."

Hennepin gaped, mouth open. Like a grouper. "I, I can't..."

"Then learn. Within the next twenty-four hours."

"That's, that's not..."

"Possible?" said Cicero. "For most, correct. For you, wrong. It angers me how clever you think you are and how idiotic you are in actuality. Would you mind repeating your wish, the one you told me about during our previous interrogation?"

Hennepin's brow furrowed. She altered her posture slightly, her back somewhat straightened. "I can't be good at something I don't even—"

"Repeat your wish, whore."

"I wished to be good at things."

"Part of my duty as Centurion is appraising the talents of those under my command and rendering those talents useful. As it is part of my duty, I am particularly good at it. I have seen wishes like yours before. They grant aptitude and adaptability, if not total mastery. Though you have sadly only utilized this aptitude for the purposes of so-called 'video games,' you can assuredly achieve much more with it."

"But one day, no, that's not enough time. I know my powers. You're setting me up for failure, and when I fail—"

"Rest assured if you fail I will do everything you are currently imagining and more. A Puella Magi with drive would take that as a challenge to succeed. But I see you are a lazy clod."

Hennepin, her blanket already soiled by the black slush around her, gazed blankly with the expression she adopted often ever since four hours into their interrogation. Then she blinked and her face sharpened.

"Call me a whore all you like," she said. "Even though I've never even touched a guy, okay. But if you're gonna accuse me of laziness, if you're gonna tell me you know my powers better than I do, then fine. Fine! In twenty-four hours I'll speak the best damn Japanese you ever heard. Why not. Why not!"

She rose to a half-sitting position, staring at Cicero with a hint of obstinacy. Except her expression soon paled again.

"I mean dang. Best dang Japanese. Oh please don't flog me—"

"I have made quite clear the rules of profanity," said Cicero. "Norridge, dole out the appropriate number of lashes. Elmhurst, fetch Hennepin materials to facilitate her education in the language of Japan."

"Yes, milady." Elmhurst ran off.

"Yes, milady." Norridge summoned a whip.

Hennepin bent against the ground. "No, come on, it wasn't even that bad a swear!"

"Profane your mouth, profane your body," said Cicero. "As protectors of this world, we Puella Magi must keep our bodies sacred. We are, after all, the emissaries of God."

"We're the emissaries of a telepathic lab rat," said Hennepin.

Norridge cracked the whip and lashed her naked back. Hennepin sagged with a pathetic cry as her pale skin, barely healed since her last offense, broke open. The girl would learn eventually. Given enough remapping, her ability and geographic familiarity would lend great assistance to the Colonial Governor of Minneapolis, whomsoever may be fortunate enough to receive such a boon from Her Munificence the Empress. Likely, as happened with Milwaukee, DuPage's favorite lieutenant would gain the post. Cicero ought to make a token nomination of Berwyn nonetheless. A show of respect.

As Hennepin screamed, Cicero left to organize her Magi into action.

Sloan slept on a mat Tomay plopped in her living room. Except not really, because the thin walls and the creak of feet in the adjacent room made it difficult. Intermittent shuteye sure, nothing substantial. No dreams.

Oh, and the creepy doll who giggled in the corner didn't help either. Fuck you, creepy doll.

Eventually Sloan supposed she did fall asleep because she woke up. Sunshine glazed the whole place a nostalgic yellow. Creepy doll remained in the same spot. Tomay hummed from the kitchen.

Sloan sat up and rubbed her eyes. Something smelled good. A plate steamed on the kitchen counter.

"Oh, you're awake!" said Tomay with an uncannily polished accent. "I cooked you a nice breakfast. Come and eat!"

Sloan sat at a small chair by the counter. Instead of only one plate, there were six, an entire country breakfast composed of good old American mainstays like bacon, pancakes, and butter. It looked fucking delicious and Sloan felt no shame at overloading her plate with all of it.

"Wow, thanks," she said.

Tomay wiped her hands on a dishcloth and smiled, but she had rings around her eyes, and the bouncy curls of her hair had flattened. That's what pacing in your room half the night will do to you, Sloan knew from experience. She lathered her pancakes with syrup and dug in with fork and knife. Didn't they use, like, chopsticks or something? Oh well, good old American cultural imperialism at work, saving Sloan from more faux pas.

"Is it taste good?" asked Tomay.

Sloan spoke through mouthfuls. "Delicious."

"Ah, what means delicious?" Tomay poured Sloan a tall glass from a pitcher of milk.

"Very very good."

"I am so glad you like!"

Really though, it transcended delicious. Imagine Sloan Redfearn, seven months subsisting off cereal in Fargo, then a four day stint where Delaney bought her pizza, and even then pizza tasted delicious, but this shit was like, authentic homecooked, pancakes made from flour and bacon layered with fat, the fucking grits (who eats grits?) were like the best damn grits of all time, goddam sausage burst the moment Sloan bit in, milk so fresh it might have been poured straight from a cow's udder (okay calm down you're getting ridiculous), but holy shit FOOD. Such a simple pleasure, how had Sloan gone without it for so long?

She looked up from a forkful halfway to her mouth. "You gonna eat too?"

Tomay smiled. "No thank you, I cooked for you."

Uh okay. Sloan took her bite. Tomay watched with a Stepford Wives smile.

"You fixed a whole banquet, Tomay. I can't eat all this myself."

"It is very okay. I eat before."

Sloan got suspicious. Why, after pacing her room all night, would she get the idea to fix a breakfast like this? Poison? Poison was worthless against a Magical Girl. Simply got flushed right out the system.

"So uh. Wanna search for your friend some more? Or try Homura Akemi again?" Personally, Sloan wanted to take a look at Pink Hair. Something suggested she might be the secret linchpin to all this mess.

Tomay's smile kinda twisted a little, but she said nothing. The creepy doll giggled. Its shoeless feet kicked against the counter it sat atop.

Like someone pulled a pin, Tomay fell to her knees and began to sob. Sloan stared for a stunned moment before she dropped her fork and went to Tomay's side. Uh, probably should like, say something? Hands are important. Uh. Place a hand on the shoulder. Reassuring-like.

"Tomay? Tomay?"

Tears streamed down Tomay's face. She sniffed and said, "What means, Tomay?"

God fuck. Why are you so bad at everything, Sloan? "Are you okay?" she tried. "What's wrong?"

Tomay's hands balled into fists. She gave her head a tremendous shake and abruptly stood straight with her arms at her sides. Her eyes narrowed into solid slats and her mouth twisted into a flat horizontal line. "I apologize. Nothing is wrong."

"Uh." Sloan stood too. "Uh, something is wrong."

"I apologize you see me so crazy. Please eat breakfast." Tomay's entire body trembled. But it maintained straight vertical alignment.

"Uh."

"Please. Eat. Breakfast."

Sloan slowly returned to her seat. "We'll find Nagisa." She hoped she said the name right. "I promise." Not that she could promise it. Sloan thought back to how Omaha murdered Lynette solely because Lynette tried to kill Clair, which would have invalidated the sin of Sloan killing Clair, or not been enough sin to spawn the archon? Lynette seemed to have issues with Clair too. Or did only Magical Girls killing each other count as sin? The point was, Omaha would kill anyone in her way. Nagisa might already be dead and there was nothing Sloan could do about it. Quite likely Sloan was wasting her time here, like Kyubey said. If Homura Akemi controlled time, maybe the entire celestial war had already played out in a split second?

Well, Sloan couldn't really be wasting her time no matter what happened, because the only reason she had time left was to be here. So enough of that. Gotta soldier on like there's still hope. If she gave up...

If she gave up she supposed she was no better than Delaney.

"Um, hey," said Sloan. "Hey, I have a question."

"Please ask!"

"Um, you see that picture?" Sloan pointed at the framed photograph of the Mitakihara Six on the wall. "Who's the girl with pink hair?"

The creepy doll quit giggling real fast.

 "Pink hair..." said Tomay. "Ah! You mean Miss Madoka Kanamay."

Madoka. Ma-do-ka. No weird vowel stuff. Good.

"Um, this may sound weird. But Madoka, is she... is there something special about her?"

She felt foolish asking. If Madoka was God, no way Tomay knew jack dick about it. But the creepy doll began to advance toward Sloan with meticulous steps, the elliptical eyes fixed, the toothy grin fading into consternation. That suggested Sloan was getting close to something.

"Special?" said Tomay.

"I mean like..." How to say this? "I mean, is Madoka, is she connected to the Law of the Cycles?"

The creepy doll whipped out a spear and impaled Sloan through the chest. No wound opened as the shaft passed between her ribs into her heart, but immeasurable pain surged through her.

Sloan did not scream. Did nothing but tighten her hands around the edge of the counter and clench her jaw. Her gem was secure in Tomay's pocket. If the doll sought to kill her, it attacked the wrong body. She suddenly wanted very much to hear Tomay's response.

Tomay thought for a moment. The spear remained lodged in Sloan's torso and Sloan trembled in her seat. Come on, Tomay. Think. Think about it, the fact you haven't dismissed the statement as nuts must mean there's something behind it. Think.

"I apologize, what means Law of the Cycles?"

The doll wrenched the spear out of Sloan and cackled awful laughter. Sloan tried to maintain support of her body, but it was too much to bear. She fell off the seat and onto the ground. The doll leapt over her and rammed the spear down again and again. Sloan curled up and screamed.

"Sroan? Sroan?" Tomay rushed to her side but could do nothing.

The doll grew tired of stabbing and sneered instead. Its face and Tomay's face loomed above Sloan, one beside the other. The doll held up a finger in front of her jagged smile. Shhh...

So they didn't like talk of Madoka's potential godhead around here. Sloan decided to read that as confirming her suspicion. Too bad it would take more time to translate "Law of the Cycles" to English than it would for the doll to turn her into a pincushion.

Sloan helped herself to a sitting position and only noticed Tomay's proffered hand after it was no longer needed. "I apologize," she said, taking a page from Tomay's lexicon, "I was crazy for a moment. I'm fine now." Hoping Tomay took the hint: we don't talk about your crazy, we don't talk about my crazy.

Tomay took Sloan's hint and Sloan took the doll's hint. She returned to her breakfast and Tomay returned to watching her eat breakfast and the doll returned to giggling and a rickety peace fell on the apartment.

And a rickety peace fell on the day. After Tomay cleaned the dishes she returned to her room and her footsteps creaked against the floor. Sloan stayed in the main room with the doll. The second doll left with Coco the night prior. Each girl their own doll? She tried to remember if Omaha mentioned how many dolls there were, came up with nothing. Four chased her in Minneapolis, one followed Tomay and one followed Coco, and one with pink hair took Delaney.

The view from Tomay's window was pleasant. Somewhere Omaha clashed blades with a demon.

Tomay exited her room around twilight and began fixing dinner. Like nothing had happened. Which was exactly what happened. Same harried demeanor but in the kitchen she regained a semblance of her former elegance. Plates, ladles, whisks, rollers. Bags of flour, bowls of batter. The oven timer chimed at intermittent intervals.

She baked a chicken potpie. She presented it in a tin pan.

Sloan lived in America and was pretty sure nobody actually ate chicken potpies. But she ate it anyway and it tasted delicious. Tomay watched.

For dessert, brownies.

"So uh, hey." Sloan swallowed a bite. "It's getting late."

"Yes," said Tomay.

"Are you going to fight wraiths tonight?"

"What means, wraiths?"

"You know, monsters? Ghouls? The things Puella Magi fight."

"The things Puella Magi fight..." Tomay thought about it. "Ah, so that means wraiths!"

"Yes, yes, you get it. And wraiths, when we kill them, they drop grief cubes. Grief cubes." Best to get these important terms defined in English off the bat.

"Grief cube." Tomay nodded.

"We need grief cubes to clean our Soul Gems. Soul Gems."

"Soul Gem." Tomay took Sloan's gem from her pocket and showed it in confirmation.

"Yes, that's a Soul Gem." Good, this was going well. "As you can see, it's very bad, right?"

Tomay inspected it. "Yes, very bad."

"I haven't had any grief cubes in two days."

Tomay sighed. "I need grief cube too."

"If you want, I'll help you fight wraiths tonight." Please work. "It's important to stay strong. To find Nagisa." It's also important to get out of this damn apartment.

Tomay thought for a moment, either about the offer or the words to respond. It must have been the former, because her response was to toss Sloan's gem over the counter to her. Sloan caught it with a sigh of relief. For the first time that day, they left the house.

Chapter 35: Neutral, Composite, Oblique Space

They went to the hospital. Sloan disliked hospitals as hunting ground, not nearly as efficient as you'd expect. For every death by cancer a baby born. Joy and despair tended to even each other out, and couple that with the lack of secluded spaces to fight and it made more sense to go to some actual shithole. But Tomay wanted it and Tomay Tomato got what she wanted. Mitakihara's hospital far outpaced the one in Fargo, or Minneapolis, or all the damn hospitals from Sloan's childhood, where doctors inspected her sister for hours only to shake heads in wonderment. The doctors said it was a waste of time. Morgan said it was a waste of time. Sloan said it was a waste of time, and only she was spanked for it.

Tomay led them behind the immense, multi-winged hospital to a roundabout near a back entrance. The place was deserted, save the horde of wraiths agglomerated within the partial enclosure. Tomay and Sloan surveyed their prey from behind a parked ambulance.

"No big wraiths," said Sloan.

"One big wraith," said Tomay. "In middle."

Sloan looked closer. Between the bobbing, static-strewn faces, something else lurked.

"There normally this many?"

Tomay considered. "No. Many more wraith than normal."

Sloan thought so. It looked close to Williston levels jampacked. Something to do with Omaha? If Magical Girls killing Magical Girls created archons, a protracted war between them ought to at least max out the small fry. If Omaha succeeded in killing Akemi, what kind of archon would that create?

"What's our plan?" said Sloan.

With considerable flashiness and a small dance (or at least a rehearsed series of movements), Tomay transformed. She acquired a hat, a feather, and a corset. Ribbons came together to form a flintlock rifle which she grasped in her hand.

"Leave to me," said Tomay. "Will be easy."

She vaulted the hood of the ambulance and leaped above the field of wraiths. A single shot took off the head of one before she discarded the weapon and summoned two more. At the zenith of her jump, when the wraiths turned their attention to her, she sent a ribbon to an opposite rooftop and swung like Tarzan above their heads. Her rifles rained bullets, each shot a clean kill. The wraiths returned with beamlike attacks, but she sped past unscathed and landed on a balcony.

Cute. All that finesse and maybe twenty wraiths dead. Sloan granted her she looked fine doing it, but let's be real now. She summoned her own gun, letting it maintain its full weight so she at least looked like she exerted some effort. The wraiths, staring Tomay's direction, didn't notice her until she revved it and fired.

Blam blam motherfuckers. Her light tore through them and ten, twenty, thirty fell in moments. When the horde realized the threat and responded, she strafed until she reached the cover of the next parked ambulance.

Nice job, Miss Sloan, said Tomay's telepathic voice, since they'd split up too far to communicate with speech. Telepathically, her accent was less pronounced.

You too. How long you been doing this? Usually chicks with inefficient styles got problems after a few years. Magical Girl arthritis, wear and tear of the hocus pocus. Tomay looked about Sloan's age, which meant she was probably in the biz as long or more.

I am Puella Magi five years. And you, Miss Sloan?

Three.

Ah, it means I am the senior. I take the lead.

In the ambulance's side mirror, Sloan watched Tomay fly on a line of ribbon. In a circle around her spun at least ten guns at the ready to seize and fire. She dropped down and continued the fight in close quarters, using spent rifles to bash in brains before casting them aside. Her efficiency increased, though it opened her to more danger.

Sloan swung around the ambulance and fired again to divide the enemy's attention. She was still clearing them much quicker than Tomay. Your technique's a little slow, isn't it? she said. She knew she shouldn't rub it in, but she had a hard time helping herself. Killing wraiths was the one thing she was good at, and like most people with one good quality in an ocean of bad, she must strangle that good quality into a bad one somehow, make it the misshapen pedestal upon which she stood.

Tch! Tomay summoned an arc of rifles, which thundered like an artillery salvo as a line of wraiths dropped dead. She became more aggressive, dancing into the enemy ranks until Sloan lost sight of her. She resurfaced as a flash of blonde hair near the far wing of the hospital.

Let's stay close, said Sloan.

I handle this very easy.

A wall of wraiths rose up and diverted Sloan's attention. She swept the turret around her in a swift coil to clear the danger before she hurried in the direction she last saw Tomay. The constant crack of gunshots signposted the way, although the thickening miasma distorted sounds in static and ominous laughter. Minimal visual distortion, however. Did the power that let Sloan see the creepy dolls work on miasma, too? Might as well believe it. Believing it made it slightly more real.

You there, Tomay? Talk to me.

I do fine, thank you.

Was she really making a point of doing dangerous shit because Sloan ribbed her for being slow? Of course. Every time Sloan opened her mouth, she made things worse. And she thought she would come here and do something good for a change.

No, shut up. Focus. Reach the end of the chessboard. Then you can turn around.

Right now, though, she had to start conserving her magic. The ground glistened with cubes but she had no chance to stop for them. By now, the horde had thinned and Sloan could see Tomay at the other end of the roundabout, summoning, firing, and discarding rifles at an unreal pace. Between them the last wraiths wove a tight circle around something larger. Greater wraith, had to be. The question became what kind. Naga, basilisk, lamassu?

Tomay's eyes met Sloan's. She gave a confident wink and charged, guns blazing, each bullet an individualized masterpiece delivered to the skull of the wraith it murdered. Whereas Sloan's rays wiped the world clean in a single splatter. Despite Tomay's lack of efficiency, there might be worth in someone who took pride in the most rudimentary tasks, who expended the effort to transform her life into art.

(It was Clair's problem. The single notch on the slick smooth obelisk of her genius that Sloan could climb upon to exceed her. For Clair, every wraith required a careful performance, an original musical number, a new instrument. It made it hard for her, and she often needed Sloan's help to survive those cold Minneapolis nights. But that music, now dead, perhaps meant more in its brief time than all of Sloan's whole life.)

A digital shriek slit the throat of these thoughts. Hot wind blasted from the cluster of remaining wraiths and bowled them both over. Tomay tied ribbons around nearby streetlamps to steady herself; Sloan scraped across the ground until she rolled into a patch of topiaries.

From amid the wraiths rose a figure only partially formed, barely a general structure. Humanoid, upon its emaciated torso sat no head. It floated crosslegged within its robes. It had one arm; its other hand, clenched into a fist, drifted disembodied at its side. Static filled the missing components. The arm that existed held a torch.

Sloan had never seen a wraith like this before. It was obviously the greater wraith, but no type Sloan knew. It went against the general theme of the mythic beasts in Williston.

Tomay, what is this? What's it do?

I handle it. Watch.

Aaaaand there she went. No way did someone this reckless last five years.

The Buddha wraith turned the absence of its head to survey the surroundings. Settling its non-eyes on Tomay, it drew back its arm and hurled the flaming torch like a javelin. Tomay leapt the spear as it crashed into the pavement, but it struck with such cataclysmic force it formed a fissure that spewed up great sprays of magma, forcing Tomay to pivot to the side. Her nimbleness kept her ahead of the flames, but she no longer had an opening to attack.

Time, then, for Sloan to quit gawking. She heaved her gun against her side and set it firing at the Buddha while it extended its arm, pulled back its javelin with telekinetic force, and raised it in front of its body. Her light was absorbed when it struck the flames enveloping the weapon.

Yeah yeah, guess these greater wraiths always have some bullshit, or else there wouldn't be much greater about them. Sloan cut off her gun. The spear did all the defensive work, so if she hit the body it would probably die like everything else. A simple distraction would suffice, make it hurl its javelin at Tomay and then roast it. It retrieved the weapon fast, but with timing Sloan could—

She scrambled aside as the javelin launched at her. An explosive force flung her into the topiaries.

Tomay must have reached the same conclusion Sloan did about the Buddha's vulnerabilities, because once it threw the javelin she took the opportunity to pirouette over the scorched cracks in the ground, move in close, and sink a bullet straight into its heart. Gray dirt streamed from its hollow torso, but the wound sealed quickly. Undeterred, Tomay drew another rifle, but the wraith pulled its javelin back and swung it directly into her ribs, launching her like a human baseball into the ground.

Sloan tried to go help her, but the cracks in the ground spread and torrents of fire forced her back. The roundabout shattered. Chunks of asphalt broke off into the red rivers that pulsed beneath. The remaining lesser wraiths plummeted; their screams rang like fax machines. Only the Buddha remained. It hovered with serene grace, a holy om, while the ground directly beneath its crossed legs sank in a conic depression. For a moment, a pervasive, almost real image of Clair's body sinking into the Minneapolis snow seized Sloan's mind, so hallucinogenic she wasn't sure whether her subconscious was on the fritz or the wraith exuded powers of mental manipulation.

The battle arena became a few floating rocks on a lava sea. Sloan narrowed her eyes against the heat in search of Tomay, but everything was red and orange, a single girl in yellow blended in too well. Sloan used magic to strengthen her vision, to increase the, what was the word, contrast. Colors, once composite, separated; Tomay's body became clear on a distant rock. She rolled precariously on the edge, one limp arm flopping against the side.

Sloan ignored the wraith, dodging its spear as she bounded between the rocks on the swiftest path to Tomay. Tomay's rock sagged; Tomay started to slide.

Shit, Tomay, wake up already. Sloan was nowhere close enough to reach her in time, especially after she landed on a rock that cracked beneath her and had to redirect to a safer platform. By the time she turned again, Tomay's rock collapsed and took Tomay with it.

Ribbons whipped out from several directions and caught Tomay inches before she touched the lava. Am fine, said Tomay as the ribbons pulled her to a standing position on a loose bridge she created. She flicked a handkerchief from somewhere and dabbed blood from her lips. She then cracked the handkerchief like a whip and seven rifles appeared from it to hover around her.

Sloan landed next to her. "It can regenerate," she said. "Wraiths that heal themselves are easy, you just hit em so hard there's nothing left to heal."

"I apologize, I am bad show senior Puella Magi."

Whatever that meant. "Let's work together and ruin this thing's night, yeah?"

Tomay folded her blood-dribbled handkerchief neatly and slid it into a pocket. "Work together? Yes, I am make mistake. Work together is always better."

The javelin hurtled at them. Sloan dove to the next rock to avoid it, but Tomay held her ground. She extended an arm and pointed. Ribbons swirled out, coiling around the javelin to bind it in midair. The javelin quivered, but could not break free.

Sloan wasted no time. Her gun spewed light and scored a direct hit. The Buddha's flesh broke apart, unraveling into cubes of matter.

The javelin erupted with a tremendous flare that disintegrated the ribbons and it instantly redirected itself toward Sloan. Because the flare blinded her a moment, she had no time to dodge. Holding up her gun for defense slowed the javelin slightly, but only enough for her to orient her body to avoid a fatal blow.

Right before the javelin pierced through her gun, however, ribbons dragged Sloan out of the way. She sailed to Tomay while the javelin, ignoring the laws of physics, whipped in pursuit. More ribbons grabbed Sloan's arms. They twisted her body, forced her to turn. Her arms lifted above her and one leg kicked out with surprising grace. She had never moved this way before and had no idea what Tomay was doing until she realized: Tomay was making her dance. The ribbons were puppeteering Sloan's body to approximate elegant ballroom dancing.

She drew close to Tomay and Tomay's arms wrapped around her to lead the dance. More ribbons shot out to impede the spear, but only managed to slow it down.

"Count three," said Tomay, "and say Tiro Duet!"

"What," said Sloan. Tomay's arms twirled her like a ballerina.

"One..."

The spear set the ribbons ablaze. Its tip loomed close, but Sloan only caught a glimpse before Tomay redirected her eyes somewhere else.

"Two..."

The Buddha hovered dead ahead, reconstructing itself, completely exposed.

"Three!" shouted Tomay. "TIRO... DUET!"

"Tiro Duet?" said Sloan.

The javelin broke free of the ribbons, impaled Sloan through the side, and continued on to impale Tomay. Despite the wound, a tremendous rifle appeared before them, more cannon than rifle, a piece of artillery from an old world war. Tomay grabbed the vast, broad butt of the rifle and Sloan reached for it too, channeling her power into it. The barrel lit up with a yellow orb that built and built until the hammer fell and sparked their combined magic.

Heavy power burst forward. It zoomed over the lava and enveloped the Buddha entirely, devolving it into a black outline within white. The lava rippled away from the blast in waves.

The wraith cried out, but its cry sank beneath the roar of the cannon. It disintegrated into cubes.

The javelin disintegrated too. Sloan and Tomay fell in separate directions while the miasma dissipated and the ground reconstructed to its original form, a solid gray circle of road surrounded by hospital wings. Tranquility resumed over the night.

Sloan gripped her wounded sides and tried to rise with a grunt. Tomay crawled toward her, placed her hands over the wounds, and with a pale aura stitched them. Her suturing worked fast and precise. Once the holes were closed, the threads transformed into smooth, unbroken skin, which was frankly pretty weird. Did that mean part of her body was thread now? Sloan prodded the spot. It felt like skin. Fucking magic, man.

Tomay quickly employed the same tactic on herself. She helped Sloan to her feet and brushed dirt off Sloan's coat.

"You did good!" she said.

"Thanks, you too."

Tomay sent out another ribbon, which scraped the ground to collect the dropped grief cubes. The haul was good, but seemed low for the number of wraiths. Many cubes probably fell in the lava. Oh well, more than enough remained. The ribbons effortlessly pooled them into a neat pile. Tomay reached out and grabbed a handful—

—And time froze. Oh boy.

For some reason it felt like this had happened before. She knew she had definitely seen the world like this, gray and frozen. Or maybe it just looked like how it looked when Omaha turned her invisible? Nearby, the creepy doll with the short black hair—which Sloan had not seen once during the wraith fight—lay transfixed by a long cutlass. Its legs kicked against the ground as it screeched in German.

Someone held Sloan's arm. It was Blue Hair, from the photo. Sloan knew her name, Tomay said it at some point.

"Saki," said Sloan.

Saki sighed. "Close enough."

Tomay turned with a confused look. "What? Miss Miki?"

Miss Miki gritted her teeth. "Crap, you're still—Oh." She flung out a hand and tossed a sword. It sailed through the empty space between Sloan and Tomay, severing a golden ribbon that had apparently been there the whole time, tied around Sloan's ankle and Tomay's wrist. The moment it severed, Tomay faded into gray with the rest of the backdrop.

"Okay, that was close." Miss Miki pulled Sloan toward a floating black hole in the air. A portal to the Omaha Zone. "Hurry up, quit lollygagging. You want Homura to catch on?"

"What the hell's happening," said Sloan. "You speak English a lot better than Tomay."

"Yeah well, language kinda not a big deal once you become a concept? Come on, you got a friend who wants to talk to you."

Omaha. Well, a meeting might straighten out what's going on around here. Sloan followed Miss Miki through the hole and into the empty void.

Except the void wasn't so empty anymore. Step 1 in the war against Homura Akemi was apparently home furnishing. About fifty empty chairs of various shapes, sizes, and colors drifted in the dark, arranged in uneven rows and facing the same direction, although in that direction stretched nothing but black infinity. The grief cubes twinkled like stars on the outer edges of the chair grid, giving some form to formless space.

"Also, you keep saying her name wrong," said Miss Miki. "It's Tomoe. T-O-M-O-E. Say it with me: To-mo-e."

"Tomoe." One mystery solved already.

"Also, that's her last name. Her first name is Mami, M-A-M-I."

"I know that," said Sloan. "It's weird to call someone—"

"Yeah yeah, it sounds like mommy, I gotcha." Miss Miki stopped in the middle of the chairs and searched the area. Other shadowy objects drifted above and below, maintaining a grid structure. At the far end of the chairs hovered a hole back to the outside world, although it was too far away to see where it went. "If you wanna be polite, just call her Miss Tomoe. Or Tomoe-san if you feel culturally sensitive. It's the least you could do after she made you dinner."

"And breakfast," said Sloan.

"And she'll make you another tomorrow. That's the way she is. Always wanting to make people happy. So don't be a jerk, okay?"

"I didn't intend to," said Sloan.

"Yeah well, I dunno what you intend, and that's the whole problem." Miss Miki let go of Sloan's arm. She pointed down the row of chairs to what looked like a burnished black throne at the end. "Your friend's down there. See what she wants, will ya?"

Might as well. Sloan walked ("walk" being a loose term; she moved her legs and propelled herself forward, although no ground was beneath her) down the aisle. She glanced back at Miss Miki, who sat in one of the chairs with her arms crossed. She gave a terse nod to keep Sloan moving.

Sloan approached the throne, which faced the hole to the outside world. It was formed of solid ebony and glinted in the lightless realm from its own internal luster. As Sloan drew closer, she better saw what was on the other side of the hole: the front lawn of an ordinary if upscale home. Time remained frozen.

That was less interesting than the void past the throne, where floated some fun things. Like missiles. And a tank.

"Omaha, what the hell is this," said Sloan.

Omaha bolted upright from her throne. She pushed it away (it drifted through the cubes) and turned toward Sloan.

"Oh, so you're here after all..."

"Blue Hair dragged me in. Said you wanted something."

Omaha herself had not changed, throne notwithstanding. Yes, she definitely bore a resemblance to Homura Akemi from the photo.

"Right... I suppose I should be quick... We don't have much time..."

"I thought time doesn't matter here. And it's stopped out there anyway."

"I have Nagisa out there now... she's distracting Homura Akemi to give me a moment to speak to you. I'm sorry I didn't try to contact you earlier, but things are so hectic..."

"Any progress on killing Satan?"

Omaha scratched her sleeve. "Ah, no. Sadly... our initial attempts failed. We thought it would be simple to distract Akemi long enough to rescue the Goddess, but, ah... she's a formidable foe..."

Sloan had so many questions to ask she couldn't single out one and thus didn't ask any. After a sufficient pause, Omaha continued:

"What happened, Sloan? I thought you said you didn't want to help me..."

"I don't want to help you, Omaha."

"What! But... but..."

"I think this whole thing is totally dumb. I think you're going to get everyone killed."

Omaha sighed. She scratched the back of her head and turned toward the portal. "Sloan, you really don't understand... What I'm doing is the right thing. This house, it's the home of Madoka Kaname... the God—or rather, Goddess—who created the Law of the Cycles."

The house was nice enough, but not what Sloan would call fit for a goddess. At the same time, the doll's reaction in Tomay's—er, Tomoe's—apartment proved Madoka really did have some connection with the Law of the Cycles. "Look, even if I believe that, what's the big deal? The Law of the Cycles works fucking fine. I saw it take Delaney and Winnipeg no questions asked."

"The realm of God is heaven, not earth. Only in a world detached from corporeality, bodily desire and suffering, can She make the just, reasonable, and morally correct decisions that guide all Magical Girls. Homura Akemi has maintained a semblance of the Law of the Cycles, yes. But she does so without love. She profanes its holiness, drags it into the mud. Strangles it!" She clenched a fist. Sloan hoped she wouldn't have a seizure like the last time they broached this subject.

"Look," said Sloan. "That sounds like philosophical bullshit. If it works, you shouldn't go fucking around with it on esoteric moral principles. I've gone down this road, Omaha. You saw me go down this road, it ended with everyone dead. I don't want that to happen to you, or the girls here in Mitakihara."

"You don't want it to happen to me..." Omaha managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Sloan. It means a lot that you care for me at all. After I lied to you..."

It helped that Sloan thought of Omaha less as an independent agent and more as Kyubey's pawn, but she refrained from saying that. "Omaha, you've got missiles floating around here. How the hell did you get missiles."

"I stole them from the Pakistani military. That's beside the point. The missiles are just in case. I think we can win with the three of us. Me, Sayaka, and Nagisa, I mean."

"You said you were having trouble."

"I know... But something's going to happen tomorrow. An event, that um, that I shouldn't tell you about, because, um..."

"Don't tell her anything!" Blue Hair shouted from her chair. "Homura can pick her mind like a book."

"Right..." Omaha fidgeted. She glanced nervously at the house outside the portal. "That's absolutely right... I've put you in danger just by bringing you here, Sloan... I'm really sorry about that. But I wanted to talk to you, in case... In case you changed your mind about helping me."

"I'm not going to help you, and I'm not going to fight you either. I'm gonna make sure nobody gets hurt." It sounded incredibly stupid as it left her mouth, but it left anyway.

"Yeah... That's a noble goal... Sometimes I wish I could have that goal too... But don't worry, Sloan. If all else fails, and we can't save the Goddess, and everything goes wrong... I have a last resort. A surefire way to defeat Homura Akemi."

Sloan folded her arms. "Really. That sounds dubious."

"I can't tell you the specifics, obviously... but it's true. Only one person has to die for it to work, and... well, even saying that is too much. My friend—"

"You mean Kyubey."

"My friend told me it would be better if I rescued Madoka Kaname first, and I understand why he said that, he cares about my wellbeing, but I am prepared to sacrifice my life if it will save the Goddess from Her fate. If I have to, I will not hesitate..."

"Omaha, please don't kill yourself to beat this Akemi chick." The words sounded so weak. Please don't kill yourself. Please don't do this or that. Sloan tried to think of stronger words, the kind Clair would use, because when Clair wanted you to do something she had that way of saying things and suddenly you wanted to do it, not in a reluctant okay-I-see-your-point way, it was like, wow she's absolutely right, I have to do it right now. A sudden futility crept over Sloan. She came this far and staved off death so long, and when she finally caught back up to Omaha she couldn't think of anything to say. Omaha wouldn't listen to reason, she barely had one. Was this what Sloan looked like in Minneapolis? Delaney telling her not to kill Clair, and Sloan moving forward undaunted, was this how she looked? Going into convulsions when she thought about Clair, concocting bullshit reasons why Clair had to die, willing to die herself—God dammit, it was exactly the same, it was the same damn thing, god dammit, god dammit.

"I will do what I must," said Omaha.

Sloan felt defeated. She had hardly tried and she felt defeated, and that only made her feel more defeated.

"I ruined my life trying to do what you're doing now, Omaha," said Sloan. "I lost everything."

"No," said Omaha, "you lost everything because of what Clair did to you. You were in Fargo then. Now, the entire world is in Fargo. Forced there at the hand of a cruel mastermind named Homura Akemi. We linger in darkness, spiritual squalor, deprived the presence of our Goddess who loves us. We eke out an existence in the waste land, hurt and alone. Clair Ibsen was a bad person, Sloan. She deserved death. Homura Akemi has committed an even greater sin than Clair's betrayal. I must rectify her sin."

Sloan had no idea what to say to that. "That nice house outside the portal, you'd never find in Fargo."

"I will remain steadfast in my path. That is my one certainty in life. We cannot talk much longer. Nagisa can only keep Akemi distracted so long."

"God dammit," said Sloan.

"You really shouldn't be sympathetic toward Akemi anyway. She already murdered you once. In a previous timeline. Surely you felt it? That feeling... déjà vu. You two had a conversation, and at the end of it she killed you. No fight... You didn't even try to fight, and she still did it."

"I'm alive now."

"Because of what we did. We got close to freeing Madoka Kaname and she was forced to reset time. Sloan, please... don't get involved. It was selfish of me to ask your help, when you've done so much already. It's too dangerous, okay? You'll get hurt."

"I don't think you understand my goals here, Omaha."

"Sadly, you don't understand mine, either." Omaha exhaled a long, quiet breath in the void's absolute silence. She kneaded her hands together. "Goodbye, Sloan. Perhaps we shall meet again... perhaps not."

"I'll figure out something, Omaha. Some way to stop this." Her words lacked all conviction. She still did not know where to begin to unravel this knot everyone else wanted to simply cut through.

Omaha turned toward the portal and stared without another word. Sloan remained a few moments more before the finality became undeniable. She headed the way she came, down the aisles of chairs.

Miss Miki waited for her, seated precariously. Sloan glanced over her shoulder in case Omaha eavesdropped and whispered: "You know she's crazy, right?"

"What!" Miss Miki tilted her head toward Sloan and cupped a hand around her ear. "You'll have to speak up. Couldn't quite hear you."

Sloan gave her a look. "You heard me."

"I know, I'm just messing with you." Miss Miki bolted up and kicked her chair aside. It sailed into the dark. "Look, I can't say I trust her as far as I throw her. I'm like ninety-nine percent sure Kyubey's telling her everything he wants her to do, and she's got an uncanny similarity to a certain someone I just can't place, someone with a disposition toward nutty to begin with. But she's earnest about saving Madoka, and it's not like Nagisa and I are getting a better shot at that, so..."

"But why? I don't get it. Omaha's reasoning made no sense."

Miss Miki swept an arm around Sloan's shoulder and reeled her in. "Look, pal. Omaha's a little scrambled in the noggin, you got that right. But there's a coupla pretty real reasons why leaving this world in the hands of Homura Akemi is a bad, bad idea. First off is entropy."

"Don't give me that Kyubey crap."

"Yeah, it's the reason he's interested in all this, true. But when you're only a few levels removed from deity status, you see the bigger picture a bit more clearly. Entropy doesn't affect you, it doesn't affect anyone you know, it won't affect anyone for generations, though not as many generations as you'd expect. The fact is someday down the line the universe will run out of energy, and then poof, kaput, there goes. Think about all the people who won't even have the opportunity to live their lives, all the people who aren't even born yet but would be. Madoka and Nagisa and I, and anyone taken by the Law of the Cycles, has to think about that. It's when we would all die too. I mean really die. Double-die? Is that a thing? In any case, we would cease to exist."

It still sounded pretty esoteric.

"Akemi," Miss Miki continued, "is running this whole universe into oblivion. She wants to eradicate all wraiths, not because she cares of course but because she believes Madoka wants that. Which isn't true. Madoka understands the need for balance. For all good, there must be evil, vice versa et cetera. It's why wraiths started showing up after witches went away."

"Witches?"

"Don't worry about witches, that's above your pay grade." Miss Miki led Sloan down the aisle, away from Omaha, but not toward anything in particular. "Point is, Madoka hates suffering, but she knows it needs to exist. Or else happiness would have no meaning, y'know? And also the universe would literally die. She just wants people not to suffer so damn much. That's not so bad, is it?"

"If Kyubey wants something, it's usually pretty bad."

"Kyubey's got his own agenda. He wants more suffering, so he can get more energy. Homura wants no suffering, to the point of making the world sick. Madoka is in the middle, and that's why she's the best one for the job. Don't worry about Kyubey, Nagisa and I are keeping an eye on him. Based on what he's already tried, we bet he'll make some kind of play to capture Madoka. But we've outsmarted him before, and we can do it again, piece a cake."

Miss Miki had a cool, loquacious practicality that at least made Sloan more willing to listen to her than Omaha. Still, she was prattling about stuff Sloan couldn't weigh in the palm of her hand, witches and entropy. She remained unconvinced.

"I see you remain unconvinced," Miss Miki said.

"I mighta been thinking that."

"Then lemme give you a more down-to-earth reason why we gotta deal with Homura one way or another." She let go of Sloan's shoulder and put some space between them, twirling her cape as she lighted atop a chair and struck a heroic pose. "Do you wanna know how regular girl Madoka Kaname became basically a god?"

"Sure."

"It was Homura, of course. In a past universe, Madoka was destined to die. Homura refused to let this happen, she reset time over and over and over again. She tried desperately to save Madoka, and every time she failed. Until, after the timelines reset enough, and enough of them converged around Madoka as to increase her karmic power a thousandfold—"

"You said this was a down-to-earth explanation."

Miss Miki groaned. Her chair tilted and she tilted with it, until she hung upside-down. "Okay, fair. The point is, Homura's obsession to keep Madoka alive broke the universe. Madoka became God, things got better for everyone, it was all great. But of course, Homura didn't like this. Because Homura was obsessed with Madoka the human girl. Homura couldn't stand she had to live life as a human while Madoka lived life as a concept, on an entirely different celestial plane."

"I see. The down-to-earth explanation."

"Fine. There is no down-to-earth explanation, I lied." The chair continued to revolve until Miss Miki stood rightside-up again. "Sometimes you gotta escape the down-to-earth, Sloan. You gotta think bigger, cuz there's more important stuff out there than the stuff you see in front of you, y'know?"

Sloan was about to say something, but she supposed Miss Miki was right.

"Anyway," Miss Miki continued, "things would've been fine and dandy despite whatever Homura wanted, if not for the Incubator. He didn't like the way Madoka changed the universe, cuz it made him less energy. So he did a little experiment. When Homura's Soul Gem became tainted, he sealed her in a device intended to capture Madoka when she came to take Homura away. We figured out a way to circumvent his trap, but in the process something awful happened to Homura. Her mind was warped and her power grew exponentially. If I had thought about what was happening, I mighta seen the warning signs. But in the end, it was Homura who captured Madoka, not Kyubey—and that's how we got here."

"Okay. What does any of this mean."

Miss Miki stared at the glittering cubes that surrounded them. "Homura, in her corrupted mind, wanted Madoka to live a normal life as a normal girl, and didn't care about the consequences. Which leads us to the big problem with Homura. The thing about normal people is, well, they die. Inevitably."

"If Madoka's a god, she can't die," said Sloan. "Unless the definition of god changed recently."

"Ah, but by pulling Madoka—and me and Nagisa—into the normal world, Homura broke us off from our immortality. This Soul Gem here"—Miss Miki pointed at the azure jewel above her belt—"is real. It breaks, I die. Same goes for Nagisa, same goes for Madoka. Same goes for Homura herself, although arguably she never became immortal anyway. Jury's out on that one."

Sloan could start to follow the logic here. "So you're saying that something could happen that kills Homura and Madoka, and then everything goes to shit, right?"

"That's true, that's part of it." Miss Miki turned back upside-down. She revolved slowly, gradually, stepping between chairs and setting several spinning. "Homura of course thinks if Madoka dies, she can just turn back time, same as she always does. Cuz Homura doesn't think her actions have consequences. How can you when you can hit redo whenever you want? It's playing life like a video game. But that's the biggest issue, the thing that scares me most about Homura, more than the anger at her invalidating Madoka's sacrifice, at her selfishness, at how she DARES say she does all of this out of LOVE—the thing that scares me most is that, one day, Madoka in this form will die. And no matter how many times Homura turns back time, Madoka will still die. Because Madoka can't live forever. Maybe Homura can extend her life to 99 years old, or 120. But humans die. Magical Girls die. It happens. And what happens then?"

"Then Homura keeps turning back time."

"You got it. Again and again. Turning back, living the same span of Madoka's life forever. Using her magic to keep her own body from aging. She'll do it. She has nothing else to live for, nothing but Madoka, and she refuses to just die, so... So that'll be the end of the universe. Not a bang, not a whimper, but the... same... damn... thing... forever."

"Unless Homura dies first."

"Which is exactly what I'm gonna ensure happens," said Miss Miki. "At least now you see my perspective. I know what you'll say next. Maybe we can reason with Homura. You haven't met her, not in this timeline at least, so you don't know how ridiculous that is. She's beyond reason. She's beyond everything. She's beyond even herself."

"If you kill her, it'll create an archon," said Sloan. "What if that's Kyubey's plan? To create an archon so powerful it'll fuel all his energy dreams."

Miss Miki had the entire aisle of chairs spinning now, around and around as she hopped between each one, skipping with her cape aflutter. She laughed. "Killing Homura Akemi won't create an archon, I can tell ya that. Wanna know why?"

"Why."

She tilted back her head. In the ambiguous light, her face acquired a spectral quality. "Cuz she already is an archon."

"What?"

"Not Magical Girl, not witch, and not God," said Miss Miki. "A demon, she says. She can create, she can destroy, but she acts out of her own pride, her own self interest. She embodies despair because she enslaves the embodiment of hope. I can't think up a better way to describe her, can you?"

"I've never met her."

"Yeah, well. You're lucky." Miss Miki settled back into the chair closest to Sloan. She turned and shouted: "Omaha, where the hell's Nagisa? She's taking too long."

Omaha's voice was quiet and small across the void. "She's on her way."

"Once Nagisa's here," Miss Miki explained, "we gotta kick you out. We got important plans to figure out for tomorrow."

They remained silent for a time. Omaha beside the portal, Miss Miki in the chair, Sloan in the middle.

Miss Miki leaned over and extended a hand. "I'm Sayaka, by the way. Sa-ya-ka."

Sloan shook the hand. "Sloan."

Not long after, commotion arose from the portal. A spatter of gunfire ruptured the stillness around the home. Sloan tried to see what was happening, but before she could make anything out a small creature zipped through and the portal instantly closed behind it. The creature bounced against the floor that didn't exist and rolled to a stop partway down the aisle. Omaha gave the thing one look and turned away.

Sayaka hopped along the tops of chairs and landed beside it. It looked like a fairy or imp, with a lot of polka dots and a cartoonish face. Its mouth was a squiggly line and its eyes spun in its sockets like a cliché cartoon depiction of being clocked in the head. It lacked only tweety birds to complete the image. Poo-tee-weet?

"Ey Nagisa, how ya feeling?" said Sayaka.

Nagisa's eyes quit rolling and blinked at Sayaka. A large puff of what looked like cotton candy enveloped her, and when the candy dissipated, a normal girl sat in its place. She matched the picture in Tomoe's apartment.

"Uggggh, she ran me all over this time," said Nagisa as Sayaka helped her up. "I had to take a totally different route cuz she had the normal one blocked."

"Figures she'd catch onto our patterns sooner or later. She's good at patterns, it's when we mix it up she gets confused."

"Didja talk to what's-her-face?" said Nagisa. "I hope I didn't go out there for nothing!"

"Yeah, she's right there." Sayaka pointed. "And come on, it's rude to call people what's-her-face, her name's clearly why-so-serious."

Sloan rolled her eyes. "Why-so-serious, reporting in."

"So you're the girl who's staying with Mami now?" said Nagisa.

"Yeah, that's me." Sloan thought for a moment. "She's worried about you."

With a pouty face, Nagisa crossed her arms and sighed. She looked young for a Magical Girl, younger than Winnipeg, maybe even Woodbury. And yet, like Sayaka, she too was some kind of conceptual being. "I knew Mami would worry about me. She gets lonely so easy! It's really sad."

"Sloan's gotta leave soon," said Sayaka. "We can't stop for chitchat."

"Yeah, I know..." Nagisa shuffled through the pockets of her eclectic getup and retrieved a folded note. "Hey what's-your-face, can you give this to Mami? It's a note saying I'm okay, and that she shouldn't cry because everything will be better soon!"

Sloan reached for the note (finally something to make Tomoe less crazy) but Sayaka snatched it from Nagisa's hand.

"Nuh-uh, Nagisa. If Sloan hands that to Mami, Mami will get even more suspicious than she already is. She'll think Sloan has you hostage. You know that!"

"Bluhhhhhhh," said Nagisa. "I specifically wrote 'I haven't been kidnapped' in the letter!"

"Mami is really worried about her," said Sloan.

Sayaka creased the already-folded paper down the middle and rolled it between her fingers. "Mami's strong enough to get through this. If things go according to plan, she only needs to last one more day. It's better for her—and Kyoko—that they don't know what's really going on. They don't have the power to get involved. They have their own roles to play, and we can't meddle with that."

This answer did not placate Nagisa. She kicked her foot in the emptiness.

"Come on Nagisa, everything'll be fine. Trust me!" Sayaka smiled broadly. Nagisa glared at her askance. "Why don'tcha see if there's any cheese left floating around here. It'll go to waste if nobody's around to eat it."

After a few tense moments of sullen staring, Nagisa turned away and marched down an aisle. Her footsteps clip-clopped against nothingness.

Sayaka drew close to Sloan. "Look. I know you probably don't care, but Mami and Kyoko are good people, okay? Can you at least keep an eye on them, make sure they're not getting themselves killed? It'd really mean a lot to me."

"My whole goal coming here was to make sure nobody got killed," said Sloan. Also, mental note: Kyoko, not Coco.

"Maybe you're not as bad as you look, then. Tomorrow's gonna be a big day. If everything goes right, we'll win and it'll all be over. I think Mami and Kyoko will be fine, but... you never know. Just, like, stay on your toes, alright?"

"By this point I've seen everything, so sure."

Sayaka patted Sloan on the shoulder. "Thanks, buddy." She pulled away and signaled to Omaha, who did not appear to be looking in their direction. But Omaha raised a hand and a new portal appeared near Sloan and Sayaka. It stared onto the roundabout behind the hospital. Time remained frozen, with Mami Tomoe standing confused amid a pile of grief cubes.

"Hurry, before Homura restarts time. Try not to let Mami get suspicious. Trust me, things'll only be worse if she starts having ideas."

She gave Sloan a light push to get her moving. Sloan hopped out the portal and onto the solid concrete. The next moment, the portal closed, and the moment after that, time resumed.

Tomoe blinked. She looked around, started to point at something, but let her arm fall limp at her side. "Was... was there..." She stood on tiptoe and strained her neck to see over Sloan's shoulder. She blinked several times. "Never mind, I am just see things."

They collected the cubes and headed home.

Mami led Sloan home, still wondering about what she had seen in that brief moment. It looked like Sayaka Miki. But it had happened so fast Mami wondered if she merely imagined it. Sloan acted like nothing had happened. But Mami could not help herself from thinking.

When they reached the apartment, they encountered Kyoko loitering around the complex, hands in pockets, eyes turned downward.

"I hate to ask," said Kyoko. "But shit's real awkward at Sayaka's place, with her missing and all. Mind if I crash here tonight?"

Mami donned a smile. For the proper hostess, there is only one answer to a question like that.

Chapter 36: Hark! How the Bells Sweet Silver Bells

A better night. Mami actually slept. She didn't remember it happening, but she did lie atop her bed and close her eyes and open them two hours later. 6 AM. For a dazed moment she thought Nagisa had returned, only to blink and stare around the dim room and realize, no, she had not returned.

She told herself: things will be okay. She felt surer stepping out of her room and seeing Sloan and Kyoko sleeping in the living room. More friends, more chance of success. They should talk to Madoka next. Yes, Madoka, why had Mami not thought of her before? She would be the perfect addition to the Save Nagisa and Sayaka Squad. She lived in America for three years, she could talk to Sloan. And if they involved Madoka, Homura would poke out of her shell too. Yes, a fine plan. She decided to text Madoka immediately. But it was 6 AM.

6 AM. Everyone asleep. Mami alone. She showered, did her hair, took time and effort because she found it preferable to taking time and effort doing nothing. 7:30 AM. Kyoko and Sloan still asleep. Sound asleep. Snoring.

Mami should cook breakfast. Yes, breakfast. Double the size as yesterday, Kyoko would eat even more than Sloan. Mami shuffled through her pantry. Not enough. Will have to buy more. So much leftover cheese. Nnnrgh.

She glanced at the calendar. "Oh," she said. "It's Christmas."

It snuck up on her. She was usually so organized about these things. What to get Nagisa? Cheese, of course. When Nagisa came back she would buy all the cheese at the store. You can't have Christmas without presents. Without a tree. Mami forgot the tree. How had she forgotten so much? What will she do? Sloan was American. Christmas meant a lot to her. A very important holiday. Being a good hostess means your guests feel comfortable, at home. Christmas with no tree, no presents? Unacceptable.

How much money did she have. Enough. She gathered her coat and scarf and handbag. Were stores open at 7:30 AM? Mami would make do. Merry Christmas. All is well. Silent night.

Sloan woke to the sound of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." She sat up, tangled in blankets and her hair more a mess than usual. She rubbed her eyes. A small plastic Christmas tree twinkled on the triangle table in the middle of Mami's apartment. Green and red tinsel festooned the walls. Something baked in the oven. Red hair—Kyoko—raided a box of chocolates on the kitchen counter. She looked up with only partial shame when she noticed Sloan staring.

From the hallway came Mami, dressed in a red bathrobe trimmed like Santa's suit, a Santa hat perched on her head. Upon seeing Sloan, she threw open her arms.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

Kyoko wiped her mouth and flailed her arms too.

"MERI KURISUMASU!"

"Merry Christmas," Sloan mumbled. It was Christmas?

"I am fixing big Christmas turkey." Mami busied herself to the oven. "Also big Christmas potatoes, and big Christmas gravy, and big Christmas everything. And big Christmas cheesecake for dessert, yum!"

Sloan untangled herself from the blankets and shimmied into her jacket. Excavating the corners of her eyes, she shuffled to the counter and tried to appear generally present. Kyoko flicked her a chocolate and Sloan popped it in her mouth. Fucking coconut.

"We Wish You a Merry Christmas" ended and Bing Crosby's "Do You Hear What I Hear" began. Sloan's Dad, wearing the same jacket Sloan wore now, sang Crosby at Christmas parties to entertain his drunk dad friends. Ay-ay-ay, Mom replied, who spiked the eggnog? Even after the move to Minneapolis, they kept an ironic Christmas cactus.

Mami hummed as she checked on food in various gradations of cooked throughout the kitchen. As usual, it smelled delicious. Kyoko said something in Japanese.

"Miss Sakura want to open present." Mami pointed at the Christmas tree, under which sat three boxes wrapped in vibrant paper and superfluous ribbons. Sloan had noticed them before but thought they were, like, props, like in department store displays. Kyoko clapped her hands and watched Sloan eagerly. It took Sloan a moment to realize she had been somehow deigned arbiter of when presents get opened, perhaps because she had more Christmas experience? Well, as Grand Christmas Elder, Sloan saw no reason to prolong Kyoko's torture. "Yeah, sure."

Mami started to translate but Kyoko flung her arms out and stormed to the tree, sliding to her knees and snatching the gift labeled KYOKO in both English and (presumably) Japanese. She held it to her ear and shook it and something rattled inside. Satisfied, she tugged and yanked the ribbons until she gave up and used her teeth to snap them.

Beneath the paper was a bland brown box with no markings. Kyoko searched for a seam, found it, and tore it open. Packing peanuts gushed out until she upended the box and let everything plop onto the floor.

Half-buried amid the peanuts lay a much smaller box of clear plastic. The label read MP3!GO, and then smaller Japanese text, alongside an anime chick rocking out with music notes orbiting her lavender-haired head. Kyoko's mouth widened into an O. She hugged the MP3 player and thanked Mami profusely.

Sloan decided she better open her present too. She honestly had no clue what Mami would buy for her, they knew each other less than two days and their conversations had been terse, disjointed, and businesslike. As she reached for the gift marked SLOAN, she checked the third present under the tree with a sinking suspicion it was for the same Nagisa who was not and would not be there. However, the tag read MADOKA.

"Is Madoka coming?"

"Ah, sorry, no," said Mami. "She and Homura are together today. Please, open present!"

The thought of what lurked inside filled Sloan with unease. She took great care to untie the ribbons and unfold the paper, since the elegantly-arranged gift felt iconoclastic to destroy. Beneath the paper waited another unmarked brown box. Sloan hesitated; Mami clasped her hands and watched. In the corner, two creepy dolls giggled.

Sloan opened the box. More packing peanuts. She slid a hand into them, seeking the slightest touch of whatever awaited her. Her finger brushed something soft. Fabric, smooth but thick.

She dragged it from the depths. Peanuts fell away while from the box rose a long, black, velvet coat with bright brass buttons. Despite herself, Sloan's mouth fell agape. Did it—did it have pockets? How many pockets? She turned the coat over, undid the buttons and looked inside. So many pockets.

"Do you like?" Mami smiled hopefully.

Did she like? Did she like? This was... it was...

Sloan rubbed her face against the velvet. And then, inexplicably, she began to cry. At first a single strangled sob in her throat, followed her wondering if they were really going to see her like this. They were. It was stupid, too, just a goddam coat, she already had a coat that was much warmer than this one, but it didn't matter, she didn't need a warmer coat, she was never going back to Fargo, never going anywhere that cold ever again. She pulled the coat to her chest and curled over it, protecting it, trying to curl in on herself so she could burrow her face and prevent them from seeing her look so foolish. It didn't matter.

"Thank you," Sloan said. "Thank you, thank you." An undeserved act of kindness. The most foolish thing of all was she did not cry from happiness. But they need not know that.

"Wear it!" said Mami. Sloan nodded, shuffled out of her old coat, and slid her arms into the new one, so soft against her skin, so light as though she wore nothing at all. She did the buttons and, wiping her eyes, stood so the full length of the coat fell to her knees. Slightly shorter than the old one.

Mami clapped. Kyoko gave a thumbs-up. Sloan went to the mirror. Despite her unkempt hair, the coat exuded an air of sophistication. It held to her figure, tighter around the waist and flowing around her legs. She turned and checked the back. The tail swished playfully.

"You look very nice," said Mami. "I am glad you like!"

This girl, this Mami Tomoe, she had no reason to do this. Even if Mami did not know the things Sloan had done, what in the past two days had Sloan done for this? She had been unpleasant, uncooperative, a general asshole. Because that's who she was, had always been and if she had not changed by now, always would be. But Mami Tomoe gave her this gift.

Sloan had the crazy thought of, of taking the coat off, folding it neatly on the table, and telling Mami she would wear it when she deserved it. If she managed to make amends here in Mitakihara, if she earned her happy ending, she would wear the coat then. But given the language barrier, communication of her idea would lead to confusion. Even without the language barrier, communication would lead to confusion. Sloan could not communicate to herself what she felt without being confused.

Such was the power of kind people, people who, despite naiveté, inefficiency, morals, and self-regulations, managed a force that even the most brute strength failed to replicate.

Maybe Sloan could not save everyone in Mitakihara. Maybe Omaha's schemes exceeded her. Maybe the celestial war with Lucifer spanned too broad a breadth for one mortal to impact. Omaha said as much, Kyubey said as much, Sayaka said as much, and Sloan suspected oddly enough that in a past timeline, Homura Akemi said as much too. But in Minneapolis, the cold day after Clair and the archon died, when Sloan lay in the house that was once hers and contemplated death, Anoka said something contrary to all that: That if Sloan had the power to ruin something, she had the power to fix it. Impractical advice, empty words maybe. Sloan could crash a car but not repair it. But there was one thing Sloan could fix, or at least protect. These people. Mami. Kyoko too. They were good people. Better than most she had ever met. Mami and Kyoko and Sayaka and Nagisa, they cared for each other, they loved each other, they protected each other. Who did Sloan love, who did she protect? Who did she buy gifts?

Nobody. Not even if she counted the dead ones. She resolved to change that today. This instant. She would protect these people, these people who genuinely deserved it. With whatever meager protection she could afford.

Sloan wiped her eyes and Christmas continued. Mami returned to the kitchen. Kyoko, in a series of pantomimes, offered to let Sloan listen to the MP3 player if Sloan let Kyoko try on the coat. They swapped, Sloan listened to a popstar intone sonic bubblegum while Kyoko tromped around in a jacket several sizes too big for her, the sleeves flopping past her hands and the tail dragging on the ground. After they returned their gifts, Kyoko treated them to jaw-dropping karaoke renditions of all your favorite Christmas classics, which wound up sounding like the final scene of A Christmas Story. Jingu ber, jingu ber, jingo o-te way. O watto faan, et cetera.

It was fun. Sloan laughed. She sang a few ditties herself. ("Carol of the Bells" her favorite with its frenetic pace. She remembered the words.) She wore her coat. Timers went off in the kitchen.

The man behind the desk leaned on an elbow. Behind thick-rimmed glasses his eyes shifted from the documents before him to the faces of those gathered in the airport's customs office.

"The twenty of you. Here for a school trip, you say."

"Twenty-one, to be exact," said Laquesha Kabwe, as per the passport the customs man now examined.

"Mhmm." The man perused the hefty stack of forms. "And who is the chaperone?"

"That would be Mrs. Kabwe," said River Forest (alias Melissa Haskins), exerting her powers of suggestion. Although River Forest was on the lower end of the combat strength spectrum among those in the platoon, her unique abilities oft proved pivotal when accounting for unwanted human intervention, such as peace officers or eyewitnesses or, in this case, government bureaucracy.

The customs man, unaware his judgment was impaired to a degree similar to alcohol intoxication, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and examined Laquesha Kabwe closely. "And how old are you, Miss..." He checked a passport. "Kabwe."

(If he thought more clearly, he could have answered that question himself by reading the passport's listed date of birth.)

Laquesha Kabwe cleared her throat. "Mrs. Kabwe, thank you. I am thirty-three years old."

"Right." The customs man stroked his chin. "You don't look thirty-three. Or married."

"Pray tell, what aspects of physical appearance are altered upon a young woman's entrance into a legally-binding union with a male human?"

The customs man's eyes went to Laquesha Kabwe's hand. Of course, Laquesha Kabwe wore a ring. All Puella Magi wear rings.

"That's your wedding ring?"

"That is her wedding ring," said River Forest.

"And you're sure you're thirty-three years old?"

"Fortunately, I need not be certain, because I have legal documentation to verify this fact."

The man reread said documentation. Laquesha Kabwe could perceive the cogs revolving in his brain. He knew something was incorrect, but his muddled mental state rendered him incapable of confirming his intuition.

With a note of finality, River Forest said: "Mrs. Kabwe is thirty-three years old."

"Alright." The customs man sighed. "I guess there's nothing else to say. Enjoy your stay in Mitakihara."

After they gathered the significant quantity of documents (which included forged parental permission forms from one Saint Ursula's School for Young Females in Chicago, Illinois, their fabricated academic institution of choice), Laquesha Kabwe became once more Cicero, the Third Centurion of the Holy Order of Chicago, and led her Puella Magi into the open Japanese air. Other than Cicero in a smart matronly dress, her twenty disciples donned identical school uniforms.

Cicero took stock of the gigantic metropolis beyond. "Lombard, acquire me a cartograph of the city."

"Yes, milady."

"Hinsdale, Hodgkins, scan for magical residue, either of Fargo or the local Puella Magi."

"Yes, milady."

"Yes, milady!"

"Berwyn, take Niles and Westmont and establish a base of operations, someplace central to which we may retreat should the situation prove unfavorable."

"Aye, milady. Niles, Westmont, attend."

"Norridge, bring me Hennepin."

"Yes, milady."

"Hennepin, how progresses your Japanese?"

Hennepin, in the same uniform as the rest but marked as a prisoner by the red ribbon tied around her upper arm, muttered a sentence in Japanese.

"Correct answer," said Cicero.

Lombard returned with a tourist brochure pilfered from a nearby kiosk. Cicero unfolded it and assessed the geography. Or lack thereof.

"Milady!" said Hinsdale. "I have picked up a magical trail identical to the one exuded by Fargo in Minneapolis."

"Excellent work," said Cicero. "Let us make it our objective to apprehend her before day's end."

The Puella Magi assented with dutiful salutes. Combat operations in Mitakihara commenced.

After the Christmas carol playlist ran its full gamut thrice, Mami Tomoe announced that dinner was served. She set the meal on the tiny triangle table, only able to fit plates and silverware for the three in attendance plus a few main dishes. Chief amongst them loomed a gargantuan turkey, its skin roasted brown as it basked in a shallow puddle of its own juices. Sakura and Redfearn drooled at the prospect. Alongside the turkey were mashed potatoes, salad, and rolls of bread. On the kitchen counter waited other delights: fried okra, stuffing, corn on the cob slathered in butter, asparagus, peach cobbler and cherry pie and cheesecake, cornbread, any homestyle delicacy imaginable.

Tomoe said she hoped they enjoyed the meal, first in English to Redfearn and second in Japanese to Sakura. They ate. Forks and spoons scooped helpings and plopped them onto plates. Tomoe carved thick cuts from the breast of the turkey, while Sakura wrenched off a leg. Gravy lakes formed in craterous potatoes and overflowed onto adjacent foodstuffs. Plates acquired third dimensions. Satisfied palates sent the girls into spontaneous yums and appropriate thanks to the chef. Tomoe must have done painstaking research on authentic American recipes. Of course, for a girl with her skillset, execution of such recipes came naturally. She worked well when given detailed instructions. A path upon which to tread. Everything ordered and everything moving toward a predictable outcome. If the outcome lasted naught but a few minutes, a half hour at best disregarding leftovers—in any case less time than it took to reach that outcome—for Tomoe, it was enough. For Tomoe, a fleeting moment of happiness on the faces of her friends meant the effort was well expended. Their approval. Their love. She endeavored to make herself useful, helpful, wanted, needed.

A fragile existence. A canvas of a house perched upon stilts. A gust of wind might disrupt her whole abode. Had done so already in any number of past timelines. When her canvas fell and revealed the barren space of the true world, Tomoe's propensity to break exceeded all the other girls.

"Homura, what's wrong?" said Madoka.

Homura glanced from her phone, on which displayed her view into Tomoe's apartment. Best not to worry about them right now, although eventually she would have to chat with Sloan Redfearn about the night before. Eitelkeit had seen it (and been on the receiving end of Miki's blade): A hole to another dimension opened, Miki appeared and took Redfearn inside, and some time later Redfearn returned. It happened concurrently to the latest raid on the Kaname household, when Homura was preoccupied with Nagisa. On one hand, the event indicated conspiracy between Redfearn and Omaha. At the same time, why would Omaha be so obvious about it? Despite Nagisa's distraction they made no effort to cover their tracks. Regardless, the matter merited investigation. Redfearn's mind had become more difficult to read since Williston.

"Nothing is wrong, Madoka." They sat opposite each other at the table in Homura's apartment, a bucket of fried chicken from Madoka's favorite fast food establishment between them. It lacked the flair of Tomoe's dinner, but the food itself did not matter. "I hope I haven't come off as aloof."

"You were staring at your phone." Madoka wiped her mouth with a napkin. "It's Mami, isn't it? She's worried about Nagisa..."

"Yes, exactly that." Homura slid the phone into her pocket and stared at the half-eaten chicken on her plate. "I'm sure Nagisa and Sayaka are fine. In fact, I have a few theories of my own as to their whereabouts."

"Really? Have you told Mami? I think we should team up to help her and Kyoko find them. You don't think they're in danger, do you?"

"As I said, I only have theories." Homura fiddled with a chicken leg. "No proof. I want to investigate on my own before I give anyone false hope."

Madoka sighed. "Nagisa and Sayaka are so nice... I'd hate if anything bad happened to them. I asked Hitomi and everyone else from school if they knew anything, but nobody did. I'm starting to get really worried... I can only imagine how Mami and Kyoko feel."

The twelve dolls stood near, on high alert. Funny how when alone with Homura, they got up to all kinds of mischief, but around Madoka they were so well-behaved. "I'm certain everything will turn out right. I'll make sure it does. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yeah..." Madoka looked down. "Yeah, I know you'll figure it out. You just have that way about you. So cool, and like you always understand exactly what's going on even if I don't... Ha, I hope I don't sound like I'm gushing!"

"It's perfectly fine, Madoka. Your compliments mean a lot to me."

A short silence reigned.

"Homura." Madoka shuffled her feet. She stared to the side, where the empty screens floated and the shadow of the pendulum danced. "Homura, can I tell you something? Something that probably sounds a little silly."

"Of course. You can tell me anything."

"It's just... It's just, sometimes I get this weird feeling. About Sayaka and Nagisa, I mean. I don't know why them in particular. I can't quite describe it, it's like... like I met them before? Before I transferred here, I mean."

"I see." Homura sipped from her coffee mug. "Perhaps this uncanny feeling is déjà vu."

"Oh, that might be it. I don't know, ha ha." Madoka scratched the back of her head. "I always thought it was just like, regret at not getting to know them better? I think me and Sayaka, and Nagisa and Mami and Kyoko, I think we all could have been much better friends than we turned out being. I mean—don't get me wrong—we're not enemies or anything, but it just feels like we're a little..."

"Distant."

"Yeah, that's it! I always chalked it up to how Sayaka and Kyoko were really close, and Mami and Nagisa. It's hard to walk into someone's life when they're already so close to another person, if that makes sense. You wind up being a third wheel. But I've always felt like, I don't know, something always just felt right about us being friends. If that makes sense?"

"You are a kind person, Madoka Kaname. It is in your nature to want to be friends with everyone."

"Okay, maybe I'm not explaining myself the best. It's just, you and I are really close, right? We do almost everything together. I see you every day. It just feels like, I should be having that kind of relationship with all of them, especially Sayaka. Yeah, that's the word—should. Like, there's something that ought to be happening but isn't..."

She trailed off and gave an embarrassed grin. Homura drank from her cup. Should. The implications of the word should. What should happen. What has been mandated. What the laws of the universe have conspired to create. What Homura Akemi, the salamander, has prevented.

Was the Incubator's plot, his masterminding and machinations, his series of perfect executions, the work of one attempting to break the universe or the work of the universe itself attempting to break free? No, no. The Incubator's goals far exceeded restoring the universe to before the ascension of Homura Akemi. He wanted to enslave Madoka, pervert her universe. But the thought lingered: Who decided what should happen. Who decided what was right.

Akemi's Paradox:

The beautiful qualities of Madoka Kaname meant she should be the God of this universe; the beautiful qualities of Madoka Kaname meant she should not have to be the God of this universe.

The Christian theologians, among many mistakes, made one correct deduction: God was sacrifice. To be God was to relinquish mortal happiness to ensure the happiness of lesser beings. It was not the Buddhist notion of individual enlightenment and ascension. Why else would the wraiths don the robes of Buddhist ascetics? Individual enlightenment was selfishness. Enlightenment was evil. To be truly enlightened, to see the truth of this universe and its naked horror, was to understand the necessity of its destruction. The wraiths knew. The archons knew. It was in fact Madoka's ignorance that made her their benevolent antithesis.

One could not be simultaneously omnipotent and benevolent. But, like Homura herself, Madoka was not truly omnipotent. She was a concept, something akin to a god, but not a true god. She ascended not by abandoning her humanity, but by embracing it. Thus could she create such a beautiful world. Madoka's humanity was the key. It must be protected. Must be held.

"Everything will be okay," said Homura. "I promise."

"I'm just worried I'll never see them again. Like the old saying, you never know what you have until it's gone? It makes me wonder what I've been doing these past three years. They were right here all this time, and I never... I was always doing something else."

Homura swished the dregs in her mug. "So you're saying you regret the time we've spent together. You wish you could have traded that time for more time with them."

"Oh, no! I don't mean that at all. It's just..."

"Time is a commodity." The pendulum ticked. "It is precious, like all scarce things. No matter how much you accrue, it is never enough. To spend time one way is to sacrifice its use in another."

"Yeah... Yeah, that makes sense. It's like balance, I guess. But I don't think you have to spend time with just one person always. Like the other day, when you were sick and I hunted wraiths with the others. We were all there together, and it was loads of fun! I thought the whole time how great it would be if you were there too, Homura."

"I do not think the other girls like me very much."

Madoka sighed. "That's not true at all! Why wouldn't they like you? You're smart, and brave, and caring, and you're always there to back up a friend when they need help. You just need to open up to them and I'm sure they'd like you a lot!"

Despite herself, Homura smiled. It was hard not to. If she did not smile at such things, what did she have to smile at? "Thank you, Madoka. You always know how to brighten my mood. Maybe... Maybe when Sayaka and Nagisa are back, maybe then we can do what you say."

It would require work. Occlusion of memories, remapping of identities. The Sakura/Miki dynamic showed signs of fraying, something must be done about that. And preparations for Nagisa's adolescence. Assuming of course Homura wasn't forced to kill either. Assuming she didn't have to turn back time and erase this conversation from existence. But even if the conversation never transpired, or Nagisa and Miki never went missing, did that change what Madoka wanted? Her desires were constant, immutable. Homura had always known Madoka wanted things to be this way. Six instead of two. More rather than less. Madoka liked to share. Homura did not.

"Mami invited me to Christmas dinner," said Madoka. "I told her I already had plans with you, but I'm sure if we both went she wouldn't object! Come on, Homura, why don't we go? It'd probably make Mami feel a lot better too, and take her mind off Nagisa for a little bit."

Homura regarded the mostly-empty bucket of fried chicken. "We have already eaten."

"Well, we could stop by for a visit..."

Best not to move too much. Movement presented vulnerabilities. Best to remain defended, encased, incubated.

"Maybe later."

"Okay," said Madoka.

"Would you like to open your present now?"

Madoka's face lit up again. "Sure!"

Their two gifts, one to one another, rested on the table between them. Madoka grabbed the painstakingly-wrapped present addressed to her. It had taken several... hundred attempts to ensure the ribbons and bows and paper were just right. Homura clasped her hands on her lap and waited breathlessly while Madoka picked the pieces apart.

Then a reassuring glow. "Oh, it's a music box!" Madoka turned it over, inspected it from every angle, and located the key, which she wound with a few delicate cranks.

She set the music box on the table and let it play. The notes percolated, little chimes in lovely lullaby while the gears inside turned the pieces atop. An outer circle lined with happy children revolved slowly, causing the children to play and dance, rotating on their own internal axes, circles within circles. They thronged around a central structure, a pillar of golden beams that rose into sinewy woven puffs of clouds and a lurking dome of sun. Small bars extended out, at the ends of which were affixed miniature birds and airplanes that revolved around the sun counter to the turn of the children beneath. Parts retracted, flipped, and oscillated at key points of the melody. A small mouse skittered up the golden pillars, turned, and scampered back down to vanish into a hole of gnashing gears.

"Wow, it's so pretty." Madoka watched until the song finished and the children ceased dancing and the sun retreated behind the clouds. "It's so intricate... It must have cost a lot!"

Homura lied. "I found it for almost nothing in a store of trinkets."

"Thank you so much!" Without warning, Madoka flung herself at Homura and hugged her tight. Homura froze, arms locked at her sides, unsure how to angle her head while Madoka nuzzled hers against Homura's neck. But she allowed the moment to linger. A moment like this could last forever and it would be okay. A moment like this made all the moments that led up to it worth it.

And then the moment ended. Madoka pulled away and picked up the other present. She handed it to Homura. "Here, now open mine. It's not nearly as cool as yours, but I hope you like it anyway!"

"I'm certain I will." Homura unwrapped the gift. In the box was bundled a woolen pink scarf. She unraveled it and extended its length until the tails at either end trailed to the floor.

"It's a scarf!" said Madoka. "I knit it myself. Well, kinda. My dad showed me how."

"It's beautiful." Homura wrapped the scarf around her neck. It was thick and warm. Not quite her color, but that hardly mattered. She would make much use of this gift. "Thank you, Madoka. This means a lot to me."

"Oh, it was nothing. It's the least I could do. I'm really glad you like it!"

They smiled together. Together. A moment like this, were it only prolonged. A moment like this, if it only lasted forever. Why must anything else exist?

Nagisa zoomed through space, along with a full collection of table, tablecloth, chairs, platters, silverware, and of course cheese. She tore voraciously at the blocks heaped before her. The void filled with the scarf and smack of her hamster-crammed mouth.

From a darker corner, Omaha said: "Cicero's group nears Tomoe's residence."

Sayaka looked up from the manga she was reading. "Cripes, finally. What'd they do, circle the whole city?"

"They're cautious..."

"Yeah, yeah." Sayaka stood and kicked her chair aside. Not that kicking the chair did anything, but it had that satisfaction, you know? "Nagisa! Put the cheese away, it's time to rondo!"

"Time to what?" Nagisa zipped overhead, upside-down. "Come onnn, let me finish this plate first."

"Take this seriously, will ya! Those Chicago girls'll attack Mami and Kyoko soon."

"Guh, fine." Nagisa flopped out of her chair and onto the approximate level of space Sayaka inhabited. "What're we even getting ready for again? Another go at Madoka?"

Sayaka rolled her eyes. How many times had they gone over the plan by now? She scrutinized her partner-in-crime, unsure whether she had legitimately forgotten or was simply being facetious. "Not yet, but soon enough. You better be ready when it's time. This is the best chance we got, so give it your all, got it?"

"I always give it my all," said Nagisa. With that you-don't-have-to-tell-me-what-to-do look.

"Miki," said Omaha. "You're certain Mami Tomoe and Kyoko Sakura will handle this situation correctly?"

"Of course!" Sayaka tried to locate their nebulous ally in the darkness, but metrics both visual and aural lost all meaning in such void. "They can be headstrong, but they're not dumb. They know when they can't win a fight. Their first thought will be to go to Homura for help. Which is exactly what we want."

"If you say so..." said Omaha's disembodied, echoey voice.

"What's that supposed to mean? Isn't this what your 'friend' wants? Why else is he letting these girls come here all the way from Chicago?"

"Where's Chicago?" said Nagisa.

"My friend has said nothing about these events," said Omaha. "I was not aware the girls from Chicago would be involved beyond dispatching the archon in Minneapolis."

"Yeah, well, I ain't one for complex schemes anyway," Sayaka said. "Sometimes you just gotta wing it. Do what feels right, y'know?"

Omaha said nothing. They waited.

Chapter 37: Cicero

Mami's guests reached the dregs of her cornucopia when a megaphone blared outside. What meant this? At first the sounds were incoherent, but after her brain adjusted Mami recognized them as English.

Sloan dropped her fork and hopped to her feet. "Oh fuck."

"What's the big deal," said Kyoko, likely recognizing one of the two English words she knew.

"Remain here. I will investigate," said Mami in Japanese before she repeated herself in English and went carefully to the window. She peered between the curtains and over the railing of her rarely-used balcony onto the open patio behind the apartment complex. A street ran parallel and past it additional apartment structures promulgated needlessly.

Two young women stood on the patio, beside the complex's swimming pool and recreation area. One, who held the megaphone, wore a dress but had a rigid, military bearing. The other wore a school uniform and had a purple streak in her hair. Although the second girl was Asian, they were both obviously foreigners.

The first girl bellowed into the megaphone. English was difficult enough in normal conversation; here Mami could make neither heads nor tails of it. She inspected the area more closely. The two girls were not alone. Figures crept along rooftops, in alcoves, on balconies. At least ten total.

"What is it," said Kyoko.

"We shall see." Why the megaphone? Telepathy ought to suffice. All they did was risk dragging regular humans into things. Perhaps they were signaling they didn't mean to attack, although the concealed forces suggested otherwise. Mami drew aside the curtain and unlatched the doors to the balcony. Unafraid, she held the railing and stared down at those below.

"What is it you want?" she asked in Japanese.

The first girl said something to the second and handed over the megaphone. The second girl yelled, in poorly-pronounced but passable Japanese:

"Where is Sloan Redfearn! Where is Fargo! All we want is Fargo! Please save me, these people are insane!"

Oh dear, thought Mami.

"Did she say what I think she said," Kyoko whispered from inside. Behind her, Sloan stood with her hands crammed into the pockets of her new coat, a glare etched in her eyes.

Mami considered her words carefully and said: "I will not capitulate to demands without knowledge of who makes them. Identify yourselves immediately, including those of you in hiding."

The girl with the megaphone grimaced. She muttered something to her leader or captor beside her, who cut her off midsentence with a harshly barked command. The first girl raised her megaphone and translated:

"Her name is Cicero! She is from Chicago! They have twenty girls, you are surrounded! Please save me they are going to kill me! All they want is Fargo, all they want is Sloan Redfearn!"

Though Mami had no idea who these people were, or their connection to Sloan, or whether Cicero was named after the Roman senator who assassinated Julius Caesar (a fact jostling around from World History), she understood plainly enough that they were bad news. Twenty girls or two hundred, Mami would not relinquish a guest—a friend—to their clutches.

"I know nobody by the name Sloan Redfearn, or Fargo."

The translator flinched. She relayed to Cicero. Cicero laughed and said something. The translator said: "She knows Fargo is in there! We can trace her! Do not lie or punishment will be severe! These people are insane, don't do anything they say! Help me, save me!"

Kyoko burst onto the balcony beside Mami. She seized the railing and leaned far over it. "Hey! Buster! Tell your boss we don't like foreign chicks stomping around our territory! Tell her she can fuck off or all twenty-seven Mitakihara Magical Girls will punt her ass back to America!"

While the translator scratched at the collar of her school uniform and shifted her eyes left to right, Mami placed a hand on Kyoko's shoulder. "Stay calm. They have girls with long-range weapons on the nearby rooftops."

"Bah! Let's kick their asses. If chicks show up and you don't show em who's boss, they start getting ideas. They didn't send this many just for Fargo, they're thinking invasion. Well, not in my city!"

The megaphone blared. "She says you don't have twenty-seven girls! She says there are only three of you! Blonde, redhead, and Fargo! Acquiesce or die! Can't you see they're insane?!"

"Mami," said Sloan. She kept within the apartment, but not as far back as Mami liked. "It's okay. These girls are strong. You can't win. I will go."

"No. There is no need, I will fix."

Sloan sighed. She tightened her coat around herself and stepped forward. "This'll end badly. I can already tell. I don't have what they want anyway."

Before Sloan took another step, Mami flicked her hand. Ribbons lashed out, wrapped around Sloan, and pushed her deeper inside, behind the kitchen counter, far from all windows. It was Mami's duty to protect those she invited into her home. She would allow no—

Kyoko grabbed her from behind and forced her down. A projectile struck the wall overhead; it must have been fired from one of the rooftops. It was latched to the doorjamb, a pellet that blinked red and orange.

The pellet exploded. A swollen lump of flame burst, shattering the walls. The balcony was blasted from its supports and Mami and Kyoko plummeted down the side of the apartment building.

No time to hesitate. Mami sent a ribbon spiraling through her now-misshapen balcony door and latched onto the first solid thing it touched—the leg of the triangle table. Another ribbon coiled around Kyoko's leg. Projectiles zipped past as Mami reeled herself and Kyoko back toward the safety of the apartment. Kyoko summoned latticework barriers to deflect some of the attacks, but a hot shard sailed into Mami's elbow. She clenched her teeth.

In the doorway appeared a hovering machine gun turret. Its cannon rotated; a stream of light rocketed across the patio, cut through the pool, and forced Cicero and her translator to dodge in opposite directions. The storm of enemy bullets diminished long enough for Mami to pull herself and Kyoko inside.

They staggered away from the windows as the barrage resumed. Plates and pictures shattered. Puffs of plaster burst. A cabinet door dropped off its hinges. Mami pulled Kyoko to the base of the kitchen counter, where Sloan lay bound in ribbons.

She undid the binds while she inspected Kyoko's wounds. Beyond scratches and grazes, she had been hit twice, once in her calf and once in the gut.

"Damn!" Kyoko clutched her stomach. "Bastards."

"Please remain calm." Mami held her hands over the wound. Her threads wove deep into the puncture and pried out the bullet. Kyoko winced; blood spurted down her dress until the ribbons stitched her back together. The wound on her leg took less time to fix.

Sloan controlled her machine gun mentally, covering them while Mami worked on her own wounds. All extraneous information flushed from her head as the tactics of combat ran to the forefront. Unfortunately, she needed to retain her English. "Sloan," she said as she summoned rifles from the threads strewn across her apartment, "know you these people?"

"Yeah," said Sloan. "They're from Chicago. They probably want grief cubes they think I have. But Omaha has them."

Kyoko scanned the various entry points into the apartment. "What the hell are they doing, attacking in broad daylight? People will see em."

"A force of twenty Magical Girls has a wide variety of powers at its disposal," said Mami. "If they are this aggressive, at least one must have the ability to obfuscate the perceptions of normal humans."

"Bah!" said Kyoko.

The gunfire halted. Mami craned her neck to see the patio. Cicero and her translator were gone, and the angle made finding the other girls impossible.

"This is not a fight we can prolong," said Mami. "Even if they are weaker than us, they outnumber us too significantly."

"Dammit, I know that!" Kyoko felt her hand on the counter above until she located the demolished turkey and wrenched off the remaining leg. "But we can't just let em do whatever. I've been in their shoes before, you give a chick an inch she takes the whole damn city. Maybe if we wipe out their leader—"

The megaphone screeched. "All they want is Sloan Redfearn! They're certifiably insane! All they want is Fargo!" It added in English: "Fargo, give yourself up! Accept your rightful doom!"

Shut the fuck up Hennepin, said Sloan telepathically.

Fu—I mean, eff you, you left me to rot, the translator replied.

Sloan tapped Mami on the shoulder. "I'm going out there. You two don't need to get involved."

"I already said no." Mami spun minuscule threads out the shattered windows to probe the area. "I have plan to end the fight easy."

"End it easy." Sloan gave a dubious look. "How?"

"Homura Akemi control time," said Mami. "Time stop, twenty Puella Magi do nothing."

Yes. Yes, that was the plan. Elegant in its simplicity. But then again, Homura's powers afforded a simple end to all problems. The problem was convincing her to use them.

She related the plan to Kyoko. "We must reach Homura Akemi. She can stop this."

With remarkable efficiency Kyoko cleaned the turkey leg and discarded the useless bone. "Homura ain't said a word since Sayaka and Nagisa went missing. We even went to her damn house, why would she help now?"

"As you said, this threat is to our city, not just us. Which means Miss Akemi herself is threatened. And perhaps more pertinently, Madoka Kaname. She'll respond. She must."

"Well, you wanna send the SOS or should I?"

Mami already had her phone out. But when she turned it on, the screen was scrambled with static. Tapping the buttons did nothing. The static resolved into two bold, red words:

GAME

OVER

Kyoko took out her own phone and held it up, revealing an identical screen. "The hell is this? They're jamming our signal!"

Mami watched out the window at the swimming pool and patio. There was a momentary peace, possibly as they waited for Sloan to give herself up. "Let's be prepared for other surprises."

"But what do we do? How do we get in touch with Homura?"

They would do what Mami had already suspected they would have to do. "Pay her a visit in person."

From the aquatic recreation supply shed, Cicero observed the apartment with a spyglass. Her soldiers had done devastating damage to the walls, but they remained structurally sound enough to prevent visibility inside. At occasional intervals she espied a hand or leg flitter in her field of vision, but she could not confirm whether the limb belonged to Fargo or the two Mitakihara Puella Magi.

"Lombard, status appraisal."

"Yes, milady." Lombard crouched between the pond scrapers and lurid floatation devices. She spoke into an enchanted radio: "Status appraisal, Addison."

The radio crackled. "Position at Rooftop 6. No visibility on the Target. No telepathic communication."

Lombard made a mark on a whiteboard that showed a top-down cartograph of the apartment complex. "Status appraisal, Burbank."

"Position at Pavilion 2. No visibility on the Target."

Another mark on the whiteboard. "Status appraisal, Maywood."

"Position at Rooftop 3A. No visibility on the Target."

"Status appraisal, Darien."

"Position at Apartment 17. Hinsdale has a positive on magical signature and says three Magi at most. Three Magi but strong."

Several marks on the whiteboard. Cicero grabbed the whiteboard from Lombard and examined it.

"Status appraisal, Norridge."

"Position at Platform 1. Hennepin has blundered out of range of her Soul Gem, she's dead on the ground at what looks like Pavilion 1B."

Cicero poked her head out the doorway for a visual of Pavilion 1B. Sure enough, Hennepin lay facedown on the concrete, the megaphone beside her. Cicero handed the whiteboard back to Lombard for the appropriate mark.

"Status appraisal, Alsip."

"Position at Rooftop 2. I jammed their electronics. They tried to call for help."

"Likely other Mitakihara Puella Magi," said Cicero. "Even with inefficient levels of harvest, this city could support several."

"Milady, it's possible they attempted to contact Omaha," said Elmhurst, who knelt at the front window of the shed with her massive arquebus mounted on a stand.

"Astute observation, Elmhurst."

"Thank you, milady."

Lombard gave Elmhurst a glare that she thought Cicero did not notice, though Cicero had more pressing concerns than to reprimand her for allowing jealousy into her heart. "Resume the status appraisal, Lombard."

"Yes, milady. Status appraisal, River Forest."

"Position at Apartment Main Office. My judgment field continues to mute the perception of all normal humans in the facility."

"Status appraisal, Berwyn."

"Position at Safehouse 1. Prepared to assist when commanded, milady."

"All units accounted for," said Lombard. "All are in their prearranged positions. Milady, what are your orders?"

Cicero considered the whiteboard. They had the apartment surrounded. Three Puella Magi inside. One (Fargo) with strong offensive magic, one (Blonde) with utility-oriented ribbons, and one (Redhead) with weak barrier magic. Granted, none had revealed the full range of her powers, but even strong Puella Magi only had so many tricks. Nonetheless, Cicero also considered the "home turf" advantage of the Mitakihara girls. Cautious types tended to rig their homes in case of intrusion, and Blonde's ribbon magic would facilitate such stratagems. Numbers alone ensured eventual triumph, but mere victory was not enough. Anything less than flawlessness Cicero considered intolerable. If a single girl under her command lost her life in this skirmish, the blood would cling to Cicero's hands. She refused to add a name to the seven she had lost before.

At the same time, given the severe imbalance between the two forces, a sane foe would prioritize flight over fight. Fargo did so before in Minneapolis, aided by Omaha. The portal had not taken her far; she resurfaced only a block from the point of origin. Had Cicero anticipated such behavior, she could have tracked her down before she managed to board a flight to Mitakihara.

"My orders are thus: Addison and Maywood hold their positions to provide cover fire and visibility. Burbank and her sub-squadron approach from the front to draw the enemy's attention. Darien and her sub-squadron drill from below for a pincer attack. River Forest remains on crowd control, Alsip monitors electronics usage. Berwyn remains on standby." She double-checked the board. "Norridge fetches Hennepin and revives her in case we need the language. That is all."

This way, Darien took the brunt of the offensive. Cicero placed utmost faith in Darien's ability, even if she was young.

"And what shall we do, milady?" asked Elmhurst.

"Wait for our adversaries to flee."

The gunfire had paused for a suspiciously long time. Sloan kept her head low but searched from window to window for a trace of movement. Mami and Kyoko continued to whisper in Japanese. Better to whisper. In twenty Magical Girls, at least one could read private telepathic channels. Together they could probably do all sorts of bullshit. Sloan totally forgot Cicero and her stupid horse and gold-armored bitches even existed. How did they follow her? By interrogating Hennepin? Hennepin knew jack dick, what the fuck could she tell them. Anoka? Anoka didn't know where Sloan went either. Kyubey, maybe. Or they dredged something up in Clair's files. Clair kept meticulous files.

It didn't matter, they were here. Sloan would ensure Mami and Kyoko made it out alive. Dying to goons from Chicago, what a useless and stupid thing. Chicago was such a stupid place, vapid bullshit from its impenetrable vortex always wound up in Sloan's way during her Minneapolis stint. Refugees begging for handouts or with ambitions of their own. Emails from a certain "Centurion DuPage" laced with vague threats and ominous stipulations (To the Puella Magi with Current-But-Perhaps-Not-Perpetual Governorship Over the City of Minneapolis-St. Paul), emails Sloan let Clair handle. Why were they even involved? Why were they even real? Didn't the universe have better things to worry about?

Well, Sloan was not the universe, and stupidity was well in her wheelhouse. She knew what to do. First chance she got she had to offer herself up. To let Mami and Kyoko go free. Although she wondered whether Cicero would uphold her end of the bargain, or even bargain at all. She wanted the grief cubes. Sloan could not bring her what she wanted, so she would tear this city apart to find it. Any girls in the area—especially those she knew helped Sloan—would suffer her ire. Take Hennepin as Exhibit A.

Imagine she gave herself up and Cicero fucked over Mami and Kyoko anyway. Christ, Sloan never even considered that, and she was so close to doing it too. Did she ever fucking think?

No easy self-sacrifice ploy then. And she'd been so ready for it too.

Mami cut off a sentence to Kyoko and raised her head. She held a hand for quiet although nobody said a word. Birds chirped. A plane rumbled overhead.

She whispered tersely to Kyoko. Then, in English: "They come. Front door."

Sloan aimed her turret. The door was spattered with bullet holes from the previous assault. Mami knelt beside her, a rifle in each hand trained to the front window, more rifles floating nearby. Kyoko braced her knees like a sprinter ready to set.

Footsteps creaked on the planking outside. Sloan's hands tightened. The sound of Mami's breathing filled her ear.

"This is your last chance to surrender," barked a voice (neither Cicero nor Hennepin). "Throw out your gems and we will guarantee your survival."

"Fuck you," said Sloan.

"Fak yuu!" added Kyoko.

"Very well," said the voice outside. "Your profanity shall be remembered when you face judgment at the hands of Lady Cicero!"

Then it began.

A girl in gold armor leapt through the front window. Mami's rifles erupted and Sloan pivoted her turret. The body flopped backward, but it took only one toss of its rag doll head for Sloan to realize it was a golem, not a real girl. By that time, the floor between the kitchen and living room bulged upward, causing the triangle table to overturn before from the bulge burst a gigantic drill. Another gold-armored body somersaulted through the front window and swung a ball-and-chain at Mami. Mami raised a spent rifle to deflect the blow; the spiked ball wrapped around and snapped the rifle in half. The front door burst open and two more girls dashed inside.

For a pivotal moment Sloan hesitated, unsure whether to fire at the drill, the ball-and-chain girl, or the two new girls. The pause cost her as the first of the two girls smacked Sloan in the face with a paper fan, the kind used by fancy corseted ladies from one hundred years ago. Before Sloan's head finished recoiling from the first strike, a second came, and a third, and a fourth.

A flurry of gunshots rang out and the girl with the fan fell back. The next girl charged in with a spray can that sent a noxious blast directly into Sloan's eyes. Unfortunately this girl attacked literally the one thing Sloan could heal, so Sloan recovered and, no longer hesitating, blasted her. The light propelled her back out the door and over the railing.

Sloan turned to help Mami only to catch a bullet to the frontal lobe. Blood spurted across the pockmarked remains of Mami's apartment, but it did little to slow Sloan, who was used to running around headless by now. Her twitching eye shuttered the chaotic scene. A gaggle of girls clashed weapons, some still climbing from the hole drilled in the floor. The drill itself now swung wildly left and right, handled by a gold-armor girl in fierce combat with Kyoko. Each time Kyoko stabbed at the oversized and impractical drill, sparks scattered and tiny blazes sprouted along the ground. Among the burning things, Sloan saw her old jacket.

She pivoted her turret and loosed a volley at the drill girl's unprotected side. Before the light struck home, another armored girl jumped in the way, holding a tremendous shield emblazoned with a medieval escutcheon. Deflected light crashed randomly around the apartment.

Fuck shields. The girl looked slow, so Sloan simply leapt over the shield and came down on her. The attack was less elegant than Sloan imagined and when she came down a sharp edge of the shield jabbed her side. The shield girl, pinned under her anyway, levied flimsy punches against Sloan's body. She was young, maybe twelve, and Sloan's awkward lanky body and fancypants coat engulfed her.

It was impossible to fight one-on-one for long in this madhouse, though. When Sloan contorted her body to rise she saw yet another armored girl charging from across the apartment. This girl clutched in both hands a sword of comedic proportions, at least twice the height of its wielder, broader than her waistline even including the armor. It looked like a buster sword from a Japanese video game, which was probably the inspiration. When she raised the sword overhead in preparation to strike, it sailed through the ceiling like the ceiling was paper.

From seemingly nowhere, ribbons wrapped around the sword girl to stop her swing. Across the apartment similar ribbons appeared. First, they had a grid pattern, then they twisted in ornate patterns to entangle the armored girls. Into neat cocoons of yellow they went, sword girl and drill girl and fan girl and even the spraypaint girl as she reemerged through the front door. The ribbons pulled Sloan back and tied up the shield girl too. Sloan rubbed her bleeding head while more threads tended to her wound by stuffing her empty brain with straw.

All told, nine armored girls were suspended around the room. Less than half the full force, and no Cicero.

"Very fortunate I prepare," said Mami, with the slightest performative pose.

The girl with the ridiculous sword, tied up mid-swing, laughed. "If you thought to stop me with naught but thread, you have made a grave error."

"Show them, Darien," said the girl with the shield.

"Make them tremble before your might!" said the girl with the fan.

Darien focused her eyes ahead and concentrated. A small tip of tongue pressed against her upper lip and a stern hiss escaped her. All across her body, threads started to snap. It was as though by flexing her muscles she was breaking them apart, but they were dividing too cleanly for that. She was cutting them somehow, maybe with magic. Sloan started to yell for Mami to do something, but it was too late. The bundle split apart and Darien was free.

Mami sent more ribbons, but with unseemly agility Darien lashed out her blade, so long it reached halfway across the apartment. The blade first passed through the knees of one of Darien's allies, then diagonally through Mami's midsection, and finally cleaved off the upper portion of another soldier's skull. Body parts plopped to the floor or hung suspended by Mami's threads. Blood ran down the length of Darien's blade.

"So strong!" said the girl with the spray can.

"Watch your back Darien!" said the girl with the ball-and-chain, now lacking legs.

Darien wheeled around the moment Sloan fired and held the broad side of the sword in front of her, covering her entire body. Sloan's light ricocheted off into the ceiling and dislodged a chunk of roof that crashed down on Sloan's head. She rolled to evade, which gave Darien the opportunity to go on the offensive and sink a strike through the floor that Sloan only barely managed to get ahead of.

The instant the blade went down, Kyoko hopped onto it and ran along the sharp edge with her spear aimed at Darien's face. Darien did not even blink. Her hand lashed out and seized the spear by the shaft while its point hovered a millimeter from the bridge of her nose. They stood locked, their arms shaking, their faces glaring into each other. Then, almost casually, Darien turned the spear aside. The spear's point passed harmlessly past her head and Kyoko lost her balance on the edge of the giant sword.

The stumble was a feint. Kyoko's outstretched spear broke into segments linked by chains and coiled around Darien's head. With a strong tug, Kyoko slammed Darien to the ground.

Darien rolled onto her back and lashed out the sword. Kyoko jumped to avoid losing her feet and the sword sliced through the back wall. Kyoko's spear snapped back together and she twirled to bring it down on Darien's prone body, but Darien rolled aside and slashed horizontally again, this time aiming so high the sword traveled over Kyoko's head. It looked like a plain miss at first, but by making another long cut across the wall, Darien did exactly what she intended. The entire back wall, doorways and windows and all, cleaved from the rest of the building and toppled to the patio below, where it smashed into pieces.

The apartment was now completely exposed to the snipers on the rooftops. Immediately bullets barraged them.

Sloan threw herself at the girl with the shield, who had fallen from the ceiling after Darien's last strike severed her binds, and snatched the shield away (it was attached to her arm, so her body awkwardly jerked after it) to defend herself from the gunfire. Kyoko ducked out of her fight with Darien and hid behind the kitchen counter, while Mami's two halves lay in the opposite corner, thin yellow strands attempting to stitch them back together.

The Chicago girls fought to extricate themselves from their ribbons. Like the shield girl, a few were already free. One knelt beside the two that Darien maimed earlier and summoned little toy soldiers to carry the severed pieces like ants and put them back together again.

The apartment no longer afforded any protection, so Sloan figured it was time to leave. Even getting to the door under such heavy fire would be difficult, but if they didn't move fast, the foot soldiers would regroup and overwhelm them.

Sloan's eyes settled on the hole in the floor the drill made. Perfect—but communicating everything to Mami and Kyoko would take too long. Instead she did things the old fashioned way and fired her gun into the floor, starting at the hole's edge and fanning out in erratic lines and patterns. The Chicago girls darted out of the way. Someone—Darien—kicked the shield out of Sloan's hand and raised her sword. But when it came to property damage, Sloan was second to none. Coupled with what the drill had already done, it took only a moment of sustained fire to punch out the structural support. The floor collapsed in two halves. Chairs, Christmas ornaments, food, girls, weapons, and Sloan toppled into the vacant apartment below. Sloan aimed to land on a sofa, missed, and cracked several ribs against a surprisingly hard armrest. The girl with the shield landed on top of her and the shield's pointed bottom gored her side.

Sloan rolled the shield girl off and propped herself up. All around, the Chicago girls squirmed to right themselves. Only one landed on her feet, and she now pointed the tip of her blade under Sloan's chin.

"With the power vested in me as a soldier of the Holy Order of the Knights of Chicago," Darien said, "and as a loyal adjunct of Third Centurion Cicero, I am placing you, Fargo, under arrest." She turned her head. "Now for the other two—"

Ribbons coiled under Sloan's arms and yanked her away. She snaked through crushed furniture to the front window, where Mami (now in one piece) helped her up.

"Come, quick!"

A single rifle shot shattered the window. Mami hopped between the curtains and pulled Sloan after her. Sloan was about to ask what happened to Kyoko when the girl in question swung from overhanging remnants of the ceiling and followed behind.

When the Chicago girls chased, Kyoko sealed the window with her red lattice barrier. Sloan realized Kyoko and Mami were communicating telepathically in Japanese to coordinate attacks; their incomprehensible drone had filled Sloan's mind for some time now, but in the chaos she filtered it out. Sloan decided not to question their strategy. She fell to the back of the line and watched, turret ready, for the Chicago girls to break through Kyoko's barrier. They pressed tightly against the window, outstretched hands slipping between the latticework, but until Darien yanked them aside and began hacking away with her sword they made no progress.

By then Sloan and the others were far enough away, dipping through the entrails of the apartment complex. Sloan focused on Mami and Kyoko, whose conversation jittered in her head. They were in disagreement about something, though who knew what. Mami led them down a short staircase to the lobby. The landlord sat behind the counter, nose buried in a newspaper. He did not look up as they sprinted past, though they didn't do it quietly. It was like he couldn't even perceive them—

A Chicago girl slid in front of the exit. Mami spawned a rifle and aimed, but the girl raised an object—a book—over her head. The pages fluttered open as a swirl of violet aura pervaded outward, carrying with it words in neat Times New Roman font that bulged to blot out the room: YOU WILL OBEY. YOU WILL BECOME PLACID. YOU ARE IN A SAFE PLACE. YOU WILL STAY.

The words swirled in Sloan's vision. She briefly saw Mami and Kyoko similarly perplexed before they were drowned out too.

A trick. The kind Clair played, but weaker and less creative. Sloan enhanced her sight with magic and immediately saw through the illusion. The text faded, the lobby reappeared. The Chicago girl held the book overhead like a totem. In her other hand she clutched a radio.

"River Forest to Commander. River Forest to Commander. I have them pacified in the lobby. I repeat—"

Sloan blasted her. She rolled through the glass door in a cascade of shards and skidded against the sidewalk. The residue of Sloan's power sparkled across her chest and her armor was torn to pieces, but her pained gurgles indicated she was not dead, which presented a hitherto-unconsidered problem: Where did these Chicago chicks keep their gems?

If they moved fast they would never need to find out. Sloan gave Mami and Kyoko a strong shove to rouse them from their stupor and though blinking they needed only an outstretched finger to get them moving out the door.

Mami led them to her scooter, chained to a post outside. She snapped a finger and the lock fell away. Kyoko yelled something at her in Japanese while Mami boarded. Hands gesticulated toward Sloan and then the single back seat. Mami said something, Kyoko grunted in frustration.

Three girls, two seats. When they went to Homura's place the first time, Sloan wondered if it would be possible for the three of them to ride the scooter at once, so she already had an idea to handle this. She grabbed Kyoko by the waist, made her weightless with a small dose of magic, and hopped onto the scooter with her back against Mami's, giving Kyoko room to sit on Sloan's lap. It was awkward as fuck, and Kyoko's flailing indicated she disliked the arrangement, but it was the only thing Sloan could think of.

The scooter maneuvered onto the road. Kyoko settled down enough for Sloan to get a better grip around her waist, but then she turned to snap something at Mami and knocked Sloan's jaw with her thick skull. Sloan tried to arrange a simple English sentence to inform Mami she should ask Kyoko to chill the fuck out, but then she noticed something a tad more pressing.

From around an alley that led behind the apartment complex barreled a golden horse comprised of constantly shifting plates, its legs and neck moving with absolute fluidity despite their mechanical construction. Atop the horse rode Cicero, the visor of her helm down, the turquoise plume at its peak billowing, an arm extended with the blade of her halberd glinting in the daylight. All of Cicero glinted, her golden armor and golden steed, an orb of light charging after them.

"Go, go," said Sloan. Mami stepped on the gas. The scooter sputtered forward at a terribly underwhelming speed.

Oh god. Sloan kept one arm wrapped around Kyoko and summoned a new turret to hover beside her. Her free hand directed its aim as light streamed out. Cicero made no attempt to evade; her horse stormed forward undaunted. Which made sense, because when the light hit, it plinked harmlessly without even slowing Cicero's progress.

Ha! said Cicero as she rapidly gained ground. My armor is blessed by the Empress herself, an Apostle of a Rightful God! Your magic cannot so much as scratch such power.

"Ah shit," said Sloan. Seconds of persistent fire passed and nothing changed. It was as though the light was being absorbed entirely, like how the archon in Williston absorbed it.

Nobody knew anything about the actual "Empress" Chicago—popular theories claimed she didn't exist, a puppet entity for local honchos to maximize influence—but if real, the fact was she kept a many-million-people city under her thumb and did so since before Sloan was born. Nobody controlled that much territory without serious power to back it up, so if she enchanted Cicero's armor, Sloan might not be able to rely on her tried-and-true "just shoot it" strategy. The sheer fact the Empress maintained an enchantment when the enchanted object was halfway around the globe spoke volumes about its potency.

Sloan shut off her gun and watched Cicero gallop closer and closer. At least Mami's scooter had picked up acceleration, so the rate at which Cicero closed the gap slowed. Not much of a consolation.

Kyoko shouted in her ear, less Japanese and more a generic cry to get Sloan's attention. Sloan craned her neck to see the road ahead. About half a block away, two gold-armored girls stood on either side, each toting heavy-duty weaponry. Old-timey guns or cannons, one maybe an arquebus, the other a blunderbuss (Magical Girls being the only people outside of military historians who recognize such things at a glance).

Mami had no options except to accelerate so she might be able to dodge out of their fire. Sloan pivoted her turret to the more dangerous-looking of the two, the one with the arquebus (it was the bigger gun), but the arquebus fired first. A thick, smoky explosion burst from the barrel and sailed like a meteorite toward them. Mami swerved and Sloan clung tight to Kyoko to keep them from falling as they zoomed past the crater that billowed where the blast struck. Blunderbuss chick fired next and her aim was surer, or else Mami had less time to evade. Fire sprouted in front of the scooter's tire and the scooter catapulted skyward.

Sloan hurtled in a random direction. Her arm remained wrapped around Kyoko but everything else rolled around her, street and sky and skyline like a globe rolling down a staircase.

A ribbon snatched her ankle and jerked her back. Mami reeled her and Kyoko back to the scooter as it righted itself and landed safely with the aid of more ribbons. Like the blast had simply unspooled them, and now Mami rewound the skein. Sloan searched with her gun for the arquebus and blunderbuss girls and at the last moment remembered Cicero before the halberd crashed down at her skull.

Kyoko's spear parried the axe-blade, preventing a direct hit, but the force of the clash was incredible and it blasted Kyoko out of Sloan's arms. Ribbons caught Kyoko before she hit the ground, but Cicero saw she had the advantage and swung again to sever them. More ribbons emerged, Cicero swung again and again. Kyoko twisted in midair as ribbons grabbed her, let go, and grabbed her again in a constant struggle.

They zoomed past the antique gun girls, who were either unwilling to shoot when they might hit their leader, or else simply failed to reload in time. Getting past them was a small strategic victory, but it still left Cicero herself, and Sloan had no idea what to do about her. Their best bet was to bind her with ribbons, but at the speed she handled her halberd success seemed unlikely. A distraction? Or did they just try to survive until they reached Homura Akemi?

Lombard. Cicero's mental voice cut clearly through the blur. Contact Berwyn. Have her intercept. Organize the rest of the soldiers and follow us.

Yes, milady, another voice (Lombard) said.

Did Cicero intend for Sloan to hear her? Maybe she wanted to intimidate them with the prospect of reinforcements. It didn't matter. A weirder question was how could they race down a city street in broad daylight and no normal people were freaking out. Pedestrians ambled along the sidewalks, but they did not look up. Mami and Cicero zigged between cars without causing any traffic mishaps. No sirens, no chaos. Did the power of that Chicago girl with the book extend this far out? No way. Either Cicero herself wielded obfuscation magic, or no logical explanation existed for the insensible civilians.

Unless. Sayaka said Homura Akemi was an archon. Were these the symptoms of humans in a miasma?

Either way, it gave Sloan free rein to use as much magic as possible.

Taking a page from Kyoko, she leapt off the scooter, over the descending swing of the halberd, and onto the back of the horse. She couldn't pierce Cicero's armor but maybe she could distract her long enough for Mami to help Kyoko. Except the moment Sloan landed, Kyoko slashed her spear through the ribbons to sever herself. She hit the ground already bounding forward, carrying her previous momentum with tremendous strides to actually keep pace with the horse long enough to jab her spear between its galloping legs. The spear divided into segments and the chains entangled the hooves.

Sloan wished she knew enough Japanese to thank Kyoko for waiting specifically for Sloan to jump onto the horse before pulling this gambit.

The chains snagged between the hooves and then, surprisingly, snapped. Kyoko's eyes briefly widened at the mangled remains of her spear, then she pitched directly into a parked car on the side of the road. The hollow twang of face against metal reverberated for only a moment before the car—and Kyoko—disappeared fifty, a hundred feet behind them.

We lost Kyoko, said Sloan.

"Expect to lose much more," said Cicero.

Oh. Right. Sloan was on the horse now. She tried to calculate the best way to jump back to the scooter, but Mami swerved aside to avoid a car and left Sloan marooned.

Cicero seized her by the collar and pulled her close, face to golden facemask. "Delinquent! Where is Omaha? Where are the grief cubes dropped by the Minneapolis archon?"

The armor might be impenetrable, but the visor had gaps to see through. Sloan shoved her hand against it and fired pure light into Cicero's face. Cicero recoiled and grunted and pawed at her singed eyes, while her horse moved with a mind of its own between the vehicles.

The tinny electric vroom of the scooter returned as Mami zipped beside the horse and coiled ribbons around Sloan's torso. The ribbons tugged hard, but Cicero's hand remained clenched around Sloan's collar. Her lower body tilted toward the scooter while her upper body remained fixed. Sloan disliked this arrangement. She disliked it especially when her extended body slammed into the back of a truck.

The glass and carriage frame caved around her as her head snapped back and a splatter of blood ran down her face. Cicero's arm twisted at an odd angle, almost a complete one-eighty from normal. Her fingers loosened. Sloan sailed airborne, turning, twisting, seeing sky then ground then sky in a vomit of color until Mami's ribbons stabilized and pulled her in.

She slumped against Mami's back. She touched her face; shards of glass stuck out of the skin. Mind scrambled, she picked at one. It came out slow and with more blood. Pooling on her shoulder, staining her new jacket. She gave up and clung to Mami's waist.

"Kyoko, Kyoko's gone," Sloan whispered. The stallion ran a lane parallel to them, undaunted by Cicero's blindness. Its alloyed nostrils snorted white puffs of steam.

"Kyoko strong. Kyoko be fine," said Mami. "We near."

Mami veered off the main road onto a branch that looped downward between the towers of Mitakihara. Daylight turned to shadow as the spires blotted out the sun. Cicero's steed leapt over a vehicle to follow them.

Lombard. Redirect Berwyn's route. They are heading into Sector F7.

Cicero's lackeys were still in telepathy range? It felt like they had covered a significant distance already, but the goon squad must have kept some semblance of pace. Had they caught up to Kyoko? No, Mami was talking telepathically too—in Japanese. She was talking to Kyoko, which meant Kyoko kept close too. Sloan knew nothing about Mitakihara geography, maybe a girl on foot could take shortcuts between the roads.

The roads. An idea popped into Sloan's head. She tilted her gun downward, not at Cicero but at the ground directly in the path of her horse. The light tore into the gravel, carving a deep gouge that twisted and weaved. Cicero's horse scampered left and right or was forced to jump to avoid the wreckage. Cicero did not stop, did not stumble, but she did slow. The distance between her and the scooter quit shrinking, even widened as they entered a long sloping decline into a portion of the city darker, lower, sparser, unobstructed by mindless humans, walled in by sardine tenements.

The Homura Akemi district.

Cicero spurred the back flank of her horse with her halberd. The horse snorted steam, bent its legs, and bounded off the ground to land on the wall of tenements to the left at a ninety-degree angle. It continued its charge without pause, defying gravity as both Cicero and the horse hung parallel to the ground. The golden hooves clattered along the brick and mortar structures, making easy leaps at the rare gaps between them. Sloan started to adjust her aim to fire at the walls instead, but people lived in those buildings—probably. For a moment the hundreds of unnamed dead and missing in Minneapolis flashed into her head.

She hesitated.

It was enough. Cicero's horse powered forward, leapt off the wall, and soared toward the scooter. One of Cicero's arms was limp at her side and she blinked through her visor as though she still struggled to see, but the horse saw, two turquoise stones set deep in the gold plates, and so Cicero raised her halberd and swung. Sloan ducked as it passed over her head. Mami cried out. The scooter shot out from under them and this time no ribbons came to catch them.

Sloan careened down the road and scraped until friction stopped her. Half her face—half her whole body—hissed with rawness. She rolled onto her side and pushed herself up. No clue where her turret went. Best to summon another and worry about magical expenditure later. One arm hung stiff, so the other clasped the gun as she scanned the dead street for Mami. The scooter was in pieces, the part with the motor still chugging as it spun in a slow circle. Mami lay facedown. Not moving. Shit. Sloan staggered toward her, but the next moment Mami's head rose and she propped her upper body on her hands.

Cicero's horse trotted between them. She rode spine straight, halberd straight. Her blind head lolled. "Congratulations. I will admit I underestimated you somewhat. Forgive me; it has been some time since I dueled a Puella Magi outside of training."

Her horse stopped beside Mami. Cicero held her axe an inch from the flower-shaped gem pinned in her hair.

"Don't kill her," said Sloan.

"I do not intend to commit magicide," said Cicero. "Though if necessary I shall not hesitate. It is your own pointless struggle that bears you closer to death. Had you surrendered, such violence would be unneeded."

Sloan sensed something approach from behind. Three Chicago girls flanked her, although only two held weapons. A crossbow (like Bloomington) for one and a saber for the other. Sloan pressed her back against the tenement wall and aimed at the girl with the crossbow. Nobody attacked.

"Impeccable timing, Berwyn," said Cicero.

The girl with no weapon bowed her head. "I am grateful for your praise, milady. You appear injured. Have these unkempt wenches harmed your ladyship?"

Cicero rolled the shoulder of her broken arm. "The one in the coat blinded me. My fault, I allowed her too close. As for the arm, that's my own recklessness. You understand the way I prefer to war."

"Aye, milady." Berwyn quite casually strolled past Sloan to Cicero's side. In her hand materialized a syringe that she jabbed between the plates of Cicero's armor into her wrist. "Although it is not my place to advise strategy, perhaps in the future it would be prudent to keep your chief medic with the main core rather than have her lead the reserve squadron."

The lever of the syringe went down. Cicero rolled her shoulder and this time instead of a limp response her arm bent like normal. "You could not have kept pace either way, and I would rather have a competent commander to helm the reserve than an extra healer to bolster the ranks. Regardless, now is improper time for such discussion. Lombard will arrive shortly with the others to place Fargo and her companions under arrest. Now, my blindness."

"Aye, milady." Berwyn drew another syringe and plunged it into Cicero. Sloan searched for an avenue of escape while they were distracted, but the other two girls had their weapons trained on her. Sloan could take the goons, but she had nowhere except empty street to run afterward. Plus, she'd leave Mami behind.

Homura's apartment could not be far, though Sloan had no clue how to reach it. Where were Homura's stupid dolls? Shouldn't they tell Succubitch the situation? Or did Homura not—

A spear launched from a rooftop and nailed Berwyn through the throat. The two girls watching Sloan turned their attention to the figure tumbling from the air, so Sloan fried both with a quick sweep of gunfire. Kyoko pirouetted onto her spear, bounced off its springy shaft, and wrenched it out of Berwyn's throat as she lunged at Cicero.

Sloan moved while Kyoko and Cicero clashed. She hopped over the kneeling, blood-gurgling Berwyn and grabbed Mami by the wrist to jerk her upright. "Mami, are you okay?"

"Yes, am fine." Mami climbed unsteadily to her feet and summoned a rifle.

"No. Her army's coming. Even if we beat her, they'll surround us." Please understand, Sloan did not have time to explain better. "Get Homura Akemi. Stop time. Kyoko and I will distract her!"

Mami only stared. Did she understand? Did the words make sense? Sloan held her breath.

Finally, Mami turned toward Kyoko and used telepathy to ask something in Japanese. Kyoko darted under a swing and shouted one terse word.

Mami's rifle devolved back into ribbons. "Okay. Back soon. I promise!" She sprinted down the street.

Sloan wasted no time. She turned to Kyoko and Cicero, Kyoko still ducking and jumping to keep up with Cicero's strokes. Cicero was slowly winning. Each swipe struck closer to Kyoko before the spear blocked it, and Kyoko was starting to breathe heavy. But what could Sloan do? Her weapon had no effect. Her eyes flitted across the battlefield for anything and settled on the kneeling form of Berwyn, who was injecting a syringe into the gaping wound of her throat. She had removed her helmet, or it had fallen off, allowing her dark hair to drop around her shoulders. From her ear twinkled an azure gemstone. Her Soul Gem? If all the Chicago girls kept them in the same place...

Taking advantage of Cicero's preoccupation with Kyoko, Sloan bounded onto the stooped head of Cicero's horse, seized the golden helm with both hands, and tugged. The helmet popped off with surprising ease, so much so that Sloan's excess force propelled her into Cicero, their faces nearly touching. Sloan's eyes searched her ears.

No gem.

Cicero socked Sloan in the jaw. Sloan staggered, lost her balance, and dropped onto her back.

A blow from the halberd followed. Sloan held up the golden helmet to deflect it and it somehow worked, the axe bounced off the blessed piece of armor without even a reverberation through Sloan's arms, as if the attack dissipated entirely the moment it struck.

But it did not dissipate, because the recoil brought the halberd back up to Cicero. Her body jerked with extreme ferocity it was clear she didn't expect. She flew from her horse and hit the ground.

Kyoko pounced on the opportunity. She launched her spear at the prone Cicero, gunning directly for the exposed head.

Out of nowhere, Berwyn threw herself between Kyoko and Cicero. The spear pierced her less-blessed armor and her heart as she latched onto the shaft and tried to wrench it out of Kyoko's grasp. Cicero rolled to her feet and struck a defensive position. The horse, no longer mounted, folded inward on itself. The shifting plates shuffled and scraped until the entire horse compressed into a single golden cube that disappeared in a puff.

Kyoko kicked at Berwyn's body to pry it from the tip of her spear. She eventually succeeded and flung Berwyn away.

"Very well," said Cicero. "Until now I held back my blows, intending to incapacitate rather than kill. But you have proven an adequate contest, and thus it no longer behooves me to handicap my strength."

Cicero's head and bob of short hair stood exposed to assault. While her gem remained concealed, she had no innate healing ability. Not all girls were able to operate headless.

Sloan shoved the helmet onto her own head—it barely fit over her stringy hair—and grabbed her gun.

"I've beat archons," Sloan said. "I can sure as fuck beat you."

"Heh." Cicero swung her halberd into the ground. It smashed through the street with a cataclysmic force. Cracks spread to the buildings on either side, and then spread up the buildings. Windows shattered and glass shards spewed onto the road. The ground beneath Sloan's boots burst and sent her flying.

A horrendous war cry filled the air. Cicero bounded skyborne at Sloan and raised her halberd high for another devastating attack. Kyoko extended her spear to block but the halberd cleaved clean through and continued toward Sloan. The helmet! Sloan tucked her head to absorb the blow. Despite its protection the blast propelled her straight into the ground. Sloan had no time to collect herself before Cicero bore down from above, so ignoring all pain she rolled to the side. She had no clue if she dodged or not because the impact of the axe caused another seismic pulse that flung her through the air.

She hit the ground, bounced, rolled, stopped against a curb. Nausea and pain overwhelmed everything. Her sight blurred and odd colors crept across it. But eyesight was the issue she could fix; with a quick blink everything became coherent. Cicero wrenched her halberd from the ground and turned toward Sloan as the buildings behind her lost their support and crumbled down, bricks and beams and columns snapping, roofs caving inward. Ash swept across the street as tenements became rubble, swallowing Cicero for a brief moment in a sandstorm, though even in obscurity her golden armor gleamed vengeful.

"Oh, you should not have tested me. I consider restraint a key virtue for a noble woman. But I remain willing to tap into my untamed roots when the need arises."

Sloan coughed—needed to retaliate. She summoned a gun and fired. The light sailed through the settling sediment. Cicero did not dodge. Instead, she swung her halberd at the light itself. The axe blade cut clean through the beam and split it in forking halves.

She cut the light. She cut the light with her axe.

"Remember, the option to surrender always exists. I grant that basic right, if none other."

Sloan's mind went blank. No ideas. No strategies. Unsure if she could even move. Her body felt wedged in debris. The voice of Delaney Pollack filled her head: You need to be more creative, love. Creative. Creative how. Creative HOW, Delaney? No creativity came. Only one brief idea: more power. Sloan remembered her finisher. But so deep beneath the skyscrapers, only glancing needles of sunlight seeped. Not enough.

No, wait, no. You don't need to beat her, just distract her. But how long would Mami take to reach Homura's apartment? Time to pray. Pray for a miracle. A deus ex machina, except instead of deus it was diablo. Time stop. Stop now. Please stop now.

A wall of red lattice sprung between Sloan and Cicero. Cicero barely even registered the barrier; one casual swing severed it cleanly.

Kyoko launched herself at Cicero. Or rather, at the ground next to Cicero. She moved so fast and from such a periphery that while Cicero made a clean horizontal slice at something she suspected was headed straight at her, Kyoko dipped beneath the stroke, jabbed her spear against the ground, vaulted back up, and whipped her weapon at Cicero while the axe-stroke finished. The spear point sailed up through the base of Cicero's jaw. Kyoko jerked the spear and the jaw unhinged like a zombie, lurching from the rest of the skull with a spray of teeth and blood to hang by a strand around Cicero's neck.

With her free hand, Cicero seized the shaft and snapped it. Kyoko looked at the shattered stick a moment before the halberd crashed down on her. A direct hit. Kyoko sailed back, the air itself bending around her body as she soared across the street and stopped only when she hit a solid brick building. The impact caused the façade to shatter. Kyoko's body bounced facedown onto the sidewalk.

Sloan did not watch idly. As Cicero's stroke terminated, Sloan hoisted her gun and fired at the mutilated face. The halberd turned to deflect, but Cicero had too little preparation. The light hit her, scored a direct blow, KNOCKED HER FUCKING BLOCK OFF. Cicero jerked, the gold armor gleaming with Sloan's light, and Sloan fired, and fired, and fired, until Cicero's body collapsed to the ground. It no longer had a head. The bloody neck stump oozed with occasional spurts.

"Holy shit," said Sloan. "Holy shit." She turned toward where Kyoko fell. "Kyoko—"

A syringe sank into her neck. In an instant, all feeling numbed. Her body slackened and her legs no longer supported her. Hands wrapped around her shoulders to catch her as she fell.

Berwyn whispered in her ear. "Hush now, poppet. Hush now. You're safe. I never hurt anyone."

She laid Sloan gently on the ground. Sloan tried to open her mouth but the sedative rendered her incapable. She tried to use her mind to make her gun fire, but nothing happened. A complete and total block.

After patting Sloan's head, Berwyn rushed to Cicero. More syringes appeared, larger, filled with fluids red and pink and green. She injected each in turn into the headless stump. Berwyn's body blocked Sloan's view, but she had a fairly good idea of what happened next. Strange gurgling noises filled the air, sounds like slugs crushed against a patio. Vivid, wretched noises that churned Sloan's already-churned stomach. Most of all because she knew what it meant.

It meant she fucking lost.

After a minute, Berwyn stepped back and regarded her work. A fully-formed head had reappeared on Cicero's shoulders. Cicero blinked, pushed herself up, brushed her armor. Looked around. Stretched her limbs, cracked her neck.

"Thank you, Berwyn. It appears I allowed myself to fall into an embarrassing situation."

"Aye, milady. But you can depend on me, as always."

"Indeed. Thus I may depend on you to keep this matter quiet, especially to the other soldiers. They have no need to know what happened here."

"Aye, milady."

"Attend to Niles and Westmont. They are injured."

After another aye-milady, Berwyn hurried to the two girls Sloan fried earlier. Quick dosages had them on their feet with little aplomb. The more unsettling thing in Sloan's field of vision was Cicero, who clomped over to Kyoko's body. Kyoko's Magical Girl clothes had vanished, replaced by her usual street attire.

Cicero turned the body over. She knelt and pinched a small piece of something between two fingers and held it close to her eyes. Sloan detected a ruby glint in the particle.

"It appears my strike was too strong for this one," said Cicero. "Her gem shattered."

Everything inside Sloan sank. Sank or simply vacuumed out, leaving only a hollow pit where once had been intestines, spleen, stomach. No. No dammit no. Kyoko. Hours ago they were opening Christmas presents together, no no no no no. Sloan did it again, did it a-fucking-gain, a girl was dead because of her, for no fucking reason, she had no reason to be part of this, now she was dead, embroiled in the vortex of fuck that circled Sloan since the day she was born, and Sayaka, Sayaka asked one fucking thing—keep them safe—one fucking thing, it wasn't even ending the whole goddam god/devil whateverthefuck war, it was just keep them safe, Kyoko and Mami, Sloan could not even manage THAT, could manage NOTHING THE FUCK AT ALL. Nothing. NOTHING.

She lacked the chance to hate herself more because Cicero turned, now accompanied by Berwyn and the other fucks, four gold-armored assholes staring down at her. Cicero pulled the helmet from Sloan's head and put it back where it belonged.

"For what duration will this one be paralyzed?" said Cicero.

"A natural hour. But I can administer an antidote if you so desire, milady."

"I do desire it. Lombard and Elmhurst will meet us shortly with the rest of our forces. Once that has happened, we shall have Hinsdale and Hodgkins track the blonde one's trail. I want no girls to escape. Any of them may have critical intelligence as to Omaha's whereabouts or the whereabouts of the Minneapolis archon grief cubes. It is a pity I underestimated my own strength and slew the red-haired one. I did not wish to kill."

Time stop. Please stop, time. Please stop and never resume.

But time kept ticking.

Chapter 38: This Story's Dead

A lone figure approached. She came from the main road, the one that forked in two around Homura's apartment, although neither fork led anywhere because nobody ever came from either. The figure and her hurried wobble disturbed the street's tranquility. She drew into sight: their old friend Mami Tomoe.

On the rooftop of a nearby tenement, Sayaka tapped Nagisa's shoulder with the back of her hand. "Look sharp, she's here."

Nagisa woke from her pretend nap and scanned the street below. When her eyes settled on Mami her face grew bright and her mouth opened in a sudden breath. Sayaka clapped her hand over Nagisa's lips so only a muffled mutter escaped.

"Shh, not yet. You'll blow the whole operation."

Nagisa's spittle seeped through Sayaka's glove and touched her palm. With a bluh of disgust, Sayaka pulled the hand away and wiped it on her skirt.

"She's alone," said Nagisa. "Where's Kyoko and what's-her-face?"

Sayaka inspected her palm. "Probably ran interference for Chicago. Nothing to worry about."

"I hope they didn't get hurt..."

"They're fine. Trust me. Now quit yapping and get ready."

Mami reached Homura's door. She knocked and yelled for help. Nagisa scrunched her face. "I don't get it, what are we even doing again?"

Groan. Now Sayaka knew she was being facetious. How many times had she outlined the plan? Like twenty. Each time Nagisa missing some new integral component. Or else Omaha staring with a dour glaze of disapproval. But hell, what else were they supposed to do? Omaha had the same utter lack of creativity as the girl she'd been cloned from. She wanted to sit tight, run raids on Madoka's place until one worked eventually, said that's what the Incubator told her to do. Well neat, but Sayaka disliked falling into a pattern. Homura thrived in repetition and predictability. Gotta shake it up, y'know? So Sayaka slapped together a contingency.

"Simple. Chicago girls distract, we swoop. We got close just the two of us, with twenty more girls we're sure to win."

"I guess..." Nagisa probed at the bracelet of void tied around her ankle. "But Madoka's inside the apartment. And Homura's just gonna stop time? I dunno."

"Bah, I'm not explaining the finer points again," said Sayaka. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing. You know how I know this plan'll work?"

"How?"

"If it wouldn't work, you can bet the Incubator would be here right now telling us not to do it. He's got a vested interest in this whole thing too, y'know."

Mami continued to bang on doors, rattle windows. Tough luck, pal. Homura ain't interested. Madoka would answer if she heard, but Homura's best trick was to make Madoka stop noticing things. The plan's biggest point of failure was if the Chicago girls showed and Homura totally ignored them, even if they waited outside for hours, days. But Homura had to let Madoka return to her family eventually. She wasn't so nuts to think otherwise, right?

Truth be told, Sayaka wasn't sure what Homura would do when cornered. We're talking a girl who became Satan to pluck her best friend out of heaven, rationality kinda went out the window. But Sayaka viewed it like a win-win: Homura either deals with the Chicago girls, or she draws the blindfold too tight and Madoka sees through. That's a note from the Incubator Handbook of Diabolical Schemes, make it so no matter which way someone goes, they go the wrong way. Like the forks on either side of Homura's apartment.

"I don't like doing what Kyubey wants," said Nagisa.

"I got the Incubator handled. This is the most important thing in the whole universe, I ain't taking it lightly."

Nagisa chewed her lower lip.

"Look," said Sayaka. "You know my motto: No regrets. If I screwed up and let this go south, I'd sure have a whole lot of regrets, right? So I gotta try my damnedest to make it work."

"Okay fiiiiiine," said Nagisa.

Things had to work eventually. Had to. This couldn't be the way the universe ended. That didn't make sense, it wasn't right. Death (and reincarnation) gave Sayaka the capacity to forgive most sins, or at least see the perspective of the perpetrator. Yet Homura Akemi's actions made no sense no matter how she sliced it. If Homura wanted to be with Madoka, why not submit to the Law of the Cycles? If she wanted Madoka to be happy, why divorce her from her purpose? If she wanted the world to remember who Madoka was, why make her an irrelevant corporeal entity?

The best guess was that Homura wanted to be with Madoka, but not in a subservient role. She wanted to be Madoka's protector, her keeper. That was her wish, after all. To protect Madoka. She derived her worth from a white knight complex. Okay, Sayaka could empathize. But to go so far—

"You're gonna kill Homura, aren't you?" said Nagisa.

Sayaka looked up. "What?"

"It's what you want to do. Kill her."

"She's a danger to Madoka. To this universe. More than anything else in it."

"Madoka wouldn't want her to die."

"I know." Sayaka balled her fists. "I know that. Madoka can forgive everything. I don't even hate Homura myself, not really. She's done good. She could do good again. She's not an evil person, not totally."

"I don't think you should kill her," said Nagisa.

"I know. When the time comes, I'll decide. If she makes it hard, I won't hesitate. If it's a question of her or Madoka, there's no question." Sayaka looked at the purple sky between the towers. "You need to be prepared for the same if necessary, Nagisa. Promise me: If I die, you do what needs to be done."

Nagisa crossed her arms and pouted. "Don't even talk like that, Sayaka! Nobody is gonna die."

"Maybe. But the universe is more important than any one person."

"Yeah..."

FINALLY, from the direction Mami came, new figures approached. Their gaudy gold armor was unmistakable. At their head rode a girl on horseback, the others followed in neat rows and marched in step.

"Showtime," said Sayaka. "Watch my back."

Nagisa nodded. Sayaka hopped the rooftop's railing, landed with a roll on the cobblestone street, and sprinted for Mami. Her long legs took only a few steps to cross the distance. By the time Mami turned Sayaka was on her, a hand around the waist as she threw her cape over them both. The cape sank onto them, seemed to push them into the ground, but it's just a trick you see, they're still under the cape as a stray gust of wind carries it up. Like a random rag, nothing suspicious in an ominous neighborhood.

The cape landed on the roof. Sayaka cast it aside, and there she was with Mami. The girls in gold armor continued with no indication they noticed a thing. Easy.

Mami looked at Sayaka with total befuddlement, then she saw Nagisa. Sayaka had to clap a hand on Mami's mouth to stop a shout.

"Pst, quiet," Sayaka whispered. "Both of you. Mami, we'll explain everything in a bit. We had to use you as bait to lure those Chicago girls here."

These words pretty much totally bounced off Mami's face as she scooped Nagisa in her arms and squeezed. At least she managed to keep to a whisper as she said:

"Bebe, Bebe, I missed you so much, I'm so glad you're safe, so so glad..." Her arms tightened.

"Oof," said Nagisa.

"Happy reunions later, Mami. Nagisa and I got business to settle. Shouldn't take long now."

Mami did not let go. She started to cry, Nagisa started to rasp for air. Bah, guess they could have a moment. Sayaka watched the Chicago girls. Their leader received consultation from two girls near the front, probably her two magic detectors. Sayaka unfolded a piece of paper she kept tucked in her collar. They were... let's see... Stephanie "Hinsdale" Galloway and Xochitl "Hodgkins" Hodgkins. The second name didn't look right, looked like Sayaka got lazy or bored and wrote the same word twice, but it didn't matter. They were the girls who tracked magic, and they tracked Mami. The plan worked, mental pat on the back for Sayaka.

To make sure nobody spotted them on the roof, Sayaka threw her cape over Mami and Nagisa and pulled them prone. Under the edge of the cape they peeked out.

"They captured Sloan," Mami whispered. She finally released Nagisa and extended a finger at the rear of the convoy. Two girls shambled with the others, marked by their lack of gold armor. One was Sloan Redfearn, the other that one girl, uh, Sayaka consulted her notes—Serena. Serena "Hennepin" Ru.

No Kyoko.

Wait. Sayaka caught a glimpse of something. Behind Sloan, Serena, and their warden (Charlotte "Norridge" DeWinter), amid the rearguard, a whip of red hair flashed. Kyoko, captured after all, with two Chicago girls dragging her. They must have knocked her unconscious. If Sayaka knew anything about Kyoko, she knew she'd never get captured willingly. They'd have to pummel her to a pulp to put her in chains, girl was stubborn as a bucket of rocks.

"Kyoko looks bad..." said Nagisa.

"If I know anything about Kyoko," said Sayaka, "I know she'd never get captured willingly. They'd have to pummel her to a pulp to put her in chains. Girl's stubborn as a bucket of rocks."

Her fingers kneaded the edge of her cape. They must have knocked her unconscious. If Sayaka knew anything about Kyoko...

Why would anyone haul a dead body around anyway, right?

The Chicago girls marched to Homura's apartment. The trackers at the front signaled the others to stop.

"The trail ends here, milady," said the first tracker.

"I read the same, milady," said the second.

"By 'here', you mean the housing unit before us?" said the girl on the horse.

"I believe so, milady," said the first tracker. "The signature of Fugitive Yellow ends at this door. I also detect incredibly strong magic from another source."

"Explain."

The first tracker approached the door. "Yes... An incredibly powerful Puella Magi resides inside. Her aura is unlike any I have ever detected. Its raw signature exceeds even Your Ladyship. It exceeds even Centurion DuPage. She has enveloped this structure in a powerful barrier."

The girl on the horse (the paper with the names was now too crumpled in Sayaka's hand to read) surveyed Homura's apartment. "I dislike hasty conclusions. However, the existence of a Puella Magi of such power in this geopolitically unremarkable Japanese urban agglomeration would be a tremendous coincidence. Omaha must be connected."

The other soldiers remained still. Which frustrated Sayaka because currently she couldn't see Kyoko. No, it was for the best. They knocked her out. End of story. She imagined the scene, Sloan already subdued, five or six or twenty girls trying to pin down Kyoko, but she bit and kicked and was basically the biggest bitch of all time so they had to conk her in the skull. Leave it at that. Sayaka needed to focus. Madoka needed rescuing.

But as soon as Sayaka made this resolution, the girl on horseback called for the captives to be brought forth. A stir divided the ranks into two wings. The girls holding Kyoko pulled her aside while Charlotte "Norridge" DeWinter led Sloan and Serena between the soldiers.

"Fargo. Who resides in this structure?"

Sloan held her head low, swallowed beneath her coat's collar. "Why don'tcha knock and find out?"

"An inappropriate response, as expected." The girl on horseback (Sayaka relented and unwadded her paper—Laquesha "Cicero" Kabwe) remained rigid atop her steed. "If you desire corporal punishment, Fargo, you will be disappointed. I have more pertinent matters. Norridge, give Hennepin the megaphone."

"Yes, milady."

A megaphone exchanged hands. "What should I say?" Serena asked in a performatively submissive whisper that carried to the rooftops.

"Demand that those inside emerge to receive Centurion Cicero of Chicago," said Laquesha Kabwe. "In truth, it matters little what you say. I doubt one erected a barrier like this to stand outside it. I seek merely to provide fair forewarning and give our adversary, as always, a proper chance to surrender."

Serena nodded, raised the megaphone, and shouted in weirdly passable, albeit literal, Japanese:

"HEY THERE LITTLE PIG. COME OUT COME OUT OR WE'LL BLOW YOUR HOUSE DOWN. NOT BY THE HAIR OF MY CHINNY-CHIN-CHIN. WELL I'LL HUFF AND I'LL PUFF. IF YOU ASK ME PERSONALLY, I THINK YOU SHOULD JUST RUN NOW. GO OUT THE BACK, THEY HAVEN'T TAKEN THE TIME TO SURROUND YOU YET."

Despite "chinny-chin-chin" being untranslated, none of the Chicago girls noticed anything amiss. Apparently coincidentally, Laquesha Kabwe commanded some of her soldiers to encircle the premises. Five girls rushed to fulfill her bidding. Five! Did they have any idea who they were dealing with?

"That shall be sufficient, Hennepin," said Laquesha Kabwe. "My patience for negotiations wears thin. Lombard, fetch me a chronokeeper."

A girl handed her a watch.

"We wait five minutes. If we receive no response or a contrarian response, we commence operations to test this barrier's strength. Lombard, organize the Artillery Squadron to the right wing."

"Yes, milady."

"Addison, relocate to Rooftop A." She indicated the apartment left of Homura's. "Maywood, relocate to Rooftop B." She indicated the apartment right of Homura's.

"Yes, milady!"

"Yes, milady."

"Norridge, relocate Fargo and Hennepin so they do not interfere."

"Yes, milady."

No mention of Kyoko. The girls who had dragged her (unconscious) body dropped her on the cobblestones and filed into a sub-squadron.

"Darien, prepare to assault the entrance with your sword. If the Artillery Squadron fails to pierce the barrier, attack while they reload. Under constant assault, even the strongest wall shall fall."

"Of course, milady."

And so on. Girls in gold flitted, chirruped. Weapons appeared in hands. Sayaka watched Kyoko's body, near the alcove where Norridge corralled Sloan and Serena. If Sayaka stared hard enough, focused until everything else ebbed away, she thought she saw Kyoko breathe. Thought, almost, that she could hear it.

"Sayaka..." said Nagisa.

"Miss Miki, are you alright?" said Mami.

Stubborn as a bucket of rocks.

Laquesha Kabwe's sharp voice cut through the buzz: "Are all sub-squadrons in position?"

A resounding chorus pealed yes-milady.

"Commendable." She checked the watch. "Operations commence in exactly one minute thirty-four seconds. Hold position and await my command."

Credit where it's due, they worked efficiently. The Chicago girls lined the front end of Homura's apartment, pieced into smaller groups each with its own subcommander and internal organization. It looked like a troop formation from a 17th century war, and maybe they were deliberately trying to imitate one. Not that, under normal circumstances, any of it mattered when Homura did her stop-time gag. (Key phrase: normal circumstances.)

"Get ready, Nagisa. It'll start any second now."

"Excuse me, Miss Miki," said Mami, "but what will start? Do you intend to fight Cicero? I'm afraid I won't let you endanger Nagisa's life so recklessly."

Yeah this thing, this is that thing Sayaka was worried about. "Sorry Mami, I swear what we're doing is super important and is way too complicated to explain right now. We're gonna be fine though."

"Mami, please," said Nagisa. "Sayaka's right, this is reeeeeeally important, like super duper okay?"

Mami's face indicated Nagisa's sound reasoning left her unaffected. Which was fine, it did make Sayaka sorta nervous, but she had already anticipated Mami being a pain and had discussed this possibility with Nagisa. The solution was simple. When Homura stops time, just make sure nobody's touching Mami. Then she freezes along with everything else and when time resumes it's already over.

Sayaka gave Nagisa a look to jog her memory about this plan, because currently she was way too buddy-buddy with Mami, basically nuzzled into her side. Nagisa looked perplexed so Sayaka drew a line over her throat and finally the message rang clear enough for Nagisa to awkwardly roll away from Mami and almost out of the cover of Sayaka's cape. Which wasn't exactly subtle but the timing was perfect because the next moment time stopped.

Sigh.

Homura knew it was too much to ask for a single pleasant day alone with Madoka. The fact that she attempted to enjoy one perhaps invited the current situation; the Incubator would of course plan an assault when he thought Homura at her weakest. What, though, did he expect from these Chicago girls? Even the strongest of them came nowhere near her power. And they attacked when she was already with Madoka, inside her fortified home. No rational strategist would create such a ploy with so little chance of success. Which aroused her suspicion.

"Homura? You're spacing out again." Madoka sipped from her tea.

Kaltherzig whispered into Homura's ear while Homura tried to look invested in a story about Madoka's classmates. Twenty girls from Chicago plus Serena Ru as a hostage. Attacked Tomoe's apartment, Tomoe and the others fled here. Sakura dead. What a shame, Homura liked her. Although she did not consider it enough of a shame to turn back time. Even if she defeated Omaha: too much risk associated with rewinding a successful outcome. Kaltherzig actually seemed a little upset about the death, though she tried not to show it in front of her twelve peers, who listened from Madoka's side of the table.

Now the Chicago girls had come here. They bellowed idle threats and were attempting to break down the barrier. They would, of course, fail. Homura's protective enchantments were infallible. But that was not the primary issue. Madoka had to go home eventually. Homura's appraisal of their grief cube resources indicated the Chicago girls were equipped to maintain an assault for twenty-four hours. Longer if they dedicated part of their force to foraging during the night. And Homura's appraisal of their collective sanity indicated they would stand in front of her apartment all twenty-four of those hours.

Which at least partially explained the Incubator's stratagem. It ensured Homura must at the very least exit her house to contend with them. An obvious diversion, but for what? If Homura left her thirteen dolls with Madoka—Eitelkeit remained with Tomoe, relaying the whereabouts of Miki and Nagisa—then there was no hope of the enemy reaching Madoka before Homura was warned.

Indeed, this was only a variation of their previous failed attempts at Madoka. The Chicago girls did not change the underlying algebra. It would take Homura mere moments to destroy them, and she fully intended to. No more leeway. If an enemy appeared, she must destroy it. Or else this conflict would never end.

"Homura...?"

Homura stood, transformed, ignored Madoka's startled gasp, and churned the gears in her shield to freeze time.

"Defend her," Homura instructed her dolls. "Report any disturbances. Stave off attacks as well as you can."

She reached into her shield for a weapon and proceeded toward the door.

Time stopping didn't stop Mami. Sayaka pulled back her cape to make sure nobody was touching her on accident, and nobody was. Sayaka thought for half a second and realized—goddam threads.

But that didn't matter because Homura's front door opened and Homura emerged with a McMillan TAC-338 rifle. She took aim at the girl on the horse.

Sayaka shouted into the black portal behind them: "Omaha, now!"

A portal opened on the street below. Out of it sprang a cluster of tendrils, like a squid or two squids, made of the same dark wispy essence of the portal itself. They each lashed forward to wrap around the ankle of a different Chicago girl, who one by one brightened out of the grayscale palette around them. Their entire line animated, their weapons already raised.

Some of the Chicago girls looked around in confusion. But Laquesha Kabwe didn't miss a damn beat.

"FIRE!"

The single confident cry galvanized her underlings into action. Those with guns pulled their triggers. A hodgepodge of shots rang out, some explosive, some sedated, some abrasive. Flashes spread in a line across the ranks.

Homura stood perfectly still as bullets soared at her from a semicircle of angles, traveled a full couple of meters, then settled into the monotonous background. The girls stared, bewildered.

The stunned silence lasted only a moment, then a girl with a sword twice her height loosed a roar and charged Homura. Homura brushed back her hair and casually nailed her in the groin with a stiletto heel. Sword girl went flying, but more followed her lead and rushed Homura.

"That's our cue," said Sayaka. "Nagisa! Just like we planned!"

She hopped the railing. A quick two-story drop which she stuck with a sharp tick-tick of her heels and a bend in her knees that she carried into sprinter position before racing down the road. Homura nearly disappeared beneath the sheer multitude of gold armor thronging her, but the way the Chicago girls kept flying back indicated she had no trouble with the numbers disadvantage. One girl, holding a ball-and-chain, went airborne with a single strand of blood trailing from her chest, the blood freezing moments after leaving the body. She landed on her back and detransformed into schoolgirl clothes. Through the brief gap the girl's absence left around Homura, Sayaka spotted Homura's smoking rifle.

Homura's omniscience let her know the locations of their concealed gems. One shot kills each, but the Chicago girls distracted better than expected. Sayaka set her eyes on the goal: Homura's front door, left open in the shock of the attack. Meant Sayaka didn't even have to pick the lock. She sprinted past Sloan and the other captives, who remained frozen, and didn't look at Kyoko. Eyes locked ahead. If she and Nagisa both got inside, it would be easy—trivially easy—to circumvent the dolls, now that they understood their capabilities. Madoka acquired, game over.

An explosion burst from the Homura mosh pit. It froze, but not fast enough to stop it from propelling the Chicago girls skyward, all save the one on horseback. Homura emerged from the blaze and cast aside the rocket launcher used to create it.

Even in stopped time, time seemed to slow. Homura rising, back arched, hair all over, her other arm extended with the rifle. Sayaka running, leg raised, arms bent, head turning as Homura's gun took aim. Took aim toward the gem on Sayaka's stomach.

Sayaka reached for a blade to deflect the bullet when a halberd swung from inside the explosion and blindsided Homura completely. The girl on horseback, mounted calmly within the flames as though she did not even notice them, wielded her puny mortal weapon against a demigod with such fearlessness Sayaka felt a stirring of admiration, stupid horse girl, stupid horse girl you stupid hero.

The blow, detonating with a wave, knocked Homura straight into the tenements across the road. The good fortune almost did not register to Sayaka, that this whole plan could be salvaged on the back of a random girl whose name Sayaka forgot. But that was the point of roping these Chicago girls into the fray. Homura can't deal with deviations from pattern. Dump enough girls with enough weird powers on her and one's bound to catch her off guard. Mental pat on the back for Sayaka!

Don't chick your countens. Homura's apartment was still a good ten paces away. Sayaka glanced over her shoulder to check how Nagisa had kept up.

Nagisa had not kept up.

Nagisa had not even left the rooftop.

Because Mami.

She had strung a ribbon around Nagisa's wrist, a shiny tether that jerked hither and thither as Nagisa tried to float away on a trail of bubbles. Mami clung to the railing, shouting at Nagisa inaudibly over the din of battle, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Mami did not want Nagisa rushing into danger (though from Mami's perspective it must look like Nagisa was trying to help Homura), and Sayaka even considered this a possibility earlier but given the unexpected circumstances of Mami not getting time-stopped she never had the time to come up with a contingency which was what she had to do now.

The contingency was abandon Nagisa. Sayaka turned to throw herself through the open door before Homura recovered but Homura had already extricated herself from the wall. She placed her eye to the scope of her rifle and aimed.

Not at Sayaka. At Nagisa. Which made no sense, Sayaka was the threat, Sayaka was at the door—

Homura pulled the trigger. The recoil jerked her back and a needlenosed shell sped from the barrel. Sayaka reached for a blade to throw and intercept it, but she already knew no magic will move a thrown sword faster than a bullet.

Time unstopped. Sayaka threw her blade. It hit nothing.

The bullet drove through Nagisa's waist with a spurt of blood. It passed through her body, out her back, and into Mami's throat.

Sayaka had no time to process this information because all the bullets the Chicago girls fired at the front door resumed moving and exploded against Sayaka's back.

Everything jumped positions, swapped places, within an eye blink, forming a panorama of bullshit. The bullets fired by the Chicago girls exploded where and when they should have, but the girls themselves were all over the map. Many were on the ground, not in armor but schoolgirl uniforms. Those ones looked pretty fucking dead.

Any confusion passed when Sloan remembered Homura Akemi's time powers, then resumed as she saw Sayaka Miki and her unmistakable cape flop out of the doorway explosion, slam into a wall, and drop to the ground. Sloan started toward her, but Sayaka flipped to her feet and drew a sword to deflect a bullet Homura fired from across the battlefield.

Sloan's eyes went to the Chicago girls on the ground. One of them—not dead, but groaning—was the girl Cicero tasked to watch Sloan and Hennepin. Porridge, if Sloan remembered right, which she totally probably didn't. She checked if anyone was watching (nobody except Hennepin, cowering against the curb) and rushed to the supine body.

"Guh?" said Porridge. Sloan slammed her fist into the goon's face and put her out of commission.

She scoured for where she kept the gems. Knocking her out reverted her to a schoolgirl uniform, which limited the number of pockets because skirts. But the gems weren't in the outer vest pocket and when Sloan undid the buttons she found no inner pockets at all. She patted the body awkwardly, kinda placing her hands wherever in search of like a bump or something. Eventually her hands moved down to the girl's twiggy legs and found a hidden pouch strapped to her upper thigh. Her very upper thigh.

Hennepin shuffled behind her. "Gee F-Fargo, I'm not one to k-kinkshame but..."

"Shut the fuck up." Sloan reached under the girl's skirt and tried to wrench the pouch away, but the strap held so Sloan fumbled for the buckle which of course was on the innermost part of the thigh and after a few seconds of groping gave up and instead tried to open the pouch itself. Her brain went AAAAAH real loud while she did but eventually it worked and the button undid itself and Sloan dug her hand inside.

She grabbed the first gem her fingers touched. She expelled a huge sigh of relief when it was her gem, because if she took Hennepin's instead and had to go back under...

"Where's mine?" said Hennepin. "Is mine there?"

"Get it yourself." Sloan tucked the gem back where it belonged, in her coat pocket.

The moment she stood, an explosion burst nearby. The force lifted her up, up, up, and down again, hard against the cobblestone. Her vision blurred and various golden shapes drifted until she slapped her face and fixed her eyes, but seeing better only made everything more hectic. Cicero, on horseback, swung her halberd. Around her ran her soldiers, and in their midst clashed Sayaka Miki and Homura Akemi. Sayaka looked on the offensive, her sword strikes battering at a berserk pace. Homura backpedaled, deflecting with various guns she drew from her shield—oddly conventional guns, not standard Magical Girl fare—and although the apathetic glaze in her eyes indicated she had no trouble defending herself, the rapidity of Sayaka's swings prevented counterattack. Which was good for Sayaka, because half the Chicago girls were shooting or stabbing her in the back while she focused solely on Homura. Gashes spread along her body, healed immediately by a teal aura that enveloped her.

They were also close together, which meant Sloan was in the awkward position where using her own magic would hurt her ally as much as her enemy. If Homura even was her enemy.

Whatever! She scanned for something to do. Hennepin writhed on the ground; her hands clutched a wound on her side. But Hennepin could suck a dick, she'd live. Kyoko lay where the Chicago girls dropped her. Sloan tried not to dwell on her much.

Instead she looked over her shoulder and saw other terrible shit. Two bodies lay on the cobblestone near the end of the street. The facedown one Sloan couldn't place but the other had her back propped against the wall, her blonde head slumped and blood running down her chest. Mami.

Sloan ran. No no no. Don't let Mami be dead too. But soon Sloan was close enough to see the gem in her hairpin, intact, albeit severely dark. A sole spot of black in Mami's otherwise autumnal color scheme. Bad, very bad, but not dead. Sloan could work with not dead.

She slowed as she realized who the other body was. Nagisa. Sloan knelt and turned her over. The ground beneath her glittered with the shattered fragments of her gem. Her one wound, a small red circle, lay directly where a belt buckle should be.

No. She could be no older than twelve. No older than that, dammit. Sloan balled her hands into fists.

What could she do. What could she have done differently. How could she have stopped this. The point when she could have given up seemed so distant, so far away. Williston. Another continent, another world. She wanted to die herself, lie down and die. But Mami. Mami was still alive. Sloan had to do something.

"Mami. Mami, listen to me. It's Sloan. Mami?"

Mami's eyes stared forward. Her throat gurgled with blood, her threads made no effort to stitch the wound. Sloan crawled close and placed her hands on Mami's shoulders. Shook her gently.

"Mami. Mami. Mami?"

Nothing. An empty dullness. Gem the color of coal. Sloan had no hope herself, no hope she could say anything to change anything. Not with Nagisa dead. But she had to say something, she could not give up.

"Mami. Mami. Mami. Please Mami. Please."

Mami said nothing.

Sloan started to cry.

In the periphery of Sloan's blurred vision appeared the doll.

The doll. The one with pink hair. Flowing white robe. Twisted triangle smile. Its feet barely touched the ground. It drifted toward Mami.

"No," said Sloan.

Mami's head lolled to the side. Like a doll herself.

"No. No, don't." Sloan turned toward the doll. "Get away. Get away."

The doll floated, unconcerned. Its arms spread wide as if to envelop Mami in an embrace. Mami's eyes flitted a moment to the side. Then they settled back straight ahead and did not look again.

"No you DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HER!"

Sloan threw herself at the doll. Her arms wrapped around its frail body and clutched tight as she forced it back, away from Mami. It swiped at her with hooked hands, little claws that raked her face and drew thick hot blood. Sloan didn't care, did not let go, only heaved her entire weight against the pink-haired doll, the false Madoka.

"Mami, Mami run, run away!" Sloan yelled over her shoulder. She seized a handful of pink hair and slammed the doll's head against the wall. It screeched, its eyes a hypnotic swirl that Sloan squinted to avoid staring at. A deluge of German—probably German—flooded her mind, multiplied, amplified, rebounding. Sloan held on. She did nothing for Kyoko or Nagisa, but she would not let Mami die. Would not let her disappear completely!

Yet Mami did not run. Remained in repose against the wall.

The doll unhinged its crescent mouth and sank its fangs into Sloan's shoulder, but the pain only caused Sloan to lock her arms tighter, sealing the doll into the cage of Sloan's wiry gaunt body. Despite the doll's flowing dress, Sloan outsized it. Outpowered it. They staggered back in disjointed tango. Away from Mami.

A voice entered her mind. Cold, stiff, formal, aloof, but familiar. Sloan was certain she had heard it before, couldn't quite place it—Omaha? Similar, yes, but Omaha had no such confidence, no such force. No, this had to be Homura Akemi. The voice said:

You have no idea what you're doing, do you?

Mami's gem exploded. Fragments twinkled in a spray from the side of Mami's head. Sloan stared dumbly. How? HOW? Sloan kept the doll so far away. Did Homura do something? HOW COULD THIS BE HAPPENING?

"MAMI!" She throttled the doll's scrawny throat. Its head bobbed back and forth. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"

A tremendous pulse of energy issued in a ring from Mami's body. It ripped through Sloan and the doll and launched them into the air. They revolved together in the sky, the cobblestones and brick buildings bending, melting, changing. The pulse lifted Chicago girls off their feet, flinging them into the vortex. A girl with a shield crashed into Sloan's side, ricocheted, and sent them both in new directions.

Everything kept changing, even the sky changed. As Sloan and the doll reached the top of the cyclone, the view stabilized and she could see that everything stemmed from Mami Tomoe. Not her body—her body scraped limp against the ground. But the spot where she had—where she had died. Waves of purple and red emanated from it, swallowing the landscape in new colors, rippling sheets and ribbons that trembled into an abyss below, the ground crumbling to reveal infinite void. The colors sealed them in, surrounded them on all sides, no sign of exit, no sign of the real world that once existed.

Was this... a wraith miasma? Or something different?

Wrapped Christmas presents dropped in slow motion from a nebulous ceiling. The Chicago girls were seized by ribbons and dragged into darkness. Bowls of ice cream and platters of cake formed precarious towers. Chains of gold links descended like streamers from columns and arches. Architectural forms existed but cohered to no greater plan, no structure: heaps of objects. Fragments shored. Only in a wraith miasma had Sloan seen distortions like this—if these were distortions—but she saw no wraiths, no glimmers of static.

Out of a tangled bundle of cords rose an impish figure, small in stature but with long arms of yellow ribbon that spread in all directions and had no end. It wore a bonnet that dwarfed its featureless face and a teal apron that spread from a twig body. It moved like dada art, animated collage, rectangular segments that shifted by degrees. It turned its eyeless face toward Sloan.

It looked like no wraith. Sloan regarded it only with horror. She gripped the pink-haired doll tighter as the imp-thing's spindly arms twisted toward her. Did this come from Mami? Did this come from this universe?

The doll wrenched its fangs from Sloan's shoulder and screeched at the arms as they neared. Sloan had no brain to conceive an action. A dream, right? An illusion?

Moments before the endless arms bound her, the pink-haired doll tossed its head. A pure white sliver tore through the space around them and an overwhelming ray of light issued out that enveloped Sloan and the doll, erased their outlines, faded them into nonexistence.

Sloan went blind.

Chapter 39: BUBSLED RIDE BAYBEE

Either Sloan woke up or her eyes adjusted to the light, hard to tell. Her stiff neck creaked as she lifted it from an ambiguous white surface in an ambiguous white space. The whiteness emanated intense enough to encroach Sloan's own form, blurring her, leaving her almost translucent. Almost translucent? She held a hand in front of her eyes. Maybe not almost at all.

Wait. The doll. She climbed to her knees and scoured the area for a dash of pink. Nothing. When did it get away? Sloan touched her shoulder; her wounds were gone. She stood up and felt weirdly fine, finer than she had any right to feel. Tranquil. From her coat she extricated her Soul Gem. It flickered half muddy, but she felt fully purified regardless.

What was this place. What happened to Mitakihara, to Cicero, to Homura Akemi, to Mami Tomoe. What happened to the surreal hellscape that unfolded around her with its ribbons and coils. What happened to color or anything.

"Hello?" she said. Her voice did not escape her throat.

Hello? she thought.

A voice responded immediately. In Japanese.

I don't speak Japanese, said Sloan.

A pause. You... don't? My apologies. You are Mami Tomoe, are you not?

I'm Sloan. Redfearn.

Sloan Redfearn? How strange, we were not expecting you so soon. Not to worry! A hiccup in the system. Bureaucracy, you know how it is. Please step toward the door.

Before Sloan could protest the lack of a door, one opened. Lines oozed out of the whiteness, became clear at least as shapes, empty spaces. Structure. She rose and leaned toward the door to try and see through, but only another white area awaited her. Nonetheless she did as asked and stepped inside.

The moment she passed the threshold the whiteness disappeared, replaced by a sterile but nonetheless existent lobby. A tropical plant served a spot of color, potted in the corner opposite a desk and computer. Empty chairs lined a wall.

In the lobby's center stood a resplendent figure, draped in a low-cut white dress that flowed into the floor with no distinct end. Her bronzed skin glowed in the otherwise opaque space, and her hair, so black as to be almost violet, was a refreshing darkness to which Sloan's eyes naturally gravitated. Every detail of her body exuded perfection, from finely-filed nails to emerald eyes to full lips to full other stuff. She was uncomfortably beautiful, the first human being Sloan had ever seen where the first descriptor to pop into her head was "beautiful". Sloan lowered her eyes and stewed in her own ugliness.

I sense you are not at ease, said the beautiful lady. I apologize, typically we have foreknowledge of new arrivals and assemble a personalized transition experience. Would you prefer if I presented myself like this instead?

She snapped her fingers and her clothes changed to a conservative librarian look, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair tied in a bun. She was still stupid hot.

Look, can you tell me where I am, said Sloan. How do I get back where I was?

We'll discuss those topics and more in due time, Sloan. You are understandably confused. That's okay, the transition into the Law of the Cycles can be abrupt and disorientating. Luckily, I'm here to answer any questions you may have. Oh! Forgive me, I've yet to introduce myself. My name is Ereshkigal. As the first Magical Girl, I hold the distinct honor of presiding as High Priestess to the Law of the Cycles.

Law of the Cycles. Ereshkigal. First Magical Girl? Sloan examined closer the white walls, the white ceiling. An unsettling suspicion formed. Her last memory of clinging to the doll as it opened a portal in spacetime. Did it take her to... the afterlife?

She burst out laughing. Heaven! This was heaven, this was her first angel—Ereshkigal the sexy librarian! Her laughter might have gone on and on, maniacal, if it ever left her throat. Instead, she made only a series of silent chuckles into the whiteness.

Is something the matter, Sloan?

So, so does that mean I'm dead?

Your corporeal form, yes. But your spiritual form, by no means! You have been taken by the Law of the Cycles. Surely you saw her—Madoka Kaname, our beautiful savior. Ereshkigal clasped her hands and stared starry-eyed. You were on the brink of despair, and she came to you. She swallowed your pain and allowed your Soul Gem to shatter, freeing your spirit to become part of her wondrous system. It may have looked and felt like death, but truly your life is only now beginning!

Except none of that happened. At least, not that Sloan remembered. Maybe when she whited out, but she still had her Soul Gem.

That's the only way to get here?

Why do you ask? Ereshkigal's eyes narrowed, although she maintained her pleasant smile. Is that not what happened to you?

Sloan hesitated. She had no idea whether telling the truth was the play here. What would they do, boot her back to Mitakihara? She decided to roll with it for the time being and see what happened.

Uh, no. I was asking, because, uh. Because what about girls whose gems shatter in battle? They come here too?

Ereshkigal's entire upper body reoriented, her face lowering crestfallen, her unblemished arms flourishing operatically to place one hand over her heart and another upturned to the air. Unfortunately, such is not the case. Girls slain in battle will never know the salvation of Madoka Kaname; the destruction of their gems is the destruction of their eternal spirit. A tragedy indeed. Which is why we who are taken by the Law of the Cycles express unflagging devotion to Madoka Kaname's cause. We must facilitate her system so that it runs as a well-oiled machine, ensuring she rescues all possible girls from their grim fates. Consider your fortune in standing here before me, Sloan Redfearn—and now consider those girls, your friends, whose lives ended on the terrestrial plane. You owe it to them to do your part to maintain the Law of the Cycles!

Wait. So you mean, Clair... Kyoko, Nagisa... they're dead for good? There's nothing we can do?

Ah yes. Ereshkigal adjusted her pose again, like a store mannequin, to a businesslike demeanor. You refer to Clair Ibsen, Kyoko Sakura, and Nagisa Momoe, friends of yours during various points in your life? I am afraid so, Sloan. I know hearing that news may be difficult. I am willing to offer any consolation you require.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Was that really the arbitrary distinction between girls who went to heaven and those who just died forever? Whether some fucking doll showed up and spirited them away? At least it explained why murdering another Magical Girl was such a big fucking deal.

I see this explanation has affected you negatively, Sloan. Had I more tact, I would have refrained from telling you until after you grew more accustomed to your new conceptual form. Don't worry. Your bodily emotions will eventually ebb away and leave you at constant equilibrium, though it is not uncommon for those who first arrive to cling to human attachments. Allow me to ease the process somewhat by informing you that the unique conditions of Clair Ibsen's wish—that she never feel true despair—sadly rendered her incapable of salvation at Madoka Kaname's hands. Your part in her death did not change her fate; eventually she would have died in an unnatural way.

The explanation didn't help. And what the hell did she mean about feelings ebbing away? So we become emotionless drones when we die, is that it?

Oh, Sloan. You misunderstand. It is not that your emotions depart you entirely, but that you are able to master and accept them. You will no longer be a slave to the whims of your hormones, as you no longer possess a physical body and thus have no hormones at all. Give it time; you'll see what I mean.

This was what Sayaka and Nagisa became. Angels in heaven, before Homura Akemi dragged them back to earth and returned them to physical form. Did they sit in this room and listen to this sexy stuffy bitch prattle about this shit too?

So where's Mami.

Mami Tomoe? Truthfully, I'm not certain. She was the one slated to arrive here, not you. But the Goddess works in ways beyond the comprehension of even her closest aides, like me. Another dramatic flourish. Her librarian glasses twinkled.

What happens if she never arrives?

Don't worry, I'll have someone check up on Miss Tomoe right away. Glitches in the system must be eradicated, after all. However, I implore you not to worry about it. What happens happens—such is fate. Soon you will understand.

When people start rambling about fate that's when you know you're dicked. Sloan guessed Mami was dead. She saw the gem explode. But it didn't explain what happened after, that strange creature and its weird realm. Sloan got the impression this Ershkgrelkgl chick couldn't explain it either. Or explain much of anything.

Great, said Sloan in the least passive-aggressive way possible. Fate and such, yep yep. Now can I go, uh, anywhere else?

Of course! Ereshkigal swept an arm to her side. In the wall opened another bright door with more brightness beyond. Follow me. We'll begin the new employee onboarding process. I'll revert to my native tongue so no girl feels more privileged than any other. By the way, did you know my native tongue is the first sophisticated spoken language in all human history? My wish led to its creation. Fascinating, right?

The words flowed out so silkily Sloan missed the drift until she followed Ereshkigal into the next room and saw the rows upon rows of cubicles stretching down an infinite corridor. Cubicles, like corporate office cubicles, in colors that spanned the rainbow. Some had designs on the doors, pictures of starry nights or pastoral meadows. Girls buzzed between them, noses buried in files, or in pairs that chatted amicably without moving their mouths, or trundling gurneys stacked with books, or running with clipboards tucked under their arms. One girl zipped past on a skateboard. They all wore Magical Girl uniforms, capes and gloves and boots, which only magnified the strangeness.

Sloan turned to ask Ereshkigal what the fuck was this only to find she now stood among a group of girls. They spoke among themselves in polyglot mental languages, none of which Sloan understood, but they all seemed to understand each other. Sloan counted around twenty.

Uh, hello? said Sloan. Do any of you speak English?

The girl standing next to Sloan, who wore a floral kimono, responded in not English. Sloan smiled and nodded like she understood. She was starting to catch on. These were all girls who succumbed to the Law of the Cycles. Their gems got muddy and the pink-haired doll warped them here. Those at the cubicles had been here some time, while those in Sloan's group were "new employees."

Sayaka spoke English—she said languages meant little to concepts. Okay, cool. But if Sloan remained her dumb uneducated American self (three years high school French, JE SUIS OMELETTE DU FROMAGE?), that must mean...

Ereshkigal glided to the front of the group and pressed her long fingers against her chest. She had reverted to her low-cut gown. The other girls quit their chatter and diverted all attention to her as she gestured emphatically at the cubicles. She spoke, except not in English, not in any language Sloan had even the barest comprehension. Her "native tongue." The first human language, so fascinating! What did that make it, ancient Mesopotamian? The language before Babel?

The new employees nodded to the rises and falls in Ereshkigal's timbre. They all understood this batshit Gilgamesh language and Sloan didn't. Because Sloan wasn't dead. She didn't come here the normal way. She piggybacked a ride.

Ereshkigal talked a lot and gestured even more. Sometimes she brushed back her lustrous hair. Sloan ought to tell them she didn't belong here. Probably not too hard to prove. Then they could kick her back to Earth.

She had a better idea, though.

Eventually, Ereshkigal swept the folds of her gown behind her and walked toward the closest aisle of cubicles. The new employees followed, one behind Sloan giving her a nudge because she apparently missed the cue for the guided tour of Dilbert Heaven to begin. Sloan popped her collar to up her inconspicuousness as she marched in line with the others. What the hell was Ereshkigal taking so long to blab about. Yes, they're cubicles. Fascinating. Although Sloan did wonder what kind of work conceptual entities even did. The ones who ran between the cubicles clutched ledgers and documents. Were they filing Madoka's taxes or what?

She slowed her pace and gradually worked her way to the back of the new employee group, allowing those more invested in Ereshkigal's monologue to pass. She checked the girls in the cubicles, but none looked up from their stacks of paperwork. Nobody paid Sloan the least attention. Her heart pounded in her chest as she formulated her plan.

They reached a junction between the aisles of cubicles. While Ereshkigal and her tour group went one way, Sloan shoved her hands in her pockets and went another. She continued without pause, staring straight ahead while girls and cubicles passed on either side. She loosened her shoulders, took her hands out of her pockets, checked over her shoulder. But nobody came after her.

Each cubicle had a name on a plaque. They appeared to be in the native alphabet of the girl in question, so a lot were indecipherable, Cyrillic and Sanskrit and Hiragana and Hangul. Many were in Latin script but obviously not English—Scandinavian or Italian or French. Sloan read each plaque until she reached one with an undeniably English name: Mary Wright. A painting of a pony emblazoned the door and Sloan peered through the crack. Mary Wright herself stooped over a desk. She scribbled with a quill feather on a piece of parchment.

Um, excuse me, said Sloan.

Mary Wright lifted her head. Freckles infested her face. Ello! I've not seen ye afore, are ye newly arrived?

Aye, said Sloan. Yes. I'm afraid I don't know my way around yet. Do you happen to know where the office of Delaney Pollack is?

Delaney Pollack, ye say... Mary Wright rubbed her chin. Nay, I cannot say I've heard the name. She must be newly arrived too, aye?

Aye, said Sloan. A few days ago.

Well, tis nothing to fret over. Did Ereshkigal give ye a directory?

Uh, yeah, she did, but I uh, left it in my office? And it's kinda far away, and I'm in a hurry, so... Did conceptual entities even hurry? Ereshkigal sure didn't.

But Mary Wright betrayed no wonder at the remark. She put down her quill and rolled her standard-issue office chair to the other corner of her cubicle. She opened a filing cabinet, rifled through the papers, and removed a thick bound booklet titled OFFICES & EMPLOYEES.

Well, ye can borrow mine. Sorry for the wear, tis a trifle used.

She handed the directory to Sloan. It weighed nothing despite its thickness. Sloan opened it to a random page and encountered a list of names in minuscule font. After each name came a "Date of Employment," an office aisle, and a number. The names were arranged chronologically, oldest girls first. She turned to the last page to see if her own name was listed and did not see it. However, the final page was not static; new names appeared at the end as if by magic, each with December 25, 2013, as the date.

Sloan once saw a book like this before. She tried to remember where and when. Her memory faltered and she gave up and flipped through the pages, following the dates until she found December 22. Even then, a ton of girls bit the dust that day. It took a while until her finger pointed to Pollack, Delaney.

Aisle 9230, Office 203. Where is that?

Ah, I'd've known, said Mary Wright. Tis the newest aisle, they're still fillin' it. Is it not your own aisle?

Uh, no, I'm somewhere else. Sloan abandoned any hope of a more believable explanation. Can you tell me how to get here?

Right, tis simple. Mary Wright leaned past Sloan into the aisle and pointed toward a junction. Mark ye the fork? Take left, left, right, left, right, left. That'll put ye where ye need to be.

Left, left, uh. Can you repeat that? Slowly? Or write it down?

Aye, you're perhaps too fresh to keep such things even. Here.

Mary Wright pointed a hand toward her quill and inkwell. They scraped across her desk, levitated through the air, and sailed into her palm. She took a blank piece of parchment and propped it against her cubicle door to scrawl the Konami code of directions in loopy Jane Austen typeface. She rolled the parchment into a scroll and placed it secure in Sloan's hand.

There. Welcome to yer new life.

Thank you, said Sloan.

Mary Wright curtseyed. Yer most welcome.

Left, left, right, left, right, left. Sloan reached the first fork and went left; she followed another long aisle to another fork and took left again. What did this place look like from above? For some reason Sloan imagined interlocking hexagons. She kept her eyes open for Ereshkigal and the tour group, but this place was so huge bumping into them seemed unlikely. Some girls she passed nodded hello, Sloan tried to smile and nod back.

Truthfully, it took a lot of effort not to break into a sprint. The realization that she could meet Delaney here, Delaney and Erika too, and maybe some others, built in intensity after each identical fork. Her mind reeled. This was heaven, the afterlife. It was too amazing to learn such a place existed for her to be miffed it manifested as a corporate honeycomb. Sloan had met plenty of girls, rookies usually, who thought the Law of the Cycles was some kind of heaven. The grizzled vets puffed cigarettes and dismissed their theories as jejune fantasy. This was real, though. Unless Sloan was under the spell of a lucid illusion. She ought to remember that possibility considering the circumstances. But it felt real. It had to be real. Sloan wanted it to be real. Even if you had to deal with Ereshkigal's self-righteous prating, even if you had to file forms. This beat the shit out of her previous life.

She reached the final fork. A plaque at the aisle's entrance read 9230. The new angels ward.

Fuck it. She started to half-jog, half-speedwalk down the long white path. Her eyes flicked between the rows for the names she wanted. Татьяна Иосифовна Замя́тин, 黄靖雯, Hedda Borkman. Some names more recognizably American, but still no Erika Dufresne or Delaney Pollack. She quickened her step. She had to be close.

Sloan?

Sloan skidded to a stop. She looked over her shoulder at the girl who hailed her. Even without her bleached hair—a natural brunette—Sloan recognized her instantly.

Ramsey.

Ramsey squealed in delight. She stumbled the rest of the way out of a cubicle, her costume a hodgepodge of belts and buckles, and flung herself at Sloan. Sloan stepped back reflexively but Ramsey weighed so little—she weighed literally nothing—that the gesture was unneeded. The incorporeal embrace made no register on Sloan's sensory matrix. No warmth, no feeling. Hugged by a ghost.

It lasted only a short time before Ramsey released her. Sorry, I forgot we don't feel anything up here. Ha! She smiled nervously. And I guess I shouldn't be celebrating your death anyway, but I'm really glad you made it! I've met so many new friends already, I'm sure you will too.

I'm glad you're happy, Ramsey. You deserve it.

Ah, well, the name's Chelsea now, actually. It's my real name, and you know, names based on cities—or I guess counties?—are pretty gauche up here, so... I mean, if you want to still call me Ramsey that's totally okay, it can be like a nickname!

Chelsea is fine too. Although the moment Sloan said it a slight twinge of downcast appeared in Ramsey's eyes and Sloan made a mental note to stick with Ramsey from then on.

Ramsey swiveled on a heel and turned back the way she came, grabbing Sloan's sleeve to lead her. Oh, you have to talk to Selma too, she's just down the hall.

Sloan kinda wanted to find Delaney. Selma?

You probably knew her as Woodbury. Did you even meet Woodbury? I don't know if you did. She worked for me, so I guess you could say we were friends back then, but now we're definitely friends. Come on, here's her office.

Ramsey knocked on the door and received a pleasant chime to enter. At the desk inside sat Woodbury—Selma—whatever, go with the names you know—a girl Sloan met once, maybe twice (probably once). All she remembered was that Delaney stabbed her throat out with a knife, so she felt none too swell about this dubious reunion. Indeed, when Woodbury looked up, the smile on her face faded.

Selma, Selma, look who I brought. It's Sloan!

Woodbury slowly nodded. Oh, yeah. Hi Sloan! So you're here now too, huh?

I guess. No reason for a more precise explanation.

Of course. Death comes for us all. Woodbury tapped a keyboard and a screen blipped to life. On it a Magical Girl downed wraiths with electric bolas. If you'll excuse me, I got work to do... as do you.

Ramsey slumped her shoulders. Come on Selma, there's time for that later. You can take a break and talk to Sloan.

I can talk to Sloan anytime too, said Woodbury. She put down her pen and tapped a key on the keyboard. The view on the screen swiveled. Sorry, I know I'm being lame right now. I'm sure we'll be good friends, Sloan. Past differences don't mean diddly up here, I know I know. But I am busy right now.

The girl hurled her bolas. They wrapped around the neck of a wraith and crushed its skull between two cobalt spheres. The girl scrambled to collect the cubes it dropped, glancing over both shoulders as she did. Around her leaned shanty houses. It looked like a Brazilian favela.

What are you watching? said Sloan.

Didn't Ereshkigal tell you? said Ramsey. She shoulda said what we do during orientation.

It must have slipped her mind. She talked a lot about justice and reason and—Sloan tried to think up another highfalutin virtue Ereshkigal might prattle about—and justice.

Yeah I get the impression she does stuff like that a lot, said Ramsey. Uh, but I think we're bothering Selma. I'll catch you up to speed while we walk.

She said goodbye to Woodbury, who hummed in response, and led Sloan back into the hall. Girls passed them, many nodded hellos to Ramsey. Ramsey responded with hello in the respective language of the girl who hailed her, even though all initially spoke in English. Wonder what the etiquette is for girls who speak literally all languages. Like, how do they decide which to use?

Ramsey interrupted Sloan's thoughts. So basically, what we do up here is monitor the Magical Girls living on Earth. We watch them, kinda like guardian angels I guess? We take notes on them, their temperaments, their strengths, their weaknesses. It's up to us to figure out when they're close to despair. That way we can put them in Madoka's queue so she knows where and when to bring them into the Law of the Cycles!

This Madoka, said Sloan. What do you know about her?

Well, I saw her when I succumbed to despair myself, said Ramsey. Ereshkigal told me the basics, about how she saves Magical Girls from turning into witches and whatnot. You also get to see her when one of your charges—a charge is a girl you watch—gets taken. But that hasn't happened for me yet, so I've only seen her the one time.

Sloan wondered if she could telepathically lower her voice so all the girls around didn't key into their conversation, but it probably wasn't possible. And when you saw her, did she look... What did she look like?

Ramsey stopped and faced Sloan. Whaddya mean? She looked exactly like how you saw her. Did she look weird to you?

Well, uh. Sloan tucked her head lower into her collar and squinted out of Ramsey's gaze. I was uh, in a bad state of mind. I don't remember too well.

Oh, I get it. Well, you'll be able to see her yourself eventually. Not only when she takes your charges but I hear from the older girls she sometimes comes around for visits. Though not lately, she's been busy and nobody's spoken with her.

How lately?

Ramsey covered her mouth to stifle a silent giggle. Come on Sloan, Ereshkigal HAD to have told you the first rule of the afterlife: Don't talk about time.

What a fun-sounding rule. Sloan had her own ideas on what "lately" meant, but decided to keep them to herself. If heaven knew their goddess had a little Homura problem, the atmosphere might not be so chill. Well, I'd like to talk to Delaney before I, uh, get to work. She's down this corridor right?

Delaney Pollack? The one who helped you out in Minneapolis. I only met her once down there but I've talked to her a coupla times since and she seems nice. She's this way, come on!

And again they were off, Sloan displeased by Ramsey's tagalong attitude, she would have preferred to talk to Delaney one-on-one, or with Erika. But whatever, Ramsey was harmless enough.

She expected to feel some trepidation as they approached Delaney's cubicle, but the previous post-death reunions loosened the anxiety. Plus, the situation downstairs was a trifle more urgent than up here. When the plaque with Delaney's name appeared, Sloan did not hesitate to step in front of Ramsey and rap a knuckle on the door.

Come in, dear.

Sloan opened the door. Delaney, it's me.

Delaney sat in an overinflated swivel chair with plush scarlet cushions, hunched over a computer screen to watch a girl sleeping peacefully in a motel room. She had the same white hair as when she died. She rolled away from the desk and spun to face Sloan.

Hello, love. When did you arrive?

I hear time is a dirty word around here.

Oh, that's right. I'm inexperienced still.

She did not stand. Between her and Ramsey awkward in the doorway, Sloan's unease amplified. Are you gonna be cold with me too, Delaney? I guess that's fine. I deserve it pretty much.

Oh no no no no, Sloan love. Don't take it like that. Delaney reclined in her chair and spread her slender arms down the rests to grip their ends. But each girl when they come here has to overcome the flaws that destroyed them in life. I spent my life trying to cover up who I really was, because who I really was I thought was terrible. And I did do some terrible things. But I have to come to terms with that now. No more masks for me. So if I seem distant... That's simply the normal me. The true me.

Ah.

It also helps I no longer have a physical body, so I don't feel the urge to hump everything in sight!

Uh.

Ramsey finally took the hint she didn't need to be here and sidestepped toward the exit. But Delaney extended a hand. Oh, Chelsea dear, no need to leave, I was simply cracking a joke! Humor is a foreign concept to concepts, Sloan. You should have seen Ereshkigal's expression when I made a quip about her bosom.

Well, some things had certainly changed, but Sloan at least got the impression she was actually speaking to Delaney and not a ghostly doppelganger.

Actually, Delaney said, pointing at Ramsey, could you be a dear and fetch Erika Dufresne for us? Tell her Sloan's here, she'll come right away.

I'm not sure I know Erika Dufresne, said Ramsey.

You don't. Next wing over, Aisle 9229. She croaked a couple days before us, but we must have her for a true Williston Three reunion.

Ramsey stepped at smart attention and saluted. I'll bring her as fast as I can! She sped away, leaving Sloan and Delaney alone in the cubicle.

Now now, my little chickadee. Delaney snapped her fingers and the cubicle door sealed them inside. It's a long aisle, we'll have some nice private time before Erika arrives. How about we resolve all the sexual tension we never got to in life?

Sloan jammed her hands in her coat pockets and avoided Delaney's gaze. I thought you said you didn't feel—

Yes, yes. Just trying to give you that old Delaney Pollack you know and love! We don't even have corporeal bodies anyway, and these ghost avatars aren't quite anatomically correct. Trust me, I checked, it's like a Barbie doll down there. So don't worry. You're cute when you're uncomfortable, love.

Gee, thanks. Too bad these cubicles had only one seat apiece. Well, that didn't stop Sloan. She sat on the desk beside the computer. Look, Delaney, shooting the shit is cool and all. But I have something serious to talk about.

And because the mention of something serious obviously meant the opposite of that, Delaney tore away from the conversation and clacked some keys to zoom onto the sleeping girl on her screen. Sorry, love, keep going, I'm listening. It's not my break though so I do need to keep at least partial attention on Miss Ravalli of Palermo, Italy. Do go on.

Miss Ravalli seemed perfectly content to remain asleep, but Sloan let it go without comment. Delaney, do you remember before you died? All that weird bullshit with Clair and Omaha?

Of course love. I have attained perfect clarity of memory. Haven't you?

When we were doing that crap, you kept talking about God. The one you thought punished you for murdering that girl in Saskatchewan. And demons, remember?

Delaney scratched her pen across a notebook. Unlike Mary Wright, she used a modern writing instrument. Was the pen a "concept," like the girls kept saying they themselves were? An illusion? Nothing here felt like anything, nothing made any sound. Anything you need to ask me you can answer yourself if you search long enough. Come now love, I know the transition from life to afterlife jars the senses, but it doesn't take so long to acclimate. You're acting odd.

I've been to Mitakihara, Delaney. I've seen Homura Akemi.

The pen stopped. Delaney's eyes shifted from the screen to Sloan. She placed the pen lengthwise across the notebook and clasped her hands together.

Should those words mean something to me?

They... You... Sloan remembered she had a better way to prove this. She patted her pockets to discern where she put all her belongings after relocating them from her prior coat and found the folded piece of paper in the lower left inner pocket. She handed it Delaney. It read the same as always:

WILLISTON — SLOAN REDFEARN (FARGO) / ERIKA DUFRESNE (WINNIPEG).

MINNEAPOLIS — CLAIR IBSEN.

MITAKIHARA — HOMURA AKEMI.

Delaney read the paper. She read it again. Her mouth remained impassive. She glanced at Miss Ravalli asleep in Italy.

This is my handwriting.

Yes it is. You gave this to me. You told me to use it to do some good.

I remember that. I remember writing the first two lines.

And the third?

Delaney scanned the paper again. She turned it around and upside-down and scrutinized it with her red eyes—Clair's eyes.

It's my handwriting, but. How did you even bring this here? This is a real object. She looked at Sloan. And that coat too.

Delaney, you once told me you needed to save God from a demon. That demon's name is—

Ramsey reemerged in the cubicle doorway. She gripped the jambs and leaned inside, her face an ineffable beam. Back! Erika's right behind me. Here she is, here she is.

Erika peeked her head around the doorway. It felt like ages since Sloan last saw her, but really it was a matter of days, and not many at that. Death did wonders for her acne. A clear face took the childish edge off her appearance and even imbued her with a serene beauty (there Sloan goes with that beauty word again). At a beckoning hand from Ramsey, she tiptoed into the cubicle and stood beside Sloan.

Hello.

Hi, Erika.

Erika kneaded her hands together. A small foot fidgeted. I honestly wish I felt more seeing you, Sloan. The downside of our elevated state, perhaps.

Crammed into the confines of the cubicle, Ramsey had to contort her whole body to avoid crushing against them. Come on Erika, that's no way to be.

I suppose. Erika managed a smile. Of the entire tableau of my life, one of my happiest memories—nay, my happiest—is that moment after we defeated the archon. Before the invisible girl attacked. That fleeting, brief exchange we had, Sloan. I wish I could feel like I did then.

Well. Sloan did not come equipped for a conversation like this. She guessed concepts had little else to do but contemplate and philosophize, and maybe in different circumstances a bare heart-to-heart with Erika might be something Sloan wanted, but she had to forget this safe, pleasant place and remember the world beneath.

Close the door, Erika. I have something to show you all.

Erika stood still, quizzical, and eventually Ramsey twisted around her to pull the door shut. Delaney sat deep in her chair with the paper clutched in one hand.

The space became even smaller. If they weren't in an actual geography, why did they make the offices so claustrophobic? Sloan maneuvered best she could to the middle, the others triangulated around her. She slipped a hand into her coat and rummaged. When her hand emerged, it held her Soul Gem.

The reaction was instantaneous. Ramsey and Erika in unison: That's—

Then Delaney: Her Soul Gem.

It can't be, said Erika. Our Soul Gems break before the Law of the Cycles takes us. It is how Madoka releases our souls from corporeal form.

I'm confused, said Ramsey.

Delaney's head slumped. Her white hair cascaded around her. She's not dead.

How, said Erika.

What to explain first? Homura Akemi, doll Madoka, the situation in Mitakihara? Sloan took a deep breath even though no air existed. The absence ached in her lungs.

I grabbed the thing you guys see as Madoka Kaname and hitched a ride here.

No, said Erika. Madoka Kaname is an incorporeal concept. Normal humans cannot detect her with any sensory apparatus. She appears only to Puella Magi on the verge of despair, and only to perform the ritual of unbinding. You cannot simply "grab" her.

Also she's not a "thing"? said Ramsey. She's really really nice Sloan, don't say mean things about her.

My magic allows me to see the invisible, said Sloan.

Erika and Ramsey closed in, confining her even tighter. Delaney remained in her seat.

You miss the point, said Erika. Madoka Kaname is not merely invisible. She is—

Look. Sloan tried to sigh. No breath exhaled. What you guys see as Madoka Kaname isn't Madoka Kaname. It's a doll. In a fucking pink wig.

Erika took another aggressive step forward. Sloan, regardless of my feelings about you, if you continue to defame our Goddess, I will strike down your living body here and now. Her hand settled on the hilt of her sheathed katana. Did a conceptual katana still cut?

Delaney brushed the thin white strands from her face. She's right. She's fucking right.

What? Erika's knuckle tightened around the hilt. You too, Delaney?

I can't remember Homura Akemi, I can't remember Mitakihara, but I can remember everything else. Why we were in Williston. So Sloan would get the archon's power and fight Clair. It's why you had to die, Erika, because you would've taken the power yourself. Or that's what Kyubey thought.

We were there to save the town. I was there for territory.

Delaney rolled to her computer and tapped the keyboard. Menus and windows popped up on the screen. Yeah, you were a tad out of the loop, weren't you dear? I wanted something different. I wanted to do a good deed. A deed good enough to salvage my soul—not that such a deed proved necessary, in the end. I wanted to save our Goddess.

The screen shifted to a blank black nothing. A window appeared with a caution sign and the text THE LOCATION YOU SPECIFIED [MITAKIHARA, JAPAN] DOES NOT EXIST.

Save her from what? said Ramsey.

That's the part I can't remember.

This is lunacy, said Erika. We must report Sloan to Ereshkigal at once. She can't be allowed to know about this place. We'll obviate her memory and return her to her world.

Hold a moment. Delaney's fingers skittered across the keyboard. A new window appeared: THE PUELLA MAGI YOU SPECIFIED [AKEMI, HOMURA] DOES NOT EXIST.

Try Mami Tomoe, said Sloan. She realized she did not know how the name was spelled. But Delaney typed without question and a new window appeared:

NAME: MAMI TOMOE | AGE: 18 | LOCATION: | GUARDIAN: |

Ramsey and Erika uttered a collective mental gasp. How can she have no guardian?

Or location, Erika added.

Sloan wanted to have Delaney check Kyoko and Sayaka and Nagisa, but she either never knew their last names or, true to form, totally forgot. She suspected a similar screen would appear for each. Someone expunged the records, she said.

Erika bit her lip. A glitch.

How many glitches have you seen here, Erika. Sloan had no idea how tight they ran their databases but she doubted heaven let ghosts in the machine. How likely is it that the first girl I mention has no location?

Erika made no response. Ramsey wrapped her arms around herself and said: If she has no guardian, Madoka won't know when to come for her. If she doesn't come—

She had someone watching her, alright. The best guardian of all, one with a direct uplink to the doll posing as Madoka. Homura Akemi.

How can you say this, Sloan? How can you—a human—come here and tell us these things?

Sloan placed her hands on Erika's shoulders. No sensation of feeling extended from her fingertips to the sensory cortex in her brain, as though Erika were a puff of air. A shade. Ethereal wisps of the girl once known as Erika Dufresne, once known as Winnipeg. Erika looked up at her, mouth slightly open, eyes unable to meet Sloan's.

A lot of things that should be impossible have happened, Erika. I did not transcend space and time to come here so I could lie to you. A girl named Homura Akemi has taken the real Madoka Kaname and keeps her in Mitakihara. Do you think I made those names up, Erika?

Erika's eyes glanced toward the paper in Delaney's hand. I... I don't know.

Erika. Please trust me. Please.

I believe her, said Delaney.

Ramsey shuffled her feet. I do too.

A twist of the shoulders pulled Erika away from Sloan. Fine. Fine! I believe something is suspicious, at least.

Good enough. Sloan again tried to sigh and again received an airless vacuum. She needed to remember to stop inhaling. Okay. Now let's convince Ereshkigal or whoever's in charge here. Send this whole damn angel army to Mitakihara.

That won't work, love. Delaney closed the windows on her computer and returned to the sleeping Italian. The only reason these two believe you is because they're your friends. The only reason I believe you is because you filled the gaps in my memory. Do you think a piece of paper and a single oddity in the system will convince Ereshkigal? All she'll be interested in is deleting your memory once she discovers you're still alive.

She would never take the word of a human over her own perceptions, said Erika.

She's kind of uh, Ramsey rubbed her throat, full of herself?

Then what do we do? said Sloan. Something serious is going down. I came here through a portal, there has to be a way back, right?

Of course there's a portal love. How else does Madoka move between here and the physical world?

Great, then let's go. Homura Akemi is only one girl, and there's other girls already fighting her. With your blood magic it should be easy to restrain her and fix everything.

Erika crossed her arms. We minor concepts are forbidden from accessing the portal unless the Goddess Madoka requires us to assist her. Which has not happened in some time.

The portal is located beyond Ereshkigal's office, said Delaney. We'll have to go through her to get to it.

We can wait for her to go on another orientation tour, said Sloan. Then we sneak past easy.

An admonishing finger from Delaney waved near her face. Nuh-uh-uh love. That's not how concepts work. Ereshkigal is both on the tour and in her office at the same time, because neither time nor space binds her. Just like how Erika and Chelsea are both here and in their own cubicles, monitoring their charges.

Well that was about the dumbest thing Sloan heard today. Fucking conceptual entities. She wanted to stop scrambling for contingencies and bumrush the portal, Ereshkigal be damned. What power did she hold over them anyway? Could concepts hurt each other? That would make even less sense. Meanwhile, down below something had happened to Mami, Homura and Sayaka were fighting, Kyoko and Nagisa already dead. She wanted out of this stupid cramped cubicle, she needed to do SOMETHING, fix EVERYTHING, end this awful migraine.

She opened her mouth to spout some obscenity but remembered the void of sound and closed it.

Ramsey's face lit up. She raised a hand like in elementary school. Oh, oh, I know, I can do this, I can do this! I can really do this, oh my god I can. I can.

Do what, said Sloan.

Ereshkigal likes me. Ramsey beamed. Everyone does, at least a little. I can distract her. She can only split her attention so many ways—she's not as powerful as Madoka—and she's probably already near her limit, since she's a workaholic. I'll distract her while you guys go through the portal. I know I can!

Sloan looked from Delaney to Erika and wondered which would be first to declare the plan infeasible. For a long time neither said anything, but Delaney did eventually speak. If Madoka is truly in danger, I'd feel more secure with a stronger strategy.

Do you have one? said Ramsey.

No.

Then it's settled, we do it. We can't wait forever!

What we are doing is incredibly impulsive, said Erika. The prohibition against our using the portal is not without cause. It was placed by the Goddess Madoka to protect us. If we return to the physical plane, we suffer risk of permanent death.

Sayaka mentioned the same thing. A flicker slowed the gnashing gears in Sloan's head. If Homura proved too much and killed either of them, Delaney or Erika... No. That scenario could not happen. Either way, Sloan had lost too much to cut losses now. Either she reversed the destruction or she drilled herself so far into the ground to make her immolation via friction the most spectacular of all time. Try that for gambler's fallacy.

As part of the Law of the Cycles, our chief duty is to ensure the protection of Madoka Kaname. Delaney finally stood from her chair and tucked it beneath her desk. Death in her name is an afterthought for one alive solely by her intercession.

Indeed. Erika extended an arm and indicated for Sloan to exit. I pray Sloan is not mistaken in her judgment.

They filed out the cubicle and followed Ramsey down the aisle. The girls who ran around with trolleys and folders maybe heard, if not the whole thing, snippets of their conversation, enough to be alarmed at least. But none reacted, none did anything save continue on their business. They must be used to tuning out extraneous conversation. God this was a weird fucking place. If Sloan used her power to see through this hollow shroud, this world without physicality, what would she discover behind it? She decided not to try.

Nice coat by the way, love. Delaney tilted her head. It fits your body a lot better.

That girl I mentioned, Mami, she got it for me.

Ooh, does Sloaney-woaney have a new giiiiirlfwiend?

Pretty sure she's dead now.

Oh.

Sloan decided now was as good a time as any to clear up the last mystery of the evening. What happens to a girl when she's filled with despair but Madoka can't get to her?

None of her companions responded immediately. Ramsey, in the lead, stared ahead while Erika made no reaction whatsoever. Delaney inspected her fingernails.

Madoka has never failed to reach a Puella Magi, said Erika. At least in this universe. In a previous one, however, those who succumbed to despair transformed into monsters.

Witches, said Delaney. The final form of a Magical Girl. Far more powerful, and far more terrifying. Sort of like archons. They create labyrinths to lure victims inside. They spread curses. Once a Magical Girl becomes one, she cannot return.

Sayaka mentioned witches too. How much about this world did Sloan still not understand? How many more events beyond her comprehension propelled her one way or another? Silly girls talked about fate, predestination, as though a deity wove a grand plan for their lives. Sloan knew no deity gave a shit about her, not even this oh-so-exalted Madoka. But she could understand the concept of fate in another way, a path set in motion by the structures that held up this world, cells of a jail into which mortals were born without any chance of escape. Death, despair, failure.

She had already killed Clair. She had already killed the Minneapolis girls and Erika and Delaney, Kyoko and Nagisa and Mami. Why was she leading Erika and Delaney to die again?

We're here, said Ramsey. They reached the end of the infinite office building. Ereshkigal orated at the entrance to a new group of neophytes. Sloan sidled behind Delaney as the tour group forged past them into the aisles, but Ereshkigal's absorption in her own words was total enough to render the motion moot.

A plain white door hovered in a plain white wall. Ramsey stood on tiptoe to peer inside even though absolutely nothing was visible.

Hmm, said Ramsey.

You won't get cold feet will you? said Sloan.

Delaney rubbed Ramsey's shoulders. Perhaps it won't be so hard. Normally girls here never want to leave—serene peace far outstrips life's miseries. But we shouldn't be lax, we likely only have one chance.

Trust me. Ramsey balled her fists and put on a serious face. I've mucked up a lot. I won't muck up now. You'll see, Sloan. You'll all see.

She broke away from Delaney and ventured into the room. The moment she crossed the threshold she vanished, absorbed entirely by the light. Sloan leaned to look inside, but Erika yanked her back and indicated she act casual with a sharp motion.

Um, Miss Ereshkigal? said Ramsey.

Hello, Chelsea. What brings you to my office? Is something the matter?

Um. Yes. Yes, something's the matter. I want to talk to you about love, Miss Ereshkigal.

Erika put palm to face. Delaney covered a snigger.

Love? said Ereshkigal, disinterested.

Yes. Pause. Love. Pause. I'm well aware that, as concepts, we are incapable of feeling erotic love or... pleasure. I want to instead speak about, um, platonic love.

Platonic love.

Yeah, you know. Love that stems from... admiration? And, uh, just liking someone? That kind of love.

Erika's hand remained plastered to her face. Ready Plan B, this is going nowhere.

And what pertaining to platonic love do you wish to speak? said Ereshkigal. Shall we discuss platonic love as defined by the philosopher Plato himself? In which a beautiful being inspires one to become spiritually edified?

Uh yeah that.

I have presided over this realm almost since its inception, Chelsea. As the first Puella Magi—in this universe at least—I was designated by the Goddess Madoka to become its warden during her absence. As such, I have observed love between humans in all forms across all the centuries of humankind. From those observations I have written several treatises on the spectrum of human emotion, which you may peruse during your leisure in our Archives. However since you have already come to me I will impart to you a brief description of my findings.

This actually might be working, said Delaney.

But is it working enough? said Sloan. When do we go in?

Now's good a time as any.

Delaney grabbed Sloan's wrist and pulled her through the door while Erika followed. As they stepped into the blinding white, Ereshkigal droned:

In truth, I have yet to notice love in the form Plato describes among mere humans. I notice it frequently among ourselves, as our love toward Madoka and her miracles often ameliorates vulgar dispositions. Her beauty does indeed edify, while to love her in a non-platonic way would be sacrilege.

The interior of Ereshkigal's office changed since Sloan first visited, or maybe it was an entirely different room. It was much larger, with rows upon rows of wooden shelves. At the front, behind a lima bean desk with a three-screened computer, Ereshkigal sat. She leaned over on her elbows while Ramsey nodded along. Delaney pulled Sloan behind a shelf to hide them from view, though Ereshkigal seemed totally absorbed in her speech.

Among humans, I have witnessed four kinds of love. The first is erotic love and involves base sexual pleasures. It is not worth dignifying with a 79,000-word dissertation, though in my diligence I have indeed dignified it so. Given how you conducted your life on Earth, Chelsea, I feel you are no stranger to this type of love, so a longwinded summation will be unnecessary.

Was this really working? They could follow the shelves while keeping out of direct sight, so it seemed like easy street from here—Well, no, of course not. Not far down the aisle, atop a small stepladder, a second Ereshkigal tapped her finger along the tomes of a top shelf. She extricated one she liked and climbed down the stepladder with graceful steps made impressive by her unending gown. Sloan, Delaney, and Erika froze against the shelves as she cracked the book open and walked past, nose buried.

The second kind is familial love. The love between those related by blood. Like erotic love it is a base form, rooted in the physicality of DNA, meaningless outside shared genetic dispositions. However, on an instinctual level this can be the most powerful love of all. Though you never knew motherhood, I bore five children prior to my death at the age of nineteen. Three failed to survive past early infancy, yet their deaths wracked my heart. It was the death of my eldest daughter, at the age of 5, that ultimately undid me. Such a pointless death, to illness. The sight of her corpse plunged me into a darkness from which only our Goddess could deliver me. And yet, once I became part of the Law of the Cycles, the fate of my final child, my young son, suddenly meant nothing to me. That he lived a long life and fathered many children of his own only registered as a footnote in my annals of the human species.

The moment the second Ereshkigal passed, Erika gestured for them to move. They kept low along the side of the shelves, Delaney in the lead checking at every junction in case more Ereshkigals drifted around. Like the offices, the aisles stretched forever. The identical spines of the books bore titles in a script alien to Sloan.

I'm sorry for your loss, said Ramsey.

The third kind of love is perhaps the closest analogue to platonic love that mortal humans know. It is a nonsexual love between friends, generally rooted in mutual respect and admiration. It differs from true platonic love in that it has nothing to do with beauty or spiritualism. It is the love that causes two people to sacrifice their lives for one another. It is the love that cannot be rent by strife. It is the love our Goddess, our Madoka Kaname somehow held in her heart not solely for her own friends but for all Puella Magi, all humankind, all life in general. Her capacity for this love transcends that of any normal human, or of all the girls in this sphere combined. A love so great she obliterated her physical form to express it.

Delaney held a hand to stop. Down the aisle two Ereshkigals worked, back to back as they perused opposite shelves. Erika led as they doubled back to a junction, crept along the rows, found a new aisle clear of conceptual copies. They moved faster. The shelves seemed to curve over them, distorted like a fisheye lens. Sloan remembered the library in Williston—eons ago. Where she walked hand-in-hand with Omaha between the monolith shelves.

I see! said Ramsey. So that's why Madoka is so great? Not to insinuate there has to be a reason of course, but you know sometimes it can be hard to, uh, y'know, conceptualize her greatness? If that makes sense? Sorry if I don't make sense.

Ahead shone a white light. They hurried toward it at a full sprint.

It's quite alright, Chelsea. You are still new, your integration into the whole remains incomplete. Asking these questions and receiving answers from the proper authorities is key to your development. Indeed you are correct. It is Madoka Kaname's beautiful sacrifice that gives meaning to her greatness. Power came to her not through her own will. She did not earn it, had no obligation toward it. She lacked, perhaps, any comprehension of her strength when she made her wish. She was not born a Goddess. For her then to act with the justness, the reason, and the rectitude of one was itself an ascension regardless of the quotidian karmic cycles that propelled her to this state. She simultaneously became a God in mind as well as body, and none, not I nor you nor any girl here, could replace her, could fulfill her true duty toward humanity.

The shelves melted away into the white. All became white, ahead and behind, Delaney and Erika and Sloan herself. Ahead the whiteness focused, intensified, stretched like a maw.

That's it, said Delaney. The portal to the physical plane. You have to lead us, love. Visualize where you want to go and take us there.

Visualize where to go. She remembered the last place she had been—the bizarre labyrinth, the ribbons and gifts and unreal colors. And the strange creature, the witch, that spawned from Mami's corpse. She closed her eyes to see it better but even with her eyes closed everything remained a perfect white.

I digress, said Ereshkigal.

Go, love. Take us there. Take us to Madoka.

The fourth and final kind of love is the love of self.

Sloan stepped into the portal.

Chapter 40: Her Pale Fire She Something Something

And stepped into color. A lot of it, fast and vicious color. Sloan blinked hard to adjust, and even then little of the topography coalesced. She missed the fact she was falling until her boots crashed onto a tabletop and her legs buckled and she smacked her face against the wood. Scraped but at least felt something unlike the senseless void of heaven. Delaney and Erika stuck perfect landings behind her.

The table, laden with china and candlesticks and headless apple-stuffed swine, stretched ahead what looked like forever. Below the table writhed a snake den of yellow ribbons, slick, coiled, and churning, that blotted any semblance of ground.

One glance and my misgivings are put to rest, said Erika. A witch labyrinth should not exist in this universe.

"You can talk normally now," said Sloan, rising.

"Oh, right." Erika's voice cracked; she retried. "There. Better."

"We have vocal chords again!" said Delaney. "This is real flesh and blood! But ahem, serious business. Madoka is inside this labyrinth, Sloan love?"

Sloan rubbed her bruised face. "No. I think she's in Homura Akemi's apartment." Not that she knew for sure, but Sayaka had been trying to get inside it.

They proceeded down the table in search of an exit. A cartoonish figure dressed like a maid, with red hair plus ponytail, carted a tray of tea past them.

"A familiar." Erika drew her katana while the maid-thing tottered away, paying them no heed. "Be on your guard."

"Very well," Delaney added with a sigh. In her hand materialized a ruby scepter. "Let's move quickly, though, and avoid a fight in here. Time is of the essence."

Time. Shit, Sloan forgot. "Homura can freeze time." After a pause during which the others stared at her to explain, she added: "I think it doesn't work if you touch her. Like Omaha's power. Right now she's fighting Sayaka, who's immune I think, so maybe she won't use it unless she needs to."

"Who's Sayaka," said Erika.

God dammit, how much would Sloan have to explain? "She's another girl like you, who came back to save Madoka."

"What do these girls look like," said Erika.

"Uh, Homura has, uh." She tried to remember the picture in Mami's apartment, or the glimpse she got before Mami died. Instead she just remembered Omaha. "She has long dark hair."

"Love, we're in Japan, you'll need to be more specific."

"She looks like Omaha. Like, a lot like Omaha."

"Who's Omaha," said Erika.

Erika didn't know Omaha? That had to be wrong, Omaha was the one who—well, Erika never learned her name. "The invisible girl."

"Ah. Of course, I wouldn't know what she looks like."

Sloan was at a loss.

They reached something that mercifully distracted from her ineptitude, a bundled web of threads suspended over the table. It contained a girl in gold armor, arms bound, legs bound, wriggling her head.

"Hey. Hey you guys. Hey. Help me out here. Please."

"Who's that," said Erika.

"Nobody important." Not even a Chicago girl Sloan recognized. Of which there were only three: Cicero, Berwyn, and the one with the big sword.

Delaney waved as they passed. "Toodloo, dear. We've more pressing matters to which we must attend!"

"Hey, hey, no wait, hey."

They continued down the table, Erika setting a brisk pace and getting brisker until they were basically jogging. More maids skittered in the opposite direction, some with different hair colors, blue and white and pink. If the witch was, as Delaney said, a Magical Girl's final form, did that make this labyrinth some symbolic expunge of her shattered psyche? Ribbons, presents, tea, dinner. The hair of her automaton helpers followed a suspicious pattern.

The embryo of an idea generated in her mind. Something to fix Mami. And bring back Kyoko and Nagisa. She remembered something Sayaka told her—

"I've got an idea for dealing with stopped time," said Delaney. Before either Sloan or Erika asked what, she waved her scepter. Two bubbles formed from its ruby. One zipped at Sloan's forehead and burst in blood that dribbled down the bridge of her nose, the other similarly struck Erika.

Sloan pawed at her face. "What—"

"No no no, don't touch." Delaney waved a stern finger. "Leave it there, let it dry onto your skin. You too Erika, stop it stop it stop."

Erika's fingers curled near her face, the tips trembling. "What is the purpose of this!"

"Usually when blood leaves your body, it's no longer part of you. But not mine! Because I'm a weird freak with a goofy power. Even when it's not in my body, I can control my blood—where do you think those bubbles come from? That means the blood on your foreheads is still very much alive, and still very much part of me."

"Which means you're technically 'touching' us," said Erika.

"Very good, that's exactly it. Now, all I need to do is douse this Homura Akemi with a surprise attack and pow! We're immune to her time magic, all three of us."

The blood pooled on Sloan's raised eyebrow. "You're sure this'll work?"

"I know my own power well, love. Do you take me for a dilettante?"

"I see an exit." Erika pointed her sword. Ahead, the table stopped. Above its splintered edge, amid the polyblobs forming the canopy of their uncertain space, a crack of light flickered.

Delaney tapped her staff against the tabletop. A bubble enveloped them; they floated toward the glowing crack. "Alright. Keep your eyes out for an Omaha-looking girl with long dark hair, is that it love?"

"Watch out for dolls too."

The moment their bubble touched the light, the entire landscape changed. The random dadaist vomit became an external scene, descending daylight, tenements and towers. Homura Akemi's apartment stood atop a precipitous, jagged pillar of rock and marble. It loomed so high Sloan honestly had no way to tell if it were actually her apartment. But whose would it fucking be.

Other than the random stone pillar, the rest of the area remained the same. A few Chicago girls, mostly dead, were scattered on the ground. More importantly, Sayaka and Homura clashed at the pillar's base.

They weaved with lunges and parries and excellent footwork. A million swords gravitated around Sayaka, her body drenched in blood that ran from her skull, shoulders, limbs, and back, from gashes that healed the instant she received them. Homura, untouched, sidestepped Sayaka's attacks and returned fire. Nearly every shot hit Sayaka because Sayaka with a red glinting eye made no effort to dodge unless her Soul Gem was the target. It took all of a millisecond for Sloan to understand Sayaka was not winning. She looked like a golem animated despite total structural failure, barely alive.

The bubble burst and blood cascaded around them as they landed on the cobblestone. Delaney waved her staff and the falling blood swirled forward in a thick spiral. By the time Homura tore her focus from her opponent it was too late. The blood hit her with enough force to carry her into the craggy pillar.

She bounced off and hit the ground catlike, four limbed. The shield churned, time stopped, and Sloan could actually cognize the act of "time stopping" because she, Delaney, and Erika remained animated despite the grayscale everywhere else. Sayaka also kept moving, although now Sloan saw why: the dark cable that connected her to a nearby portal. Omaha's portal.

Homura and Sayaka halted their fight and stared at Sloan's new companions.

"Who are you," said Homura.

Sayaka heaved with breath and brushed a gore-clumped tuft of hair from her face.

Delaney bowed gracefully or theatrically. "Who we are is unimportant, but since you asked. I am Delaney Pollack, this is my associate Erika Dufresne. We come from the afterlife to ascertain the whereabouts of one Madoka Kaname, have you heard of her?"

"Madoka must be in that apartment." Sloan pointed at the giant pillar. "Why else would she lift it into the sky?"

"I know, love," Delaney whispered between gritted teeth. "It's called socializing."

Homura reached behind her shield and drew a gun, which Sloan couldn't identify because it was a real gun and not a bogus one like an arquebus. "Did the Incubator plan even this?" Homura said. "You'll never take her. You'll never take Madoka back!"

"So you do have her," said Erika. "That means negotiations are over."

Her lithe form darted forward, a blur of purple. By the time either Sloan or Delaney took a single step she swung down on Homura, who raised her shield to absorb the blow and fired her gun into Erika's knee. Erika knelt hard while her katana returned for a swift second strike, which Sayaka joined with a stab of her own. Homura cartwheeled backward and raked a gun across them both, except after they absorbed her bullets Delaney scampered onto the scene to drench them in blood.

Time resumed.

A lightning three-versus-one ensued. They moved so fast Sloan struggled to watch, the location of their combat shifting quicker than she could move her head. Delaney and Erika weren't this fast in Williston. When did death become a powerup? Sloan didn't bother summoning a turret.

Instead she ran for the pillar propping Homura's apartment in the sky. At least a few hundred feet tall, which chucked a wrench into Sloan's still-shaky plan to revive Mami and the others. Probably a bad plan. A don't-even-fucking-try-it-Sloan plan. And yet a plan with intoxicating allure. The more she considered it, the more she replayed what Sayaka and Omaha told her, the more she knew it would work.

Well, it would work if she made it to Madoka. Which right now required substantial rock climbing.

She checked the fight. Delaney hovered apart from the battle's brunt, generating strategic bubbles either to block bullets or form platforms. Sayaka lay facedown in a pool of blood, looking kinda dead until she flipped to her feet and charged back with dizzyingly intense strikes. Erika's cuts were cleaner, more composed, but despite the two-pronged assault, Homura remained unharmed. Hard to tell with Delaney's blood all over—even if Homura did get hit, wouldn't it heal her?—but she seemed to dodge everything.

Erika, Delaney, said Sloan. Can you take her?

She's formidable, love. Delaney maneuvered her bubbles without glancing back. But her weapons are rudimentary, they're easy to block.

Once I, learn her, patterns! Another swipe from Erika cleaved empty air where Homura stood moments prior. Then it'll take but one stroke.

What's Blueberry-chan's name again, love? She's rather unhinged, it's attractive but poor for strategy. Reminds me of a certain someone in Minneapolis—

Sayaka. That's Sayaka. Which did not snap Sayaka from her frenzy. Her strikes barely finished before she swung again. She looked like a Hindu goddess, many-armed.

Well, they seemed to have it under control for now at least. Sloan looked up at the pillar. It was like Homura wrenched up a rough cylinder of crust to make her apartment more defensible. Sloan would rather not mountaineer it the slow and steady way.

Erika. Gimme a gust.

Erika sagged as a bullet penetrated her ankle. Gust? I'm busy.

Think about what I said.

But Erika bounded back into action without a word. Goddammit. Sloan would just have to ask Delaney for a bubble, though wind would be faster. She started to formulate the thought when an updraft swept her airborne. Her coat billowed as she lost control of herself, carried on the whims of the gale, flipping and flapping.

Around her, the city sprawled. Despite its taller towers, it looked like Minneapolis, in a way. The way all cities look like one another.

And boom, the wind released her, she hovered a moment as Homura Akemi's apartment appeared at the top of the pillar. She landed on a sliver of the cobblestone road that had risen with it, although she had to cling close to keep from falling off. She checked over her shoulder. No sign of Homura racing after; either she didn't notice or the trio kept her occupied. Now was Sloan's shot.

Except the front door was shut. Shit.

Sloan tried the knob anyway on the prayer that Homura forgot to lock the door. Nope. She sidled along the lip of ground in search of an alternate entrance, though she knew the odds of finding one were near nil. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe she shouldn't try this new stupid plan of hers and make things worse somehow. If Delaney and Erika won, maybe that counted as a redemptive win for Sloan too. She did call them in, after all. But she refused to accept a "win" like that. Not with Mami, Kyoko, and Nagisa dead.

She crept to the nearest window and peered between the curtains. If she twisted herself over or under or to the left or right, she could angle her view inside, collect piecemeal images, and puzzle them together. The room looked mostly barren: a few pieces of minimalist furniture, a scrapbook-like bulletin board.

And, of course, a whole bunch of creepy dolls, all staring directly at her. Sloan suppressed a shiver and tried to count them, but they clustered so close together it was hard to tell. More than in Minneapolis for sure. Amid them, smack in their center: a girl with pink hair.

Madoka Kaname. Miss Law of the Cycles incarnate. Winner of the coveted Cutie Patootie Award since the dawn of creation.

She languished on a couch, her eyes fixed on something or on nothing as though hypnotized. She seemed unaware of the world around her, or that she was a few hundred feet in the air on a narrow column of dirt.

The dolls didn't try to attack Sloan. If Omaha had the ability to open a portal anywhere in the universe, they probably needed to keep close to make sure she didn't yoink Madoka out of the blue. Plus, since Sloan was stuck outside, they had no reason to worry about her. How much leeway did she have before they got aggressive?

Let's find out. Sloan angled her view through the curtains to align herself with Madoka. She pressed a palm to the pane and focused a small beam of light, nothing weaponized, the barest possible energy expenditure. The beam passed through the glass like light usually does and struck Madoka in her face.

The dolls did not move. Madoka remained still, her attention rapt on nothing. But when Sloan amped up the light, she abruptly blinked and turned away, rubbing her face.

Hey. Hey, Madoka. Can you hear me?

Although Madoka examined the interior of the apartment, she made no response. She couldn't speak English, of course, but she should have at least said something in Japanese. Maybe anti-telepathy magic in the barrier.

Sloan almost laughed. Homura put so much care into making her apartment impenetrable, but Sloan could still get through with light because a window that let in no light was a mirror. Still no response from the dolls, although they shuffled to keep with Madoka as she rose and took tepid steps around the couch. She opened her mouth, but whatever she said did not osmose through the barrier.

Sloan angled her light to strike Madoka's eye, which forced a flinch. Madoka, increasingly aware, discerned the source shortly. She saw Sloan.

She saw Sloan.

Part of Sloan could not believe this was real. Not only did her magic have a specific application that allowed her to solve this problem, but she actually thought of it herself. She reined in her enthusiasm, though. Madoka tiptoed toward the window, tilting her head, Sloan probably looking like a disembodied eye concealed by curtain. Come on. Closer. Just like that.

Then Madoka got too close, and the dolls finally reacted. Two broke from the entourage and charged; Sloan almost reared back and toppled off the edge, but instead lunged to the side as they hurled their spears at her. The spears sailed through the window without shattering it (oh that's right, they go through walls) and missed, but Sloan had no more room for evasion. The next attack, which she didn't see coming, shredded through her hip like a chainsaw. She screamed, but when she looked she saw no wound, only a protruding spear. She ripped it out with another scream, sagged against the wall, and manifested her turret. When she swiveled to fire, every motion sluggish, she saw Tassel-hat and Blonde staring back with psychedelic eyes as they crept along the lip of road that ringed the apartment.

Sloan was focused on them, so she didn't register the sound of a door opening behind her until a soft voice asked something in Japanese. Madoka! She went to the front door to investigate! The dolls froze at the sound and gave Sloan the window to fling herself around the corner of the apartment and onto the ground at Madoka's feet.

Madoka stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb as she searched the area. Her eyes remained dim, listless, empty. She saw but saw nothing, not the vista of Mitakihara, certainly not Sloan. Ten or so dolls clustered around her, a living(?) aegis.

For a brief second Sloan groped for her gun and that was all the time she got before the dolls from their dollhouse door stabbed all their dollhouse spears. Sloan prone on her side had one option, one direction to go, if she didn't want to become a pincushion. She rolled off the road and into the open air.

Down, down, down she fell. The dolls peered over and waved as she went.

Sloan had a long time to think before she hit the ground.

She did not hit the ground. Not at first at least. She fell until the tenements appeared around her, then a flash enveloped her and the world warped and the patchwork quilt of Mami Tomoe's labyrinth replaced it.

Then she hit the ground. Or the table. The impact sent shockwaves along the wood and rattled the china and silverware. Teacups upended.

Well.

Things could be worse. Her back only felt kinda broken, after all. She lay on the table for a minute, which turned into two, which turned into five.

She attempted to rise and winced. Her second attempt went better and by her third she managed to sit up. She massaged her temples and rubbed her eyes. Out of the lightshow in the labyrinth's canopy, the exit to the real world flickered. Nothing to stop her from climbing out and trying again. She could make Madoka open the front door, she only needed to deal with the dolls. Deal with the dolls how? Wrack brains and think. Be creative. Sloan did not need to defeat them, only get around them. Easy goddam peasy compared to some of the bullshit plans she slapped together in Minneapolis.

Minneapolis. Shit, Sloan knew exactly what to do. She lurched to her feet, though everything still hurt like hell, especially where the dolls hit her. The pain would ebb, no more time to wait. Who knew how long Delaney and Erika could hold against Homura. She needed to find Hennepin, and fast.

Hennepin wasn't among the girls outside the labyrinth, so she had to be inside. Sloan stared down the endless table and started to limp away from the exit, though it only took a few hobbled steps to get her fucked-up legs working at a faster click. Faster not being fast enough. Jesus, the spears never hurt so much in Minneapolis. The hell was wrong with her, did the dolls get stronger?

On a hunch she slid a hand into her coat and retrieved her Soul Gem. It fizzled with sharp purple electricity among the amber. How much magic did she spend since the night prior? Sure she used a lot of firepower at Mami's apartment, and took a beatdown from Cicero, but she'd been in the Magical Girl rodeo three years now and knew her limits ran deeper than that. Plus she barely felt hopeless at all, in fact with Delaney and Erika back she had plenty to hope for. So her gem's state made no sense.

I find your actions quite illogical, said a familiar voice. Kyubey trotted up to her, readied a pounce, and landed on her shoulder. You're well aware of the exit, yet you move away from it. Did the impact of your fall compromise your ability to think rationally?

"I'm doing something," said Sloan. "What the hell are you here for? You don't show up much lately."

My presence in Mitakihara would only inspire Homura Akemi to rash acts of violence. His swishing tail brushed her hair. However, given the extremely rare circumstances transpiring here, I have dispatched several of my bodies to observe the proceedings.

"Rare circumstances? You mean this place. This labyrinth."

Correct. Witches are not allowed to exist in this universe. And because we have no memory of the previous universe where witches did exist, we've only had the opportunity to observe a witch once before. Thus, the data we collect here is of high value.

They passed the tied-up Chicago girl. She seemed asleep, or maybe Mami's witch murdered her. She no longer wore gold armor, but a schoolgirl outfit.

The first witch was Homura Akemi. We conducted an experiment to test what happened to a Magical Girl when she was prevented from interacting with the Law of the Cycles. While we confirmed our hypothesis, our experiment produced the unintended effect of Miss Akemi's current state.

"Let's be real, Kyubes. You're talking to me cuz you're scared I'm gonna fuck shit up. Maybe you're scared I already did."

Please explain.

"Don't tell me it was part of your plan I'd follow that doll to wherever and come back with Delaney and Erika. No way you predicted that."

Indeed, we never considered such an event was possible. We are still unsure what even happened or how. He scratched his ear with a back paw. His every move brushed his prickly fur against her, which annoyed the shit out of her. As I mentioned earlier, I never expected you to survive the ordeal in Minneapolis, let alone travel to Mitakihara. In that sense, literally everything you have done here has been outside my calculations.

"So what? You'll ask me to stop?"

On the contrary, your every action has only proven fortuitous to our designs. For starters, you brought Miss Kabwe's girls from Chicago, who proved useful against Homura Akemi. Even now, your return with Miss Pollack and Miss Dufresne has only bolstered the fighting force, again serving my aims. However, the odds were always high that any action you took would benefit me, due to the simple fact that I am far quicker to alter my projections based on new data than Miss Akemi. In a purely neutral battle subject to random external influences, I would always prove the victor for this reason.

"Ever read the Greeks, Kyubey? They say some stuff about hubris."

Primitive human fiction is of no interest to us. Besides, my statement has already proven true. Miss Akemi might have used the danger the girls from Chicago posed to Miss Tomoe and Miss Sakura to distract Miss Miki and Miss Momoe. She failed to capitalize, however, and is now in a worse position.

Kyubey was talking to her for a reason. He only bothered to show himself when he needed to goad her one direction or another, and she wouldn't fall for it this time. Please don't let her fall for it this time.

"You're bluffing. If I didn't come back with Delaney and Erika, Nagisa would be dead and it'd just be Sayaka versus Homura. Which is bad for you."

The possibility that Miss Miki and Miss Momoe would fail to secure Madoka has always been accounted for in my designs. Indeed, their success is only necessary for my most optimal victory. The primary goal of eliminating Homura Akemi is inevitable whether Madoka is taken to Omaha's void or not.

As Sloan delved deeper into the labyrinth, worse things cropped up than stuffed pigs. A Chicago girl lay on a platter split open jaw to navel, filled with turkey stuffing. Sloan sidestepped the gory display and forged on unshaken.

"Omaha mentioned she had a last resort. A way to beat Homura guaranteed, which I remember because it sounded like some bullshit you fed her."

I would not have gone through so much trouble to get so far if once I reached this stage my victory was not assured. As I said, my stratagems involving Miss Miki and the Chicago girls are only to accomplish a more optimal outcome. Should they fail, I can institute multiple backup plans, the last of which is infallible.

He had to be scared. Scared she would render fallible his infallible scheme. "Let's cut to the quick, Kyubey. Tell me why you want me to stop doing whatever I'm doing."

Considering I have no idea what you're doing, that would be rather difficult. However, I feel compelled to make the point that your meddling has not hurt my plans at all, but has hurt your friends time and again. My original plan, which did not involve the Chicago girls, never required Mami Tomoe or Kyoko Sakura to die. While I'm willing to sacrifice a handful of Magical Girls to save the universe—

"Understatement of the century."

—Your relationship with these girls suggests you did not desire their deaths. In effect, your actions helped me but hurt yourself. That you immediately proceed to endanger more of your friends, in this case Miss Dufresne and Miss Pollack, is completely illogical. I cannot understand it at all. Even simple organisms adapt from trial and error.

He had to have some inkling what she intended to do. And it made him nervous.

She reached the table's end. It sloped into the bed of writhing yellow ribbons. No discernible solid ground, no guarantee if Sloan stepped down the ribbons wouldn't snap her up like the Chicago girl near the entrance. Nowhere to jump, nowhere to climb, but the route led on.

Additionally, your Soul Gem is in rather poor condition. You suffered an attack from Miss Akemi's dolls, didn't you?

Sloan summoned a gun and dropped it into the ribbons. They flinched away unconsciously from the dead weight, found it harmless, and crawled around its barrel. The gun did not sink.

Miss Akemi's dolls don't deal conventional wounds. They attack hope and inflict despair. You did not need to worry about them in Minneapolis because your Soul Gem was so powerful, but now you're in great danger. Why forgo reason and risk your death, as well as the deaths of your friends? My goals are irrelevant. It is purely in your interest to stop what you're doing.

She stepped off the table. The ribbons tested her feet with tentative coils.

Why continue? To what gain?

She braced for a change, an attack, something nasty to emerge out the ground, but the ribbons remained docile. She picked up her gun and continued down a narrowing tunnel.

"Kyubey, I got a question for you. Was it you who made my sister blind?"

I would never bother to do something so mundane.

Each step sank her deeper into the ribbons. Despite that, the ceiling kept lowering until she had to tilt her head. The slithery ribbons were the most uncomfortable thing ever against her body, but she kept her quibbles to herself unless Kyubey made fun of her. The tunnel was becoming very narrow and no light appeared at its end. She made her own light, a filthy effulgence in her hand. It got difficult to walk. She thought she must be going the wrong way, that she missed a junction somewhere. She considered turning back, then heard:

"Hey! Who's there? Alsip, is that you?"

Ahead a silhouette crouched, Sloan's light glancing off gold metal. Sloan mustered an authoritative tone and said, "Identify yourself!"

"I am Darien, soldier of the Blessed Theocracy of Chicago under direct command of Centurion Cicero the Indefatigable! State your name and allegiance."

The name Darien meant nothing, but Sloan recognized the giant buster sword the girl held half-buried in the ribbons.

"I'm Fargo."

"Fargo!" The sword slid up, dividing ribbons clean, and clanged against a tunnel wall. "Surrender your Soul Gem or face the consequences."

"Darien. Let's be real. Situation's changed. Do you even know where you are? Or where your friends are?"

"Irrelevant. You are a fugitive wanted by the Empress herself and shall suffer purgation for your sins. If I must crawl back to Chicago with you under my arm and my nineteen comrades dead behind me, I shall!"

"Better question: Do you even know where the exit is?"

Darien hesitated. "I'll find it."

"Nothing but corpses the way I came."

"How many."

"Huh."

"How many corpses!"

Sloan cobbled a number from the bodies she had seen inside and outside. "Six. Maybe seven."

A strangle sounded from the silhouette. "No..."

"How many on your side?"

"What's it matter to you? So you know how many more you need to kill? Well, here's one you'll never strike down!"

Darien held her sword straight in front of her and staggered through the waist-high ribbons. The waving tip clanged against the tunnel's edges as she built momentum into a charge. Sloan tried to backpedal, got stuck in the mire, revved her gun instead. By the time the barrel whirred fast enough to fire Darien was on her. She raised the sword, but it hit the ceiling and jerked back down. Darien staggered. The unwieldly blade sliced Sloan's arm as she pressed against the wall and let Darien fall past her.

Darien clamored to her feet and hit her helmet against the ceiling. She tried to turn her sword for another go at Sloan but no way would it turn in the narrow space. Instead she attempted to bash Sloan's brains with the hilt, an action less ineffectual than it looked, because after a stunning blow to the forehead Sloan wound up on her ass amid the ribbons. Darien raised the hilt again, but the confines of the tunnel muddled her aim and the swing fell flimsily against Sloan's shoulder.

Sloan grabbed her around the waist to grapple her but the effort proved meaningless. Darien slumped against her and started to sob.

"Stickney, Lyons, River Forest... They're dead." She lifted her face. "And where'd Berwyn and Cicero go? Why did you do this to us. Why did you."

"I didn't want this to happen. My friends are dead too."

Wet and clammy hands slid around Sloan's throat. In the tunnel's dim phosphorescence Sloan got her first good look at Darien's face. Either Mexican or Middle Eastern, her hair black with thin tufts jutting from beneath her helm. Her hands squeezed, Sloan allowed them. They could do nothing to harm her.

They did stifle her vocal chords, however. I think I can bring them back. Bring everyone back.

Surely Darien could squeeze harder, at least to snap Sloan's neck. Instead she kept the pressure at a dull medium. "Liar!"

You remember the girl with the black hair and guns, right? The one who came out of that apartment? Sloan wondered if, under the ribbons, a coil of Omaha's black void still tethered Darien to a portal. Maybe Omaha released them when they got sucked into the labyrinth.

"That girl." Darien's grip slackened. "I saw her murder Lombard and Elmhurst."

"She controls time. She can stop it, you saw that. She can also turn it back, apparently."

Realization dawned. Darien's damp hands left Sloan's throat.

I would pay her no heed, Miss Abgaryan. Kyubey gazed from atop a bundle of ribbons. Sloan Redfearn has a tendency to lead those who follow her to ruin.

"Ask him, Darien," said Sloan. "Ask him straight: Can Homura Akemi turn back time."

"Can she? Can the girl I saw outside the apartment turn back time? Is it true, tell me."

Kyubey swished his tail. His red eyes floated in the dark. We have not observed her reverse time, to our memory.

"Listen to that, listen to him cheat." Sloan jabbed a finger into his face. "He knows she can. If he knew she couldn't, he would've said."

Darien seized Kyubey by the throat and held him close. His tail dangled and stirred the ribbons. "You tell me. You tell me, what do you know about her time powers?"

Miss Abgaryan, you'll need to be more specific.

A furious shriek escaped Darien as her lips parted and she shoved Kyubey's head inside. A single twist of her neck and the body went limp in her hand. She spat the long-eared skull into the ribbons and wiped fur from her tongue, blood trickling down her chin.

She pulled off her helmet and tossed it aside. She tugged a tie from a bun and let her hair cascade around her shoulders. Her fingers dug into Sloan's shoulder. "Allow me to straighten some things. For starters, I've placed you under arrest with the power vested in me as an Acolyte of the Holy Empress of Chicago. I merely allow you to keep your Soul Gem so you may assist in fighting external threats to my safety and that of my compatriots. Understood?"

"If we make this work, I'll come with you to Chicago. Willingly."

"I have no reason to trust your word," said Darien. "Should I see an ounce of insubordination, I shall cut you down where you stand. Understood?"

Sloan nodded.

"You shall not use profanity or debauch yourself in my presence. Understood?"

Debauch herself? Coming from the girl who geeked out on Kyubey? "Yes, yes."

"Okay. I believe that's everything. Now tell me what we have to do to make this girl turn back time."

"Her name's Homura. I doubt she'll turn it back for no reason, but we can trick her." Best not to get into the nitty-gritty. Sloan barely understood the specifics herself. A lot of half-formed explanations floated in her head, pieced together from her conversations with Omaha, Sayaka, and the girls in heaven.

"Trick her how?" Darien asked.

"We need Hennepin. Hennepin has magic that can magnify my own. With her abilities, I can create realistic illusions."

"You want an ally so you can turn on me."

"If I wanted to turn on you, I'd do it now, while we're stuck somewhere too tight for your sword."

This logic was solid enough for Darien. "Very well. I noticed the captive Hennepin deeper in the labyrinth, but took little note of her condition, being preoccupied."

"Is she alive?"

"Perhaps."

"Then let's move."

Darien led the way. Her sword clattered behind her as she waded through the deepening pool of ribbons. Sloan wondered how long she wanted to stick with her.

The tunnel opened abruptly into a gothic athenaeum of high, ogival arches. Bookshelves overflowed into the sea of ribbons, now so thick it would have been impossible to traverse if Darien's blade did not slice a path. A corpse drifted on the yellow waves.

"Stickney," said Darien. "I came too late."

"I'm sorry," said Sloan. She discovered, staring at the corpse, that she meant it.

"This way. That puppet thing's chamber is around here—that's where most of the girls are." Darien approached a pair of monstrous double doors.

"You've only found corpses?" said Sloan.

Darien flinched. "Some were alive. I—I fled. The puppet terrified me. I've never seen a wraith like that before. I lost my nerve, okay?"

Sloan changed the subject. "What powers do you have."

"So you can turn on me later?"

"If this is gonna work you're gonna have to trust me."

"I do not. If you want this to work you're going to have to deal with it."

Whatever. Sloan rode a lot longer beside girls even less reliable. Darien pushed open the doors and they passed through.

The chamber they entered was massive and shaped like a cone. Stalactites hung off the sloped sides, except they weren't stalactites but minarets, the significance of which Sloan could not comprehend. Suspended at the top in a web of ribbons was the impish figure Sloan saw before, the one with endless arms and a yellow bonnet. Around it, strung from the minarets, girls swayed in various degrees of entanglement.

"The puppet's asleep," whispered Darien. "It was active before. We had no idea what was going on, it tied us up us easily. Only I escaped, thanks to my magic."

Corpses in matching school uniforms floated on the ribbons that continued to cover the floor, some only arms outstretched above the surface. Sloan counted five dead and seven suspended above. Plus Darien, the two corpses she saw already, and the live one bundled near the entrance: sixteen out of twenty-one. She tried to remember exactly how many were outside the labyrinth, because if it added up it meant Cicero was among the girls here. She waded through the ribbons and dredged up the more submerged dead girls in case one was Hennepin. Nope, although she did recognize the Porridge girl whose legs she groped to retrieve her Soul Gem.

"Hennepin must be up there." Sloan pointed to the minarets. "Darien, I need you to be straight with me. You want to turn back time, right?"

Darien stared at her.

"If we don't turn back time," said Sloan, "these girls stay dead. If you want to bring them back, I need you to do exactly what I say."

"I am the one who trains the recruits," said Darien. "The novices. The weakest. The ones who died." She seized Sloan's collar and dragged her close. "If they can be brought back, I will bring them back. If you have lied, I will ensure your death is humiliating and painful before I bring about my own."

"Then we rescue Hennepin," said Sloan, "and only Hennepin. Is that clear?"

"I have said what I will do and I will do it."

Then no more needed saying. Sloan leapt for the lowest-hanging minaret, sloped downward so its spire gored the floor's ribbony flesh. No girl hung from it. Only the highest towers had girls, maybe tiered with the most powerful at the top so Evil Mami could better leech them. That was the point of incubating them in cocoons, right? If so, Hennepin must be near the bottom, because Hennepin was, like, not that great a Magical Girl? Sloan had no clue. Hennepin sure thought she was pretty great.

Darien followed bound for bound as Sloan climbed. The first cocoon they reached was a wad with a tilted head. As Darien inspected it, Sloan checked to make sure Evil Mami had not stirred.

"It's Hodgkins," said Darien. "She's alive."

"Let's keep moving."

"There's something on her neck. Look."

Sloan looked, although the cocoon dangled far from where they stood so it was difficult to spot small details. "It's some kind of mark."

"Hodgkins, report," said Darien.

Hodgkins stared ahead with glazed eyes. She wore no helmet and her hair hung as scraggly as Darien's. Her lips trembled but no sound came out.

"We need to move, Darien."

"She's under a spell." With one swift swipe Darien severed the string that connected Hodgkins to the minaret. The ribbons fell away and the limp body dropped. It landed on the bed of ribbons with a soft ripple.

"You said—"

"Even if we reverse everything, I see no reason to allow her to remain like this."

Hodgkins was probably safer tied up than on the ground, but Sloan decided it would waste more time to argue and sprung toward the next minaret. The remaining bodies loomed significantly higher, which was strange because from the ground they all seemed close to one another. Now that she started to climb, everything looked a lot more elongated. How did Delaney describe spatial distortion in Williston? She said as long as their magic counterbalanced that of the archon, the dimensions couldn't change. Was a witch labyrinth metaphysically different from an archon miasma? Apparently, if Kyubey dispatched bodies to survey it.

But why would Kyubey even have an interest in this labyrinth? He seemed a utilitarian kinda guy. The real, tangible, and possible were his domain. Even if he succeeded against Homura, Madoka would retake the place of the pink wig doll, the Law of the Cycles would resume as normal, and no witches would exist.

Unless...

Before that unless received any more brainpower, they reached the next girl. She was not Hennepin either.

"Hinsdale," said Darien. Like Hodgkins, she had a mark on her neck. It looked like a tattoo, some kind of insignia.

"Plan to cut her down too?"

Darien made no movement of her blade, which at rest she propped atop her shoulder. "No. We're closer to the monster now. We may disturb it." She added: Let's communicate like this from now on.

Good idea. Sloan scoured for the next minaret. Nearer to the chamber's conical top, the towers threaded between each other, formed interlocking networks that betrayed no clear hierarchy.

As they ascended, a voice cut the murk: "Darien? Is it you I espy?"

From where? Sloan scanned the structure's dark heights. Six yellow bundles swayed in nonexistent wind, heads tilted in sleep or something worse. She picked Hennepin out of the group, in a triad that formed the innermost ring around Evil Mami's sleeping form. Hennepin was out cold, but the speaker was next to her. Sloan recognized her as Berwyn, the one with the syringes.

Lady Berwyn, I implore you to remain silent, said Darien. We do not wish to disturb the creature.

"Hogwash," said Berwyn. "It reads my thoughts. I feel it swaaallooowing my brains~" She wriggled in her cocoon.

Please, milady. Darien's wary eye alternated between Berwyn and the witch.

"It huuurts, Darien, my dear sweet protégé," said Berwyn. "I am an Egyptian sarcophagus; my brains are spooned from my nose. I injected myself with a serum to maintain consciousness, but now I realize I have made a grave error! It really hurts..."

The impish witch of Mami Tomoe, hanging upside-down from the cone's apex like a bat, rustled and started to stir, which caused Sloan to realize the uppermost three bundles were not strung from minarets but clutched in the ribbons of the witch's arms. Berwyn and Hennepin were tied in one arm like two knots in a rope, the other arm with a single bundle that must have been Cicero.

One quick strike on its left arm, Sloan told Darien. We free Hennepin and get out.

I am aware of the best strategy. Darien braced herself in preparation to jump. Her improbable sword did not compromise her balance.

"A beautiful gorgeous powerful loyal female such as yourself would not leave her beloved lady in such a state, would you, Darien?" Berwyn shook and the arm of the witch shook, and Hennepin's bundle beneath shook. "Certainly you shall slay this beast. It only bested us because it appeared so unexpectedly! I order you to release me, Darien. I order it!"

Cover me, Fargo.

Darien propelled herself with a quick flex of her legs and soared between the minarets. Her hair streamed behind her, her aim and trajectory were perfect, she would only need one swing to sever Hennepin, but the moment she entered range the witch gurgled and unlatched from its perch. It dropped directly atop Darien, engulfed her in its dress and bonnet. A strangely metal conk resounded through the chamber before Darien's sword went spiraling out of her hand.

The attack came so quickly Sloan did not register it until the witch, Darien, and all three hostages plummeted past her. She leaned over and fired at the witch's back and managed to fire only a second before a ribbon wrapped around her ankle and dragged her down after them. Sloan clung to her gun but her aim jerked and her light sprayed everywhere.

Mami's witch hit the ground and smothered everything beneath as it expanded from a small thing to one much larger, a vast tarp of turquoise. Sloan landed atop it and started sinking, not into cloth but into the witch itself. Above her the passage to a non-turquoise world rapidly closed.

She fired any direction she could. Her light cleaved threads, fraying them black, until the witch groaned and a ribbon coiled around Sloan's throat. One flick sent her skyward, out of the witch's body, while more ribbons pursued to grope for the gun. As Sloan hurtled, the witch below was once again only a small thing, not the expanse into which Sloan had descended, and its long arms dragged Cicero and Hennepin and Berwyn, the latter screeching in agony. Darien remained half-buried in the sea of ribbons that seethed over her, wrapping around her, stretching her limbs, reaching between her plates of armor. She too screamed, especially when the ribbons plucked off one of her arms like a doll's, except it remained attached by tendons and strings of blood.

Sloan blasted the ribbons that groped for her gun. She tried to reorient in midair to little success and only stopped when her spine plowed into the broad length of a minaret. She bounced off and headed down again. The disorienting space made it hard to discern anything, she had no idea whether more ribbons pursued her, the image of Darien being pulled to pieces remained ingrained on her mind, Mami left her field of vision.

Come on! Get your head in the game, Sloan. Get into that mindset you had in Williston, that mindset you had in Minneapolis, confronted by a monstrosity you had no right to kill that you killed anyway, even if the odds were gamed by Kyubey so Delaney or Omaha or whoever kept you alive, because you still had to do your part for them to save you. Do what you set out to do. Put this right.

She stuck a landing on one of the lowest minarets. First she checked if ribbons were coming for her—they were—and then she blasted them back before she scanned for Mami's witch. There! Coiling up the cone, allowing its arms to swing and batter its captives against the minarets. Small and fast, not Sloan's ideal target. Plus a deep ache in Sloan's head, an ache familiar after a year on the brink of despair. She slapped her skull to give herself a less nefarious pain and revved her gun.

The light filled the cone with its blinding sheen. It rattled the sloped walls and rebounded in lunatic directions. Hexagons, decagons, dodecahedrons formed from the rays. Mami's witch darted between them, careful with her body, but not so much with her spindly long arms. A ray cleaved between the knots that held Berwyn and Hennepin, and Hennepin dropped to the floor.

Before Sloan celebrated this triumph of totally blind luck, Hennepin's body sank into the churning mass of ribbons. Sloan considered diving after her, but if she plunged into the ribbons she had no way to pull herself out. If she killed the witch—but the pain in her head burgeoned to an aneurysm and her hands trembled and her aim went loopy. The kaleidoscope of light only befuddled her.

She lurched across the minaret, suddenly nauseous. She blinked hard and tried to recuperate. Slip into the mindset, finish this damn job. If a girl has hope she can't die that way, and Sloan still had hope, magical thermodynamics be damned. This was going to end well. EVERYTHING WAS GOING TO END WELL.

A piston slid into place and she heard the voice that had been screaming inside her head the entire time. Darien's voice:

MY SWORD, FARGO! I CAN'T MAINTAIN MY MAGIC MUCH LONGER!

Sloan glanced at Darien—a bloody mass—and looked for where the sword had fallen. Nowhere near her body, nowhere on the low minarets. Her gaze lifted and she caught a glint of her own light against a long brand of steel. It had impaled the side of the wall, a sword in the stone.

Time to go for broke. She hurled her gun out in front of her and made it hover just long enough to leap across it to the next minaret. As the reflecting beams of light dissipated, Mami's witch quit evading and turned its red faceless blot of a face toward Sloan. Ribbons closed in as Sloan streamed her remaining energy into forward propulsion, maintained momentum, acrobatic leaps across gaps and upward. The blade shimmered, growing larger, nearing, the long hilt ready to seize.

And she seized it. She flung her feet in front of her, struck the wall, and backflipped off. The sword came out effortlessly. Her magic made the blade weightless, because otherwise she would have no control over her lopsided body, and she dropped. Ribbons spiraled for her. Gravity's pull increased her velocity down the center of the conic room, into the vacuum between the minarets, toward the small form of Mami Tomoe. The red blot of faceless face stared up at her. Someone screamed in Sloan's head.

Sloan opened her mouth and screamed in tandem as her coat rippled and she swung the blade down on Mami Tomoe or the thing she had become. One clean slice, down through the head, into the neck, and clean through the dress.

Mami Tomoe split in two halves. Sloan kept falling.

The world shattered. The cone, the minarets, the ribbons, all of it burst into particle dust, the ground became a solid block of cobblestone street onto which Sloan slammed. She rolled until friction stopped her. The sword left her hand and clattered somewhere.

She lay on the ground and panted. She watched her hand splayed in front of her and the apartments beyond.

Get up, said a voice inside her head. Her own voice.

Her fingers twitched.

Get up. Get up, get up. Get Hennepin.

The pain inside her skull lashed out like a whip. It spread into the backs of her eyes, into the roots of her teeth. Her palm pressed against the ground and tried to lift her body.

Not yet. Not yet. Get Madoka. Not yet.

She moved her ambiguous other hand and pushed it too. Her upper body lifted. She pushed with her knees and managed to lift herself onto them before she had to stop to choke back vomit. Come on Sloan, you've been worse. You've been worse.

Bodies lay strewn around her. Cicero, Berwyn, Darien pulled piecemeal, others. Most were unconscious, only Berwyn stirred and even then only barely. No corpses, Sloan realized. The corpses disappeared with the labyrinth.

Kyubey sat between the bodies. In his paw he played with a small round object, black and somewhat reminiscent of a Soul Gem.

"What's that," Sloan mumbled.

Nothing you should know about. Kyubey's paw crushed the pseudo-Soul Gem against the cobblestone and tossed the remains into the mouth on his back.

Whatever. Sloan lurched past him in search of Hennepin. She lay across the street, close to the giant stone pillar that propped up Homura's apartment. A momentary fear stirred in Sloan's head: Did Hennepin ever reclaim her Soul Gem? She knelt beside the body and inspected her neck. The marking from before had disappeared, but Hennepin remained motionless. Sloan slapped her cheek.

"Wake up. Wake up dammit."

Hennepin's head lolled. Sloan searched her pockets. She had the same schoolgirl uniform as the dead Chicago girls, with the same pockets Sloan felt up before. Her hand settled on something round in a breast pocket, which she pulled out and held in front of her face to make sure: Hennepin's gem.

Which meant she lived. It didn't matter if she took time waking up. Sloan needed to take time to climb the pillar anyway, because she saw no trace of Erika or Delaney or anyone else to boost her up.

She hoisted Hennepin onto her back. The coat Mami gave her had a lot of useless straps, which Sloan used to bind Hennepin to her. Should she risk the magic to make the body weightless? One attempted step carrying the full hundred pounds of dead weight told her she had no chance otherwise.

Miss Roth, said Kyubey. Regain your senses! The girl you know as Fargo is escaping.

Sloan glanced over her shoulder, saw only Hennepin's head resting there, and glanced over her other shoulder. Kyubey nudged Berwyn's face with his paw. Berwyn batted at him lazily.

"I am so exhausted, Kyuuubey. Please let me rest." Her hand settled around his slender body and she nuzzled him against her cheek like a stuffed animal.

Harsh penalties will befall you if you knowingly fail to restrain your prisoner, Miss Roth. You'll have your rank stripped from you or worse!

"Baaah. Have an underling do it. Niles and Westmont shall suffice, by my estimation."

Everyone but you is unconscious, Miss Roth.

"Why don't you shut the fuck up already, Kyubey?" Sloan said as she made for the pillar.

"Alright." Berwyn's tone was lazy, sleepy, but with a deeper strain of coherence that gave Sloan pause. "I suppose fatigue is nothing a shot of adrenaline won't cure."

Berwyn released Kyubey and casually drove a needle into her own neck, pushing the lever down with a flexed thumb. She wrenched the syringe out and jerked to her feet as though possessed, a lucid clearness in her eyes.

"Alright. Alright alright alright. Poppet—Fargo!" She extended a rigid arm. It held another syringe. "You are a prisoner of the Holy Order of the Knights of Chicago, under the command of Third Centurion Cicero! As her loyal adjunct Berwyn, I hereby demand you relinquish the prisoner Hennepin and surrender your Soul Gem and all that rot! Else I shall be forced to restrain you with sedatives, see?" She tapped her syringe and an arc of clear fluid splattered the cobblestones.

"Okay," Sloan closed her eyes and sighed. How hard would it be to summon another gun, let alone fire it?  "Okay, okay."

Kyubey's voice squeaked: Miss Roth, behind you!

Berwyn turned. The next moment a tremendous sword cleaved her from shoulder to hip. She came apart in four pieces, both arms severed. Darien skidded to a halt, lacking an arm of her own and drenched in blood. A tic contorted her face.

Miss Abgaryan, what are you doing? said Kyubey. Surely you know the punishment is death for those in your order who attack superiors!

"I've got enough death sentences on me." Darien spat a glob of blood. "The Empress can only kill me once." More blood spurted from the stump of her missing arm. Something seemed off about one of her legs, maybe dislocated at the hip. It dragged as she approached Sloan.

"We need to get up that pillar," said Sloan. "Can you climb?"

"If you can, I can." Darien drove her sword into the side of the mountain and used it in conjunction with her one-and-a-half functional legs to pull herself onto an outcropping.

Sloan had no excuses, then. She checked the straps that tied Hennepin to her back and grabbed the lowest jutting rocks to pull herself up.

Before she made it far, Kyubey scampered onto her shoulder. Miss Redfearn, why are you doing this? Surely you do not expect it to end well for you.

"Why..." The single word tore itself out of her chest. She decided she had better ways to expend oxygen while her quivering arms pulled her higher. Why are you so committed to stopping me? I thought the whole point of your scheme was to distract Homura so someone can get to Madoka.

Blood from Darien's stump, which flopped while she pole-vaulted from outcropping to outcropping, dribbled across Sloan's upturned face.

My plan involves Madoka being taken into Omaha's realm, said Kyubey. There she will be severed from the effects of Miss Akemi's memory-occluding magic and regain knowledge of the Law of the Cycles.

Omaha, said Darien. She's the girl we're after.

Maybe that's my plan too Kyubey, ever consider that? Sloan strained to grab a high ledge. A rock sliced her palm; she gritted her teeth and bore the pain she no longer had magic to deaden.

From what I have heard you say to Miss Abgaryan and my own assessment of your critical reasoning skills, I believe you intend something different.

Damn, caught me. Look Kyubey, lemme do my thing alright? As you said earlier, it worked well for you so far.

The uncertainty surrounding your appearance in Mitakihara happened to be useful. However, Madoka Kaname is too important to rely on uncertainties.

Who is Madoka Kaname, said Darien.

The girl at the top of this pillar, said Sloan. The one Homura wants to protect. If we get to her, we can force Homura to reset time.

Sounds simple to me. I wondered why she went through the trouble to send this thing into the sky.

Sloan sagged against a ledge and heaved for air. Hennepin had regained her weight. Sloan peered up, but it looked like an insurmountable distance ahead.

Miss Abgaryan, the girl named Madoka Kaname is far more important than you realize. I implore you not to meddle in these affairs.

Nothing to do but keep climbing. Sloan raised an arm and grabbed the next ledge. Kyubey wanted Madoka to go into the Omaha Zone and regain her memories as a goddess. But how much did that benefit Kyubey? Sloan doubted he maintained the same pseudo-religious scruples that worked Omaha into such a lather. Everything for Kyubey boiled to one bottom line: Energy.

Kyubey. Tell me something. Do you get more energy with Madoka in charge compared to Homura?

Yes! When Madoka Kaname controls the Law of the Cycles, she refrains from or is incapable of placing restrictions on my energy collection methods, while Miss Akemi enacts stipulations arbitrarily.

Right. Sayaka mentioned that. Now lemme ask a new question. Do you get more energy with Madoka in charge of the Law of the Cycles or with no Law of the Cycles at all?

Hennepin groaned into Sloan's ear and started to stir. Sloan would have breathed a sigh of relief if she did not have to use all her breath to keep climbing.

Your question seems completely irrelevant, Miss Redfearn.

Thanks, Kyubey. Your answer tells me everything I need to know.

Which it didn't really, Sloan still had no clue what Kyubey's big plan was or how these million tiny pieces fit together, but she knew one thing which was if it got Kyubey more energy, he would do it. What did Kyubey say before? Defeating Homura was an assured fact. He only needed Sayaka and Nagisa for a "more optimal" victory... But what would he consider more optimal than restoring Madoka?

Hennepin needed to wake up already. Sloan tried to jostle her into consciousness by nudging her head against Hennepin's and wound up catching sight of something high in the air over the city: Homura Akemi, soaring with raven wings on her back more bone than feather. She fired purple arrows from a bow at what looked like a giant mermaid with a sword while Erika, Delaney, and Sayaka flitted about, immersed in wind and bubbles. None of them noticed Sloan, so Sloan decided not to ask questions. Obviously their battle had ascended to a higher power level.

The distance to the top didn't seem any smaller than before, although a downward glance told Sloan she had climbed a long way. She wished she could sleep. This day had gone on so long. Hell and back, except the opposite. Darien kept vaulting higher.

Darien. Wait, said Sloan.

Darien stopped. She dangled by one arm from her sword and stared down with an expression either expressionless or exasperated. Sloan grabbed the next ledge and nearly slipped.

"Unh... Fargo?" Hennepin's voice, soporific and sedated.

Can you make it, Fargo, said Darien.

Yes.

Given your remaining energy, I doubt you can make it, said Kyubey. As one accustomed to living at her limit, I would have expected you to know it better.

I can make it.

"Fargo... Where are we...?"

Sloan kept climbing. Hennepin, do you want to live.

"What?"

If you want to live I'm gonna need you to not ask questions. We're trying to turn back time. Okay?

"Uh..."

A pair of hands against Sloan's chest, a weight against her back. Breath against her ear. That was Hennepin, those things, those things and an occasional voice.

"Oh god. Oh god we're high up. Oh god oh god oh god."

Shut the fuck up Hennepin. If you don't wanna fall, hold the fuck on.

The profanity went without comment from Darien. Darien no longer existed on Sloan's radar. She had no clue if Darien was still waiting for Sloan to catch up, or if Sloan already caught up and Darien resumed her pole-vault up the pillar. Please be the latter.

"I, I, you know, I'm not scared of much, but, never been good at, at heights, ha ha..."

Hold on and shut the fuck up. Sloan gave up on making Hennepin climb by herself even though Hennepin's Soul Gem must be squeaky clean and new, what the fuck did Hennepin ever do, stand by and remain irrelevant, never hurt never fought, Puella Magi Switzerland Magica, or whatever the Latin was for Switzerland (Suisse in French, masculine or feminine? Anything to block the pain), and Hennepin's irrelevance only made Sloan angry, how she survived while Erika Woodbury Bloomington Ramsey Delaney the Terminatrix St. Paul Lynette Clair Kyoko Nagisa Mami died. Anything to block the pain. Hennepin's turn in front of the Deer Hunter firing squad. Six chambers five bullets full. Someone had to get lucky.

Her hand reached and grabbed not jagged rock but cobblestone.

She blinked and stared over the top of the pillar. Homura Akemi's apartment loomed. Darien's hand seized hers and one swift tug yanked her up. Sloan staggered against the wall and undid the straps of her jacket to free Hennepin, who skittered as far from the edge as the narrow lip of ground allowed.

In the distance, the giant mermaid clashed its blade against Homura's bow.

"So there's a girl inside here?" said Darien. "One we can take hostage?"

"Yes," said Sloan. How to explain the dolls.

"The door's locked," Darien continued. "And we failed to break the magical barrier earlier."

Shit. Madoka locked the door again? Sloan never considered that. No, wait, she did, all she had to do was send her light through the curtains and get Madoka to open up again. She slid past Hennepin to the window and peered through the gap. But she saw no Madoka. Not even a doll.

Oh no. Did they move her? Of course they did. Why bring her back to the exact spot where Sloan could get at her? Sloan went through the most complicated series of events only to be confounded by the simplest countermeasure.

"Oh no. Oh no." Her eyes angled around the gap to see more of the room. "Oh fuck."

"The heck's going on," said Hennepin. "What are you guys even trying to do, what the heck is happening here?"

Darien tried to fold her arms but stopped when she remembered she only had one arm. "We must gain entry to this apartment and take a girl inside hostage to force the raven-haired girl to turn back time and revive everyone."

"Uh, okay. So why the heck am I here?"

"Ask Fargo."

"I need you to make an illusion," Sloan said. "Homura has guards... But dammit, none of it matters if we can't get inside." She knocked her head against the wall. Defeated by a locked door. Oh god, the comedy.

"Well uh." Hennepin fidgeted. "Locks are easy."

"Easy?" said Sloan.

Hennepin reached into her hair and retrieved two bobby pins. "Yeah? Well, for me anyway. I wished to be good at everything, after all."

The bobby pins seemed unreal in Sloan's field of vision.

"You did not mention this particular talent when we attempted to break down the door earlier," said Darien.

"Like I was gonna speak up to help you guys." Hennepin gave a single harsh laugh. "Surprised Cicero didn't think of it, but I guess she wanted to make a show of force. I probably shouldn't have said anything this time, either."

"You can pick locks," said Sloan. "This isn't some farce?"

"I can do anything I put my mind to. Breaking into homes was how I got my meals on the long walk from Mississauga to Minneapolis."

Sloan wanted to whoop or celebrate or something but decided to hold off until she actually accomplished what she set out to do. She peered between the curtains in case dolls had started coming their way, but she only saw the same patch of empty carpet.

Miss Ru, if you open that door, the odds of your survival drastically plummet.

Oh god fucking dammit why was Kyubey still around. His plushy body sat perched on the edge of the cliff, but before Sloan took a step toward him Darien pointed her sword at Hennepin.

"If you refuse to open that door, the odds of your survival become nil."

Hennepin looked at Kyubey and looked at the sword and laughed. "Everyone calm the fuck down, I'll open the door. You don't need the sword." She licked the ends of her bobby pins and inspected the lock as though Kyubey's words had not even given her pause.

What? said Kyubey. Miss Ru, why are you suddenly acting so illogical? You've told me plenty of times that your sole aim in life is to survive as comfortably as possible. That's a selfish goal, but a goal that at least follows a base logic. For what reason would you possibly abandon such beliefs?

"Well gee Kyubey, why don'tcha gather round the campfire so I can tell a little tale." Hennepin crouched before the doorknob and made a tentative test against the keyhole with her pins. Sloan, unsure if she could trust Hennepin, if Hennepin maybe weren't stalling for time while she plotted some ulterior end, hesitated before returning to the gap in the curtains. No change inside.

"Sloan, you maybe remember this one," Hennepin continued as she pushed a pin into the lock. "Clair's dead, that turbowraith is rampaging across Minneapolis. There's you, me, Ramsey, Anoka, and your nutty friend with the tits. Remember?"

"Yeah."

"We have those two cars, remember? Ramsey's pink cars. We make some harebrained scheme that one person rides ahead in the first car to distract the boss, while the rest go in the other car to get to the tower or some bull... feces. Remember?"

"I remember." Sloan kept angling her view through the window. Even one doll would give her something.

"We're arguing who'll drive. Your nutty friend wants to drive ours, that's fine, she seems good at it. But we need some chump to drive the first car, the distraction car, the sacrifice car. Remember?"

"It didn't happen that long ago, Hennepin." There! On the couch. Redhead with a little hat. Head tilted at a lazy angle, eyes fixed on her. They knew Sloan was coming, but she expected that.

"Well. I'm really damn good at driving cars, I'll have you know."

Hennepin stopped abruptly, as though she had no more to say. Good at driving cars. Sloan's mind switched back to that moment in the snow, asking for volunteers.

"Ramsey," said Sloan. "You let Ramsey get into that car instead."

"I didn't say anything," said Hennepin. Sloan's eyes flicked toward her; both bobby pins were stuck deep inside the lock. "I said not a single solitary thing."

And nothing more. Sloan returned to the window. Redhead doll was no longer in the same spot.

I don't understand, said Kyubey. What does this anecdote have to do with your current actions? This makes no sense! How can all three of you act against the logic that has guided you so far? How are humans so inconsistent?

Darien levied a boot and kicked him off the edge of the cliff. His body pinwheeled into oblivion.

"Hurry on the lock," said Sloan. "Her guards are moving. The moment we get the door open, we need an illusion, like in Minneapolis. Remember?"

"It didn't happen that long ago, Fargo," said Hennepin, twisting, prying, turning with calculated motions of her wrists and fingers.

The lock clicked. The knob turned, the door slid ajar.

In the narrow space between door and jamb awaited the redhead doll, its smile wide and mischievous.

Sloan seized Hennepin's collar and yanked her back moments before a spear shot out. "The illusion," she barked into Hennepin's ear. "Now!"

From Hennepin's perspective she must have seen nothing, but she obeyed. Her outfit shifted in a flash from the schoolgirl uniform to her lab coat with the Victorian dress underneath. She extended an arm and the prismatic crystal appeared, within which her Soul Gem twinkled.

Sloan wasted no time. She summoned light to her fingertips and unleashed it at the crystal. The prism redirected it through the doorway; inside the apartment appeared Darien, copied directly from the real Darien beside them, sword and all. The redhead doll squeaked in dismay at the intruder that somehow got behind it.

Sloan brought a boot down on the doll's head. The doll collapsed beneath, flattened like origami, a contorted mess of limbs as Sloan jumped and stomped. She flung the door wide open and barked at Darien and Hennepin to follow.

"What's going on!" said Darien. "What are you attacking?"

"Her guards are invisible, just move!" As usual, it sounded completely insane the moment she said it, but too late to explain now. She dashed into a stark white room with postmodern furniture. At one end a bulletin board of images and videos floated, at another a pendulum of scythes swayed. Three dolls were attacking the Darien illusion. But where was Madoka, where were the other dolls?

Her eyes flitted left and right. Then they moved up and saw her, Madoka, suspended by her ankles from the clockwork gears on the roof, around which the remaining dolls clung, unmoving, eyes focused on the figures darting across the floor.

"The ceiling, pink hair!" Sloan pointed. Darien—the real one—immediately bounded past, onto a couch, and flipped toward Madoka, whose eyes remained glazed despite her upside-down position. The dolls shifted into a solid wall between Darien and Madoka; their spears impaled Darien before she even got close.

More illusions. More distractions. Sloan fired another blast into the crystal and spewed out an image of herself and Hennepin, reflected like a mirror onto the other side of the room, the side of Madoka now unprotected by the dolls. As Darien dropped embedded with shafts, the dolls communicated in vague chatter and shifted focus to the new illusion.

Another blast radiated from Sloan's hand and a third illusion, only Hennepin this time, appeared in a third corner of the room. Hennepin seemed to have figured out what Sloan was doing and altered the angle of her crystal so that the illusion of Sloan and Hennepin made aggressive movement toward Madoka. Although the illusions glided unnaturally as though yanked by levers, that was how the dolls themselves moved, so they went into a frenzy and hurled their spears all over. One—Tassel-hat, Sloan's familiar foe—caught sight of the real intruders and dropped from its perch to charge them.

Sloan summoned a fourth illusion in front of Tassel-hat, but the doll cleaved through it and went for Sloan herself. Sloan grabbed Hennepin by the waist and hurled her. Hennepin, shrieking, waved her arms and plowed into it. The spear skewered her shoulder and amplified her screams.

Hennepin's crystal twirled wildly and illusions revolved throughout the apartment. The dolls broke ranks, attempted to defend Madoka from all angles at once, but enough of them had dropped from the ceiling that gaps existed in their defense. Sloan took a deep breath, blotted away the pain, and summoned a gun in her hands.

She only needed a little. Nothing much. One quick shot. All she needed.

The gun fired an anemic blast. Blast was the wrong word to describe it, more like a trickle, but Sloan's aim had not left her. The narrow stream threaded between the dolls and struck the cords that anchored Madoka's feet to the clockwork. The cords snapped. Madoka fell.

Sloan dove onto Madoka's prone form as the dolls plummeted around her.

Everything happened very fast. First, the moment her hands touched Madoka's limp shoulders, a portal opened in front of her. Omaha stood inside, extending her arms, reaching for Madoka. "GIVE HER TO ME," she bellowed, in slow motion, each word stretched, tortured. For a long second Sloan thought to obey. She should hand Madoka over, throw her into the portal, remove her from Homura's magic, end everything. Abandon her stupid plan to save the others, because odds were it had zero chance of working, and like everything else would blow up in her face. Already Darien looked dead, slumped to the side.

But something caught her attention, behind Omaha, past the drifting chairs, into the transient far corners of the void, enigmatic shapes like whales emerging from a deep ocean.

Missiles.

The missiles Omaha stole from some country's government. The ones she said were "just in case." Never would it have crossed Omaha's own mind to steal missiles from somewhere. Kyubey told her to do it.

He wired the entire place to explode. So when Sayaka and Nagisa brought Madoka inside—

The dolls swarmed her. They raised their spears to strike and Omaha screamed at Sloan. Sloan's mind blanked, she knew what she had to do but could not do it. The spears came crashing down.

Hennepin flung herself on top of Sloan and caught the spears. One slid past and struck Sloan in her leg. The pain came intense, unimaginable, but at the same time galvanized her into action. She seized Madoka's hand, the one with the silver ring where most Magical Girls kept their Soul Gems when untransformed. In one motion she wrenched it from Madoka's finger and slammed it against the floor. A brief image of the Soul Gem of the Terminatrix flashed in her mind as Madoka's ring bent beneath her hand. Metal sliced deep into her palm as the circuit unlinked, twisted.

The blank gaze in Madoka's eyes became nothing, became not even a gaze. Omaha screamed. The dolls froze in disbelief. Hennepin's corpse rolled off Sloan's back.

The front of the apartment tore away, fell into empty space and let in the sky and the panorama of Mitakihara. In the vacancy floated black-feathered Homura Akemi, wings spread on either side, bow and arrow drawn, unhinged glint in her eye. Sayaka, Delaney, Erika zipped behind her, catching back up to her, stopping short when they saw the scene. Nobody said anything. Nobody spoke.

Sloan rose from the corpse of Madoka Kaname. She stood, on wobbly legs, and held out her arms in a shrug.

Homura seized the shield on her wrist and unwound the gears. Time turned back.

Chapter 41: Love

Madoka dead—well, not anymore. Incipient horror, agony, grief, despair, hatred, disbelief, madness erased in an instant, a single grating whirr of gears and cogs, and presto change-o the body springs back to life, the other two corpses disappear, the façade of the apartment returns to its rightful place and seals them inside.

Like a crying kid. Give them candy (or cheese) and whatever happened before no longer happened.

Finally, after so long, Sayaka understood Homura. That instant gratification to flip a switch and revert misery. For every condemnation of cowardice, for every assessment of a woman unable to contend with the consequences of her own repeated failures, for every psychoanalytical breakdown of her dependence on a perfection that existed only in her head and which could never be real regardless of how hard she shattered time and space and rearranged the pieces into a cracked mirror more to her liking, for all that when Homura Akemi reanimated the corpse of Madoka Kaname like a latter-day Lazarus could anyone condemn her?

Homura Akemi's original sin was to break the world so Madoka Kaname became as important to it as she was to Homura herself. But after such a sin came to pass, her reason for sinning was retroactively unquestionable; justness and rationality rolled into a single ball.

And then, and then as if to undo even these moral ponderings, Sayaka's next thought was to wonder just how far back time had turned. Her eyes flitted across the apartment for a clock, found several strewn about with heavy pendulums and twisted arms, each reading a different time and it did not matter because Sayaka never knew the time before beyond a vague conception of afternoon, bright sun and long shadow. Strategically which made more sense: To return far before the inciting incident that eventually led to Madoka's death, or to twist only five minutes and maintain prior victories? In the past universe, her modus operandi was intervals of weeks, but circumstances had changed since then. God what time was it, how much was reverted? How much?

No immediate answer came and the shocked stillness of the apartment broke when Homura buffeted Sloan with a swish of her wings and scooped the dazed Madoka in her arms. Erika and Delaney jostled forward, Sayaka groped for a sword.

The battle resumed.

No time to think in battle. Go, do, instinct. Sayaka kicked a stupid doll out of the way and took point, boots turning over carpet before dip under a thrown spear and slide past a curved arrow somehow loosed while Homura held Madoka into horizontal slash at knees to incapacitate plus best target to not hit Madoka by mistake. Maybe with Madoka in her arms her reactions would be slowed but nope Homura leapt the blow and twisted to escape a similar head-aimed strike from Erika the problem being Erika and Sayaka had too similar styles they did the same things at the same time with the same instincts which meant they fell into the same patterns which was when Homura worked best. Nagisa was a better partner because she had no damn patterns with her idiosyncratic horns and bubbles, her supposed physical and mental weakness more than made up by that key advantage and while Sloan brought back a girl with weird powers in Delaney, Delaney did defense only and thus only elongated the fight.

Hence the stalemate. But Sayaka hacked and slashed anyway, up and down and left and right with four, five blades at once, trying to shake up her style and either opening herself to counterattack or else falling into new patterns. And try to communicate all this to two girls you've never met while in heat of battle. Impossible.

Homura retreated, her wings flapping across the foyer and upending clocks and paintings of clocks. The door to the next room flung open and she flew through it and the door tried to shut behind her, but Delaney summoned a bubble to block it. They passed through a telescoping array of doors into the deep interior of the apartment, which Sayaka had never seen before. As far as Sayaka knew nobody but Homura had ever seen it. Bad. Bad bad bad. Can't let Homura onto home turf. They maintained advantage solely by maintained offense. If they let up, let Homura do anything but counterattack, they were good as donezo, but as Sayaka sprinted to keep pace the carpet bunched beneath her in folds of increasing size and Homura grew smaller down the endless corridor. Several dolls phased through the walls and blocked their path, and though they fell in pieces from clean cuts of Erika's blade, the gap between them and their target grew.

Lucifer's escaping, my lovelies, chimed Delaney from behind.

We know, said Sayaka. Delaney kinda had that quirk. The one where someone feels compelled to make obvious statements that everyone already knows.

But it wasn't like they could go any faster. Damn dolls. Never shoulda let Homura take them into her own apartment. Of course they didn't let her. Sloan forced it with her stunt. What the hell was her goal? Sayaka knew her goal, what a stupid question. The same goal that made it so Sayaka couldn't grudge her. Mami, Nagisa. Kyoko. Maybe it worked, maybe they came back. Though Sloan also had the perfect opportunity to bring Madoka to Omaha and end everything... Like the timelines where Homura discarded a successfully defeated Walpurgisnacht because a more personal victory condition was nullified.

Again, Sayaka could not grudge her.

Idiots! Plural correct form? Or only one? Idiot! Too personal, too direct. Could not fault Sloan alone. Idiot Sayaka Miki bungled too. Not part of the plan, bad. So bad. Because the other one. Mami Tomoe. Interloped. Killed the one with the similar name. Nagisa Momoe. Tomoe Momoe. Omaha Homura.

Consumptive rage. Like tuberculosis: to cough out. Blood on the snow, that was her rage. Because—hands extended—God—fingers spread—only a single push—instead, murder. Murder. Murder of God. Initial assessment incorrect. Sloan no idiot. Sloan something worse. The priests who answered we have no king but Caesar (John 19:15). No, even that, wrong analogy. Wrong quote. Biblical precedent became unclear. Why should Sloan murder God? Thoughts so fast. Hard to puzzle.

She curled in her space, legs under chin, hands under knees, floated in dead air. Tried to calm herself. Sloan knew not what she did. Had to be. Why else would. Why else would her Friend (friend?) tell her. Why else would he tell her to help Sloan, if Sloan was so vile? So base? So depraved? Even if she expected Satan to change time. Even if. WHY WAS IT SO HARD TO THINK?

Calm. Calm down. Become... nothing. Yes. Nothing inside nothing. Her space, her safe space, home to her and her alone. Perfect, inviolable. And inside it she could meld. Into the black. Into the empty. Her body draining into a vast basin. The liquid skin disperses. Blood, insides melt away. Goodbye, Omaha. Wave goodbye everyone! She is gone forever, you can never find her again. Goodbye, God. Goodbye, Friend. Sweet and peaceful suicide.

The soothing thought returned her to equilibrium. Her panic dissipated alongside her imagined body, only a modicum less corporeal than her real one.

She could see things clearer in the absence of light. Regardless of what happened, God was now alive, which was all that mattered. Hope remained. God herself, the wellspring of hope. A world without God was a world without hope. It descended irrevocably into nihilism. Raw reason, raw justice. Such precepts could not imbue an object with meaning. Only God herself and her guiding love could. Their purpose became to serve her; any alternate aim stemmed either from petty hedonism or petty masochism.

Omaha raised a hand and slapped herself. For her doubt. For her fear. For her weakness. She made the rules of this space, so the pain magnified into a thick blistery welt of fire that spread down her cheek. It roused her egg yolk corpse and she extended herself into standing position. She must man her portals. Await any opportunity to pluck God from her captors.

She rotated toward the portal that remained in the main room of Satan's dwelling and froze in terror as a half-shrouded figure rustled beside it. The dolls. She let in the dolls, and they would surely kill her. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—Oh.

It was Sloan.

A flick of her wrist closed the portal and sealed Sloan inside with her. She did not want to see Sloan. Or talk to her. Or be in the presence of anything alive. She should have listened to her Friend and killed Sloan. Only minutes earlier she thought of Sloan on her side, a single lowercase friend, one of somehow multiple friends. A bloom of happiness crushed to make the sadness more bitter.

"Please... Sloan... Go away."

"Omaha. Listen to me. It's important." Sloan drifted toward her with anemic movements. She had a weak Soul Gem. If Omaha expelled her it would surely be to her death. Death by Law of the Cycles, the better death. The one Omaha ensured for Dufresne. Although, in the heat of the moment, she killed Lynette Ibsen the bad way without hesitation. But Omaha was, after all, vile. She knew that. The Man Who Said He Was Her Father told her.

"Please... I feel ill."

"Omaha, it's a trap. Everything Kyubey told you is bullshit as usual. He wants to kill Madoka, Omaha. He wants to kill her so witches come back."

Omaha's head rested on her shoulder. She and Sloan floated among the chairs, a thick and pleasant distance between them. The words came out like babble. Kyubey? Oh, right. Her name for Omaha's Friend.

"Sloan... I'm sorry. I should have never let you in..."

"Listen to me dammit. He has two objectives. One is to kill Homura, the other to kill Madoka. He played all your bullshit prejudices against each other. Omaha! Omaha, listen to me!"

Omaha killed sound inside her world. Sloan's lips moved in a frenzy, but nothing emerged.

Omaha, the missiles. What are—

Telepathy gone too. A world of absence. She turned from Sloan and drifted toward the sole remaining portal. From this portal, placed in a secure location, extended a single loopy strand of void, which jiggled and danced while at its other end, up the tremendous pillar (unaffected somehow by the time reversal) and into the bowels of Pandaemonium, Sayaka Miki wrestled with devils. When Omaha pressed her eye to the strand of void she could see, like through a curved and pliant scope, the world at its other end from the perspective of Miki's ankle. She stood in a room of nebulous dimensions and much smoke. In the center lay a large crystal sphere. Within the sphere was an image of a cold and misty city.

"A dead end?" said a voice. Dufresne. Sloan brought them back the way Miki was brought back. Without God's permission. Which only added to her mounting mortal sins.

"She's not here," said Miki. "She must have doubled into another room. This place is a maze."

"We saw her go through this door, there is nowhere else she could be. Look for a secret passage."

Another girl clopped by on ruby heels. Omaha recognized this one, too. Only in a world gone mad could such a monster find salvation. "Wait, dears. Look at this fun contraption."

Miki and Dufresne approached the crystal sphere to placate Pollack's whimsy.

"It's Minneapolis," said Pollack.

"Okay, and?" said Miki. "We need to find Madoka!"

"She was able to watch us the whole time," said Pollack. "But she let things happen as they did. She must be pretty dumb!"

Dufresne paced in the background, inspecting the walls. Miki's foot tapped, rendering Omaha's view worthless.

"I bet," Pollack continued, her voice increasingly wistful, "she uses this to spy on our dear Goddess in the shower, or during onanism."

Miki's foot quit tapping. "During what?"

"Tsk, surely I don't have to define it for you?"

The word did not need to be defined. Omaha turned away, unwilling to listen. Filth. What possible sin. Did a name even exist for the sin of discussing God herself in such terms? Blasphemy. Blanket term blasphemy, a proclamation against God's holy qualities. Dragging her through the filth of base copulation. Even Satan would not. Surely she would not. Even think. About God. Like that.

(Every sin she ascribed to Satan. Must be ascribed to herself. For did they not share the same body, the same material? Did not the same elements comprise them both? Matter, line, form. Even if one had not committed the sins of the other, one's sins proved the other's potential to commit them, only saved by the intercession of circumstance.)

When she untucked her head from the canvas of her arms she noticed Sloan floating in front of her, babbling and gesticulating in silence while she struggled to extricate herself from a chair. Really ought to kill her. If you had listened to your Friend and killed her, God would be free by now. Well, no. But she certainly complicated matters, because now Satan held God in her clutches. Ostensibly that would reduce Satan's combat acumen, but it also impeded Miki and the others, who now had to worry about striking God.

Her Friend was always right. Before, she followed his orders with utmost faith, and everything went exactly as he said. One deviation, one mistake—her mistake alone! Her human imperfection, innate flaws in her flesh.

Enough prattle. Omaha summoned to her hands a scythe. She must correct the error.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how sacrilegious was imagining their Lord and Savior Madoka Kaname enjoying "private time" while a pervert watched via crystal ball? Probably a good 9.8. Richter scale, of course. Total earth cataclysm, brrrrrrrng!

(God, being back in a real body was so weird for her brain.)

Delaney coughed politely to maybe kinda brush over what she said, which suddenly seemed as bad as if she up and molested the poor Goddess, but of course Sayaka Blueberry turned red as a raspberry and demanded to know who Delaney thought she was, and it was all rather trite and Delaney wished she kept to herself what at the time sounded like fun banter, an invitation to stichomythia if you will, Sayaka herself being an appetizing prospect (blueberries, yum!) and witty repartee being the only way Delaney could flirt without aggressive sexuality.

Thankfully, Erika spared an escalation by interjecting: "If we don't keep up with the demon, she will clean off your blood and subject us to her time magic."

"Psh, that's no problem," said Delaney. "Blueberry-chan's immune in her own way, and I've covered her in my blood too. So we're still safe!"

"Don't call me Blueberry-chan," said Blueberry-chan. Mm yes, that Japanese tsundere shtick.

"Would either of you act with a modicum of maturity," said Erika. She cut a commanding but short figure in the mist. "The objective is to rescue Madoka Kaname. Any conversation not aimed toward that purpose is irrelevant. Now help me find where she went."

Delaney sighed, placed a hand on her hip, and raised her staff. A wave of blood burst from the ruby in all directions, splattering her companions and the walls beyond. Every surface was painted red, except a small opening hidden in the mist.

Well! Delaney had expected a secret switch, but this was a fortuitous outcome indeed. Plus, she could act like she expected it all along. "Voila, mesdemoiselles."

Her boon companions sent her stern glances mirrored in their no-fun-allowed features before tearing into a sprint, which proved awkward when both attempted to cram through the doorway at the same time and despite their svelte little bodies some pushing and shoving became mandatory.

Delaney, accustomed to patience, tip-tapped behind them through the dark passageway and dragged her blood across the walls in search of more secret exits. Difficult to believe they remained inside the rather compact apartment, but Delaney detected odd magic at work akin to the Williston miasma, widespread distortion of reality although somewhat more subtle. A map might prove enlightening! Alas, such cartographic luxuries remained just that.

Then Erika, who had weaseled herself into the lead, threw open a door and light streamed in. A vivid skyscape stretched before them, marred only by the high towers of Mitakihara, chief of which an exact replica of the Burj Khalifa, and who knew for what silly reason it was placed there. Just outside the door was a precipitous drop down the pillar, terminating in a sidewalk splat far below.

Sayaka jabbed a finger over Erika's shoulder and pointed. "There! Homura."

A tiny dot flitted above the horizon. From such a distance it seemed only a rather large bird.

"She's got somewhat of a head start on us," said Delaney.

"Perhaps next time nix the idle chatter," said Erika.

Sayaka stooped down and shouted into the bracelet of void around her ankle: "Omaha, you hear me? We need a portal to get closer to Homura."

Ah. Delaney had wondered how Sayaka remained unaffected by the time manipulation. However, Delaney did not recall void bracelets being part of Omaha's arsenal.

"Omaha, the hell you doing? We need a portal now."

They waited.

"Omaha!"

Delaney prepared a comment to break the tension, but before she could say it a black circle appeared in front of them with a sound effect from someone's zipper and far less theatrical aplomb than expected. Within the void awaited another circle, this one not black but blue because it went back to the real world, and much closer to Homura Akemi. So Omaha now controlled wormholes? Very well, why not.

Into the wormhole they went, Blueberry-sama first and the Maiden(?) from Manitoba second. Delaney plunged after, arms up like on a rollercoaster (she had never been on a rollercoaster, unless you counted her entire life), and they floated across a short dark passage toward the second portal. Delaney took the chance to examine the nether realm as they passed through, and noticed her dear chums Sloan and Omaha by another portal below. A third girl Delaney had never seen before was with them, and waved as they passed. Delaney waved back and boom, they returned to the real world, now amid the city's skyscrapers. And in midair, which was not as inconvenient as one might expect. Delaney summoned bubbles to buoy her and Erika on drafts of wind, while their fruitier friend rode atop her mermaid witch. The mermaid intrigued Delaney. She wondered if she had her own witch she could summon, and what it looked like, and what it would do.

Homura, who soared not far away, tilted back her head and inspected them with a grimace. Madoka remained clutched under one arm, dull-eyed. Silly move, Miss Akemi. Leaving the key to ending this conflict within their reach? Tsk, tsk. Desperate girls do desperate things, Delaney knew.

The mermaid witch, having an absurdly large reach on account of its absurd largeness, struck first. It raised its janky collage arms and brought down a blade roughly ten meters long, but Homura barrel-rolled behind a skyscraper and the mermaid struggled to turn its body around the impediment. Erika, less constrained by Megalodon mass, managed to round the bend more swiftly.

When Delaney followed, Homura had already turned to face them. With impossible dexterity, Homura maintained her hold on Madoka while also drawing her purple bow with a reality-rippling shaft. When she loosed it, Erika dipped to the side; the shaft curved to follow. It burst a hasty bubble with hardly any effort and sailed into Erika's chest, centimeters below her Soul Gem pendant, missing solely due to the millisecond delay caused by the bubble's obstruction (or so Delaney decided to believe). The arrow pierced Erika straight through in a spectacle of gore Delaney found merely mundane. Nothing not fixed by a quick heal!

Homura followed the charged attack with a rain of weaker arrows, fifty nocked and loosed at once, but Delaney's bubbles were sufficient to block them. Behind lumbered the mermaid with Blueberry perched on a shoulder, directing with her blade like a conductor. Rather than contend with it, Homura took off again, delving closer to the heart of the city and the faux Burj Khalifa.

So, said Delaney, Miss Blueberry, how about we start knocking these skyscrapers down? Maybe flatten Homura with them. At least take away her hiding spots.

What! Are you insane? Do you know how many people that'd kill?

Hm. Delaney placed a finger to her lower lip and calculated. Somewhere in the three thousand ballpark per tower. We could drop seven and not even exceed the death toll of your average third world earthquake!

What! Blueberry's favorite interjection.

Forgive my companion. Erika dipped around Homura with a series of sword strikes parried by well-placed blocks of the bow. She is legitimately insane.

Delaney drenched Erika in blood after she received a series of pin needle arrows across her body. Neither of you are any fun at all.

Nagisa blinked and what? What happened to Sayaka? One moment she's right next to her on the roof, they're spying on Homura's bad guy lair, the next she's—and what happened to Homura's apartment! Why is it a million miles in the sky? What did Nagisa miss?

She cupped her hands over her mouth and called: "Helloooooo!" Her voice echoed in reply: "Hellooo, hellooo, hellooo..."

Uh. This was really weird? Nagisa looked around the rooftop, looked over the railing, looked everywhere. But nobody was around. She kneaded her hands and kicked a foot and noticed the black cord that was supposed to tie her to Omaha's portal was gone too. Now that was especially weird, because without a connection to the portal, Nagisa would be frozen in time when Homura used her powers! Wait, what if Homura already used her powers? That'd explain why stuff had changed... But it didn't explain what happened to her cord.

She peeked around the building at where the portal was, and it was still there. One cord extended from it and went aaaaaall the way up to Homura's apartment, so that was probably Sayaka. Nagisa decided the first thing she oughtta do is get back in the void place before Homura stopped time again. Which she wouldn't notice anyway unless a new weird thing appeared or disappeared suddenly. Homura could be using her powers... right now! Or... now! Or even now. As Nagisa crept toward the portal, she kept her eyes open for strange stuff.

And saw nothing, not even a single creepy doll. Lame! Oh well. Into the portal she went, with its eerie darkness and all the strange shapes that floated around, plus the million chairs which existed for whatever reason. Not-Homura was there too, which was weird because usually she kept out of sight even when Sayaka wanted to talk to her. She had a scythe in her hands.

"Hi, Ohio!" Nagisa said. Except she didn't say it. She opened her mouth and no sound came out. Huh?

A second person also floated in the space. It was what's-her-face, in the coat. She opened and closed her mouth and no sound came out, too. She held out her hands toward Ohio and pantomimed.

Nagisa had no clue why nobody could talk, but she was behind Ohio so she plopped her hands down on Ohio's shoulders right as Ohio raised her scythe. Ohio spun around with eyes full of shock and hatred, which took Nagisa aback, though soon afterward the same sadness as usual gleamed behind her glasses and she lowered her scythe.

"Oh... It's you..."

Since Ohio could talk, Nagisa tried again, and sure enough it worked. "Yeah! Who else would it be? What's going on? What happened to Sayaka? Why's Homura's apartment way in the sky?"

Ohio seemed like maybe she was gonna say something or maybe not, but what's-her-face blurted first: "Kyubey wired this whole place to explode when you bring Madoka here." It came out as one breathless bluh of words. Nagisa had to think hard to make it make sense.

"What," she said when it registered. "Ohio, is this true?"

"No." Ohio's fingers dug into the shaft of her scythe. "No, it's not! Have you heard anything more devoid of sense? None of this would be possible if not for my Friend. None of it! And you, you who killed God herself...!"

"Madoka's dead?" Oh no. Oh no that's bad, that's really bad.

"Not anymore," said Sloan. "I had to do it so Homura would turn back time and bring you and Mami and Kyoko back to life."

"Mami's dead?" Tears instantly streamed down Nagisa's face.

"No, dammit, stop crying. I already told you Homura turned back time. Stop it, she's still alive!"

The reassurances cut through the warm haze of Nagisa's eyes. She wiped her tears with an elbow and sniffled once. "Really, she's alive? She's telling the truth, right Ohio?"

Ohio's head hung at a funny angle and grew a mean snarl. "I don't know. I don't know how far she turned back time. And it doesn't matter. All our lives are forfeit in service to God!"

"We have to save her! We have to, we have to. We can help Madoka whenever, we gotta make sure Mami and Kyoko are safe now!"

"Gaah!" Ohio tossed her scythe aside and pulled at her hair. She tugged until her strained scalp showed and then she coiled the thick strands of hair into a rope around her neck. Eventually a gross clump broke off and poked between her clenched fingers. "I was told you and your friend Miki were champions of God—her angels! Yet I see you concerned more with the Kingdom of Man than that of God... Unacceptable!"

"Just because Madoka is important doesn't mean everyone else isn't," said Nagisa.

Ohio seized her by the shirt and shook her and Nagisa's head jerked back and forth. "Do you have any idea what God did for us? What she sacrificed? How much she loves each and every one of us, down to the most reprehensible blot? Do you? DO YOU?"

"Omaha," said what's-her-face.

"Faithlessness... Impiety... Narcissism... Why does she care about any of you? Why? Why!"

Nagisa felt dizzy. Omaha kept shaking her until her eyes swirled around, then with an angry heave finally let go.

"Omaha, calm down." What's-her-face held out her hands. "I know you're mad. I know this isn't going the way you wanted. But you need to slow down and think. Please, let me explain everything."

Omaha went dead still, like a power cable got pulled out of her, arms slack and head low with her hair in gnarled tangles around her shoulders. She whispered: "Sloan... I am teetering on a precipice. Of whether to kill you or not. I am very close to deciding. Do not tilt me over the edge."

This girl was so weird! No wonder she looked like Homura, they both had brains like scrambled eggs. Nagisa smoothed her shirt, which was all crumpled and messy, and stuck out a lower lip. "I think we oughtta listen to what everyone has to say. Killing Madoka totally sounds like something Kyubey would try."

With the same suddenness, Omaha returned to life. One swift adjustment and she held a scythe under Nagisa's chin, the long curved part touching the skin of her neck. "Do you know what my Friend has done for me? How he helped me, how he comforted me when I was locked in a basement with worms and centipedes and had nobody to talk to but him and God? My Friend is kinder than any of you have ever been or ever will be. Ever! He is a true angel, not whatever base and perverted thing you have become."

Nagisa rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother."

Omawhoever's hand trembled, the blade nicked Nagisa's skin. A little blood trickled down, she felt it and it felt weird.

A small voice said: "...closer to Homura."

"Who said that!" Omaha wheeled on Sloth but Sloth hadn't said anything.

"Omaha, the hell you doing? We need a portal now."

The voice, clearer now, was pretty much probably Sayaka, and it came from the cord extending out the open portal.

"Omaha!" said Sayaka.

Omaha seemed to take the request as an extreme inconvenience. She swung her scythe and cleaved a chair in two (for pretty much no reason), then looked into Sayaka's cord to figure out where she was. Turning away with a lazy humph she opened a portal above them, followed by a second next to it. She did not watch as Sayaka streamed through one portal to the next, even though Sayaka now had two friends Nagisa had never seen before. Nagisa waved. Sayaka and her first friend didn't see, but the second friend waved back. Yay! Then they were gone.

"Follow her, Momoe," said Omaha. "Join the battle against Satan."

Bluh, not even Homura called her Momoe. "Sayaka has help, she might not need me that much." Nagisa crossed her arms. "But if Slug's telling the truth about how in a past timeline Mami and Kyoko got killed, we need to make sure that doesn't happen!"

She braced for another outburst from Oklahoma, some more shouting, some more scything. Maybe she would do what Mami did when she got upset and smoke a lot of cigarettes(!) when she thought Nagisa couldn't see. Nasty habit, very gross. And it put you in the hospital, very bad. But Oklahoma didn't do anything at all. She just kinda slumped her shoulders and breathed a big breath. Her eyes disappeared behind her big round glasses.

"Fine... Do what you will. Otherwise you'll only continue to hurt me..."

"Omaha," said Slop. "I don't want to hurt you. I want you to live too. I want to be your friend."

"Pah," said Omaha. And nothing else. She drifted away, not moving her arms or legs or anything, just drifting, sinking into the darker parts of the void where the bombs floated. Slow started to say something else but stopped when a new portal opened in front of them, a portal to a place Nagisa recognized instantly:

Home.

Stored in infinite memory, a log.

Earth Calendar Date: 17 January 2010.

Location: 41.464166 North, 96.780833 West (North Bend City, Dodge County, Nebraska State, United States of America Country, North America Continent). 620 W 8th Street. Basement.

Specimen: Unnamed female human, 12 years age, exact DNA match to Homura Akemi of Mitakihara, Japan.

Objective: Fraternize.

Y'know, Kyoko always smelled something fishy about that foreigner girl. She just happens to show up the same time Sayaka and Nagisa go missing? Yeah, right. Mami was too soft on her from the getgo, all the worse because that was softness from confidence instead of ignorance, like big bad Mami can handle a guttersnipe American girl no problem, so she cut back the leash bit by bit and bam, that's when they get you. Course, Kyoko schmoozed with the girl just the same, playing around with coats and music players, so maybe if she set her own discerning eye on the matter they wouldn't be where they were now, aka eating Christmas dinner the three of them and suddenly the foreigner up and vanishes. No warning, no explanation. She had goddam invisibility powers the whole time, like Homura warned. Homura was bonkers as all hell but she often had a point.

It seemed so obvious in retrospect Kyoko couldn't even muster the low-hanging outrage, especially since it wouldn't do Mami any better as she flitted around her apartment opening doors like the foreigner decided to play hide-and-seek. Instead Kyoko played with the turkey bones on her plate. Another good meal ruined—

SKREEEEEEEEEEEE. BUH BLAHBIDDY BLAH BLUH.

Now this was worthy of outrage. Kyoko jolted out her chair, turned toward the bombast. Goddam megaphone? Why? Where'd it come from? Past the balcony, into the courtyard behind the apartment. Construction? Whoever it was wasn't speaking Japanese.

Mami looked at Kyoko, Kyoko shrugged. "Remain here," Mami said. "I will investigate." She opened the balcony doors and looked outside.

Remain here? Yeah right. Kyoko peered over Mami's shoulder. She had to stand on tiptoe because Mami was taller than her.

Two chicks stood in the courtyard, near the pool. More chicks, apparently trying to conceal themselves, crouched in the pool shed and on the opposite rooftops. What bozos were these? Worst ambush of all time. Where'd they come from? Looked foreign. Fargo's pals, probably.

"What is it you want?" said Mami to the two below.

The more imposing of the pair said something to the wimp with the megaphone, who skreeeeeeed in Japanese:

"Where is Sloan Redfearn! Where is Fargo! All we want is Fargo! Please save me, these people are insane!"

Kyoko caught the scheme here. "A trap," she muttered to Mami. "They're in cahoots with Fargo. I count eight lurking."

Mami cleared her throat and spoke clearly, with simple diction: "Fargo is not here."

Megaphone chick, quivering, consulted the leader with extreme deference. You see these cult of personality types sometimes, take over a city like a third world dictator. Big bad bossa bitch, pull tithes and have their lessers groveling at their feet. Thing about those kinda girls is, you take them out and the remoras scatter.

Skreee. "She knows Fargo is here! They can trace her! They will kill you and me both if you do not bring her!"

Kyoko pushed past Mami and seized the railing. "Hey! Punkass bitch! Tell your boss or whatever we don't like foreigners in our territory! Tell her she can fuck off or all twenty-seven Mitakihara Magical Girls will punt her ass back to America!"

Mami whispered: "Keep calm, Miss Sakura. They have girls with long-range weapons stationed on the nearby rooftops. Best not to provoke them."

"Look, we don't have Fargo, it's a clear setup. Either we tuck tail and cede the city or we go for the leader and drop her fast."

"We are heavily outnumbered. If diplomacy fails, perhaps ceding temporarily is our best option."

"Fuck no. Let them get hooks in and they—"

Another obnoxious blast from the megaphone. "She says you don't have twenty-seven girls! She says there are only three of you! Blonde, redhead, and Fargo! Acquiesce or die! Can't you see they're insane?!"

"One shot on the leader," said Kyoko. "Give me one shot and I'll get the others scampering."

"You only assume she's the leader. And what about her powers? Perhaps she has an impenetrable shield. This is headstrong even for you."

Sure. Headstrong. Call it that. But these girls really pissed Kyoko off and usually what she did to people who pissed her off was kick their teeth into their throat. And what'd she have to lose? Sayaka was gone. She'd been gone for two days. Magical Girls who disappear don't come back, whether Cycles or just skipping town. Not like Sayaka had a reason to leave. She had family here, friends, school, a future. If anyone left it shoulda been Kyoko, wayward spirit and wanderlust, left her and all the others because honestly other than Sayaka and Mami she barely knew any of them, like who even was Madoka? Homura? Names, in three years she swapped thirty minutes of conversation with the latter and saw the former maybe once a month. Plus she had no problems ditching Mami before, so let's be real the only thing tying her to this damn city was Sayaka and even that tie had frayed to a single flimsy thread so Kyoko thought maybe a change of scenery would do her good, unmoor her from a buncha shitty memories of awkward fights over stolen CDs and copied homework. Because that balance, those allegorical scales of justice with good memories on one side and bad on the other, in recent weeks tilted more and more the wrong way.

So why the fuck not. Sayaka ditched her, why not ditch everything?

"This is your final warning! Bring Fargo or suffer the consequences!"

But because Kyoko was no coward and she had debts to repay to the girls who called this place home, she'd do them one last favor. A little thank-me-later. Then she might see the what's-what in Kazamino tonight, or maybe not.

"Watch your head, Mami."

Kyoko launched past her and over the railing. In a flash her Magical Girl clothes rippled around her, all frills and lace, with her spear in hand and ready to impale. Shots rang out and whizzed close to Kyoko's ear, but nothing stuck. Dull clod girls always move too slow. In an honest fight only one thing matters and it's speed. You end a fight in less than a minute or you don't win the fight. Maybe you don't lose, but you don't win, and this time winning meant everything.

Below her appeared red latticework diagonal to the ground. She landed on a taut string and it flexed with a creak, bending, bending, reaching its lowest possible point, the latticework electric like hummingbird wings, aaaaand:

BOING! Kyoko rocketed forward. Everything blurred as she focused on the sole point that mattered, the boss girl, now wearing a suit of gold armor with a big axe. Good. Better than good. Big weapon big armor meant slow, slow, slow. Maybe better ability to take a hit, but when a girl's speeding at you fast as a racecar with a spear taller than her, armor don't mean shit.

Fast hard spearpoint drove into breastplate. Except not. All the momentum in an instant coalesced into a single point of realization, a widening of the eyes when Kyoko's spear did not sink into the golden plate but shattered, cracks starting from the tip down the broader width, spreading and crumbling to dust as Kyoko continued forward. The shaft disappeared against the gold like she plunged it into a grinder.

Kyoko slammed against the girl. The sound of metal filled her head and she bounced back. Everything shook, everything rang, and her brain sloshed in her skull. Plop, she hit the ground. Blood ran down her nose and from where one of her sharp teeth snagged her lower lip. The entire right side of her face went numb and the left pulsed with transferred energy.

The pain hurt less than the embarrassment. Instant wonderment at how her stupid head conceived this godawful plan. Three years of cush living. Dulls the faculties. You forget everything. Every word she thought echoed. Forget everything, forget everything, forget everything.

Two girls, also in gold armor, emerged from the pool shed and aimed guns at Kyoko, but the leader bid them halt with a staunch arm. She said something in not-Japanese. One subordinate saluted and ran back to the shed, the other yelled at the girl with the megaphone, who cowered near the diving board.

Kyoko rolled onto her knees, only to suffer a kick to the ribs from Boss Lady. She coughed blood and tried to turn her eyes toward the balcony to see what happened to Mami. Should never have done it. Put Mami in danger, dammit.

"They are putting you under arrest," said megaphone girl, mercifully without megaphone. "Why would you do such a thing, are you fucking retarded?"

Another red glob of spit plopped onto the concrete. Kyoko wiped her mouth and reared up, seizing megaphone girl by the throat and grappling with her into the pool with a splash. Water swelled her nostrils.

Fuck it. Let's go nuts now.

Who was this goony bird? No really. Hennepin wanted to know. Of all the dumb things this redhead chick could do, first she had to go and attack Cicero (lol) then she decided to go after Hennepin? Why? Hennepin didn't do shit. The only reason Hennepin kept her cool was because any moment now the Chicago girls would pluck them out the pond and pull them apart.

Any moment now.

They hit the bottom of the pool.

Hennepin started to freak out. She swung her fists, slowed by water, at the girl's face, kicked her legs against the fiberglass. Water clogged her eyes and mouth.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE SOMEBODY HELP ME!

Why her? Why her. What did she do? She did nothing. She never wanted much. Let her play games. Oh god, she tried to tell herself she didn't have her gem on her so nothing this girl did would hurt her but when you feel the water inside your lungs panic sets in and oh god—

She groped the bloody face of her assailant and shoved her thumbs into the red eyes. Redhead's head swung back and her grip loosened while she reached for Hennepin's wrists. Everything happened staggered, every action telegraphed far in advance. Gold shapes flitted around the surface. Nobody came for her. They must be laughing. Egging on the fight, hoping to see one kill the other. This was punishment. Divine retribution for being such a selfish bitch, for leaving them all alone when they needed help, for abandoning the city, for condemning Ramsey to die. The worst thought of any prisoner is that they deserve it. Night and day they punished her, whipped her, stripped her, pressed her bare skin against the ice, called her a whore, called her every name they could think except the one Hennepin herself thought.

Their bodies twirled in suspended space. Hennepin rose above the redhead and swung a slow kick into her groin. Hands ripped the buttons of her blouse. After what Cicero did, her modesty reflex no longer existed and she shimmied out of the torn shirt to break free. Up and up and into real air, sputtering and coughing.

The scene around her was madness. Nobody laughed, or even paid attention to her, because they ran toward something with their weapons out. Oh, oh shit. It was one of those portals, the one Fargo disappeared into. It hung in the sky near the second story of the main building, not far from the balcony where the two girls—

Something wrapped around her ankle and dragged her back down. The redhead crawled up against her, also apparently without modesty. Hennepin braced for another strangling, cuz gee why not, but once redhead pulled herself to the surface she relinquished Hennepin like she was bored of the whole affair.

Hennepin floundered back up and reemerged beside her. Redhead saw the portal now too, and that was all she cared about. Which meant nobody noticed Hennepin. Good. Hennepin liked that. Leave her alone. Embryonic thoughts entered her suddenly reasonable head. If the distraction kept up enough, all Hennepin had to do was locate Norridge, the girl with the whip, and take her by surprise. She kept the Soul Gem in a pouch strapped to her thigh—Hennepin watched.

She swam to the pool's edge and searched for anything to use as a weapon when a roar splintered the air and the golden girls around her buckled in surprise. From the balcony burst something bonkers, too bonkers to describe, a giant snake with a polka-dot face and a mouth of triangle teeth. Between its gnashing jaws screamed several mangled Chicago girls; the rest raised their weapons to fend off the eldritch abomination.

Alright cool, this was the shit Hennepin needed. The more fucked everyone else got the better good ol' Serena Ru got, that was her credo (she decided now). She slogged herself out the pool, drenched and squelching, but that didn't matter. Just let her find a weapon, any weapon. Her powers let her do whatever she needed so as long as she kept a cool head she had this, yeehaw.

An itty bitty pixie zipped past her on a trail of shitty special effects, transformed into a little girl with white hair and horribly clashing colors, and started speaking to Kyoko. Hennepin's Japanese being better than she expected (though she purposely understated her powers to Cicero), she caught the gist.

"Kyoko, hurry! We have to get you away from here."

"What? Nagisa? Where the hell have you been?" Redhead (Kyoko) paddled to the edge of the pool. The giant snake winded through a formation of Chicago girls and tossed them skyward with a flick of its head.

"I'll explain later! You and Mommy are in danger. Come with me into the portal, hurry!"

Hennepin connected the dots. Nagisa came from the portal, which led to Omaha and the Minneapolis wraith's zillion cubes. With the Chicago girls distracted, the portal hung unattended by the balcony. As for Hennepin's role... One critical chess piece, one unexpected action by an unexpected girl, and suddenly fate flips on its head—perfect! Perfectly stupid! That kinda thinking gets a girl dead. But if she made it into the portal, she'd at least be safe from Cicero.

She stopped wasting time. With Kyoko and already-forgot-her-name mired in heated conversation about someone's Mommy, Hennepin stole away into the rumpus room of gold armor girls. Clouds of smoke rocketed from guns and the snake reared back with a piteous moan, only to surge anew and scatter the girls with its gnashing teeth. Battered bodies lay across the grass while a couple of smalltime healers flitted between them. No sign of Norridge with the whips, but she couldn't have gone far or else Hennepin would be dead by now.

Actually, she didn't need to find Norridge. Adopting the tone and brute force of Cicero's barking (mimicry yet another thing Hennepin was good at), she said: NORRIDGE!

The response came instantaneously: Yes, milady?

Chalk up another genius idea on the Hennepin genius idea board (sadly barren of late). I ORDER YOU TO BRING HENNEPIN HER SOUL GEM AT ONCE! SHE'S NEEDED TO HELP US IN THIS FIGHT.

Right away, milady!

Holy yes. She considered other ways to milk her Cicero-voice. If she turned the girls on each other, ascended to chessmaster status and shifted all the pawns life doled her to the end of the board, well then...

Norridge, you imbecile. That wasn't me, that was Hennepin trying to deceive you.

Hennepin flinched and scanned for the real Cicero. It didn't take long to find her. She had gotten onto the roof of the apartment complex, swinging her halberd at the buxom blonde girl while lots of ribbons and rifles swirled around. Not important. What was important was that Norridge had already blundered into sight before Cicero's rebuke. By the left wing of the complex, alongside a girl with a buster sword.

For a weapon, a stray pool skimmer would have to suffice. Hennepin picked it up and became an instant master of pool skimmer martial arts. Skimmer fu. Oh god she was fucked.

No! Have heart, frail Serena! You're in too deep now. Do you really want to spend another night or week or forever in the custody of these lunatics? Of course not. Now charge!

She charged. Norridge was already turning away from her, while Armenian Cloud Strife jumped at the big snake, leaving her hapless friend alone and prey to Hennepin's adept skimmer strikes.

Silent she struck, a pool skimmer to the only place it had any chance of doing damage: the scrap of exposed neck between Norridge's armor and helmet. The flimsy pole landed with a swift thwack before Hennepin pulled back to dodge the retribution. Norridge's whip grazed Hennepin regardless, but what mattered was that Norridge had turned her face to her, which exposed the biggest weakpoint of anyone regardless of armor or the shitsterness of the opponent's weapon.

Hennepin flipped the pool skimmer and jabbed the blunt bottom of the shaft directly into Norridge's eye. Get wrecked motherfucker.

Indeed wreckage occurred. Norridge recoiled, hand slapped to her eye, common bottom tier bitch mistake of giving a shit about structural damage because once Hennepin had an in she stunlocked with successive strikes, pool skimmer butt to all unprotected parts of throat and face. Attack its weakpoint for... MASSIVE damage, busting out the vintage 06 memes for this one (memes never die they merely age like wine). Norridge, devastated, fell onto her ass and shielded her face to protect herself.

Now Hennepin was hyped. When she got into something you really had to watch out, her one kryptonite was her capacity for apathy but push her over the brink and ho boy. With a final solid jab to nail Norridge on the bridge of the nose, Hennepin discarded her skimmer and dropped to her knees. She scavenged around Norridge's legs and soon found the leather pouch and in it her Soul Gem.

So now everyone was more-or-less fucked because Serena "Hennepin" Ru of Mississauga, Ontario had her SOUL back. Flash! Light enveloped her and her sopping wet ensemble became a dry and beautiful assemblage of pseudo-Victorian lady wear with a sleek lab coat on top, a costume mind you Hennepin designed herself, fashion being one of the infinite things she was good at.

She wanted someone to recognize her badassery, but the other Chicago girls remained preoccupied with the snake, while the trio of Kyoto, Small Kid, and Big Mommy clashed with Cicero and a few others on the roof. The roof, by the way, had several craters now because every time Cicero swung her axe she caused a miniature explosion. But what mattered most was the portal. Long ago Hennepin learned the perils of excessive gloating even if she only did it to herself. The portal mattered most.

Nothing stood in her way. She scurried between the fallen bodies of the Chicagoans, lithe and furtive in her movements through the courtyard-turned-battlefield. Only a quick hop to the balcony and a second into the portal...

Except someone already stood inside the portal, and it was

GOD.

DAMN.

FARGO.

"What the hell are you doing there Fargo?" said Hennepin.

Fargo leaned halfway out the portal. She seemed reluctant to leave it fully and gave Hennepin no acknowledgement.

"Hey! That gun of yours finally make you deaf? I'm coming up, get out of the way or—"

Or nothing, because the big goofy snake monster, which was perfectly content to ignore her until she got close to the portal, now turned its stupid face and peered down at her. Hungrily.

Its wide smile parted into two rows of perfect white triangles. Hennepin's mind went blank as she gazed into the perfectly black maw, itself a portal into void, and then the teeth clamped down and she felt herself hoisted into the air because feeling became the only sense left to her.

The absurdity of the situation made it impossible to comprehend. If not for the fangs lodged in her body she might have denied it outright, but soon she had no option but to accept that a cartoon snake was voring her for dinner. When she did accept it, the first thing that popped into her head was the movie Braindead.

Have you ever seen the 1992 New Zealand cinematic classic Braindead, also known by the equally sublime title Dead Alive, written and directed by Academy Award-winning filmmaker Peter Jackson? Well, purely hypothetical friends (Hennepin's only "friends" being people she met online), it's a coming-of-age tale about a meek young gent who lives alone with his rather unpleasant mother. Love blossoms in this poor kiwi's heart when he meets a nice foreign girl and the two spark a budding romance. Too bad the mother disapproves of the couple (because RACISM) and does everything she can to break them up. The part in particular Hennepin remembered was a scene at the climax, wherein the mother, now a fifty-foot-tall zombie, devours whole her hapless son, quite similar to how Hennepin herself was being devoured. But fear not, for the crafty young man escaped his dire plight. In a gesture rather symbolic of his fledgling steps toward independent manhood, the fellow clawed his way out his mother's stomach with a knife.

Hennepin did not have a knife. Nor was she yet in the monster's stomach, assuming magical creatures had digestive tracts and she wouldn't simply tumble into everlasting emptiness. Nonetheless, with a glimmer of magic she summoned her crystal. Normally her crystal needed light to do anything, but in a pinch she knew another use for it.

She rammed the sharp tip of the long prismatic shard into the roof of the monster's mouth. It sank with a wet and soft sound. Hennepin wrenched it out and rammed it back in, and did it again, and again. The monster flailed wildly and her body shook like a rag doll and the teeth clenched to the point of nearly bifurcating her. Undaunted she shanked and shanked and shanked deeper into the roof of the monster's mouth, toward a brain if one existed.

The mouth opened, light poured in, and a flick sent her flying. She hit the wall of the apartment and bounced onto the balcony. The snake's eyes went psychedelic discotheque shades of bonkers as candy-colored blood frothed from its mouth in gloopy rivers, running over Hennepin's paralyzed and twitching legs. It spazzed, scraping its face against the walls, gnashing its teeth and making screechy sounds until its cocaine eyes fell on her again. At which point its brow furrowed in exaggerated cartoon anger and it unhinged its mouth to finish the job.

From the portal, not far away, Fargo fired her gun at Chicago girls. Hennepin directed the crystal into her fire, intercepting the light and redirecting it into the snake's big dopey face. The snake reared back. Hennepin did not bother to check if she killed it. She commanded her legs to move and ignoring the fact that her entrails tumbled out the cavity in her stomach—fun fact, not the first time this happened—she pulled herself up using the railing as a prop.

"Hennepin stop fucking around," said Fargo.

Walking, let alone leaping, was out of the question. But Hennepin wrapped her collapsing body around her crystal and angled it toward the portal. Fargo kept yapping, apparently unaware what she intended to do. Hennepin was beyond caring. Rocket ship time.

Her crystal fired at the portal, taking Hennepin along for the ride. If she had more life and less pain she'd shout a yeehaw. Instead she plowed into Fargo and through the portal. Gravity and atmosphere vanished, replaced by a void broken only by the occasional chair. Fargo went flying, Hennepin went flying. Her blood whipped through the space, her guts flapped from her wounds.

Around her glittered thousands of cubes. And behind her, now that there was no snake monster to guard the entrance, everyone else started streaming through the portal.

Little worked. Attacks proved only speciously effective, frequently not even so. This demon, or whatever Sloan called her, made a formidable enemy. If not for the constant stream of healing provided by Delaney, they would have suffered defeat long ago.

Erika Dufresne dashed across the windowed wall of a skyscraper. The glass behind her shattered after every step and rained shards likely fatal to pedestrians below. Allowing civilians to die for Madoka's protection probably ran counter to Madoka's philosophy, which seemed one of baffling pacifism and (for lack of a better word) niceness. During Erika's short time in the ascended realm, she found her perception of the universe to bend toward that of the Incubators, whose entropic logic she had never considered before; in life, entropy was to her only a word (and a vaguely-defined one at that). But when one can view the entire scope of human and nonhuman existence, or at least understand where those existences trend, it becomes difficult not to consider entropy a grave issue. And when one can view the whole of human existence, from Mesopotamia to globalization, the importance of a single human life diminishes to microscopic statistical curiosity.

Perhaps that explained Madoka's exalted significance, for even as a Goddess she ran her enterprise to noble and humane purposes, when many given her powers would not, even so well-intentioned.

Erika leapt from the skyscraper in an arc above Homura Akemi, aiming to land not directly on top of her but slightly to her right, within striking range but (hopefully) at a strange enough angle to confound her, as it was the side opposite that clutched the sleeping Madoka. Furthermore, should the attack go poorly, it gave Erika a better route of escape, because Delaney floated to the right, and could more easily snatch her from harm.

Her goal was the long, sparsely-feathered wings on Akemi's back, because their length made them more difficult to defend. If Erika could incapacitate her ability to fly and bring the battle back to the ground it would reduce Akemi's options. Common parlance suggested a trapped animal is at its most dangerous, and for animals such sayings were true, but humans usually acted only stupidly (Sloan Redfearn, for example).

She lashed her sword at the bony joint halfway down the wing, but at the same moment Akemi dipped into a nosedive and Erika's sword swiped only air.

Their blue-haired companion attempted a similar attack and achieved a similar result. The problem was lack of coordination. They could not ameliorate this problem because their communications would be heard by their adversary. It made Erika frustrated, because hadn't her final lesson prior to death been about the necessity of proper teamwork?

Akemi zoomed around a skyscraper and their ineffectual trio chased.

This stalemate ultimately favored Akemi. As a being like Madoka her Soul Gem must be nigh incorruptible, and while Erika felt that her own gem had vastly increased its usual capacity, an uninterrupted thirty minutes of all-out combat exacted its toll. She had no idea if her companions felt the same. She knew next to nothing about Blue Hair, and come to think of it very little about Delaney. But Blue Hair had been forced to stop deploying her mermaid witch (or perhaps its lack of maneuverability made it impractical), so likely they could commiserate.

She landed on a bubble. "Pollack, we're making no progress."

"It's true," said Delaney. "I hoped with Madoka she'd be handicapped, but it's really only made her harder to catch!"

"I'm going to try something different."

Delaney clasped her hands. "Oh, very good! Blueberry said our devil's bad at adapting to circumstances, but it seemed you two expended all your tricks long ago. You're both rather one-dimensional!"

Perhaps so, but Erika always kept one trick in reserve. She had hoped not to use it until they exposed a weakness, but other than a full retreat and regroup—which would benefit Akemi more—it looked like the only option.

They entered a diamond-shaped area between four towers, each with a pyramid spire like a prismatic crystal to turn the dwindling sun dazzling. The openness made the location perfect.

She raised her katana overhead, closed her eyes, and emptied her mind. Her magical energies collected into a tidy sphere of thought. Streaks of indigo and celadon ricocheted within, gaining speed and power, and when her eyes opened, those streaks now swirled around her katana as a violent halo that plunged the skyscrapers and the sky into a stormy dark. Homura Akemi alone remained among this black purity of a mental landscape transposed upon reality, her wings lazy inksplots and her body like that of a salamander wriggling from primordial tar to touch land for the first time.

"Bourrasque," said Erika.

Her bones became light as a bird's.

"Denouement."

From her body burst a stellation of copies of herself, fibered by strands of wind, replicating exponentially to swell the space between the four skyscrapers with eyeblink slashes. Made of no solid matter, they traveled far faster than Erika herself, faster than the devil Akemi. Hundreds, thousands of her form encircled Akemi to fence all avenues of escape.

At least on a horizontal plane. One tremendous beat of her wings and Akemi dropped beneath the onslaught and divebombed toward the concrete below.

Erika's clones pursued, buzzing like wasps, and Erika allowed herself to fall in a perfectly rigid straightness. Her hair rustled as the wind rose to greet her.

Oh lovely, she's on the run now, said Delaney.

She's always been on the run, said Blue Hair.

That's all my power, said Erika. Capitalize now or we must retreat.

Blue Hair surged ahead of Erika, pointed at the thickest cluster, where stray black feathers alone could be seen of Akemi for all the mayhem around her. Before she got close a shard of purple light sliced through the wind. Blue Hair cartwheeled off a well-placed bubble to evade but the arrow continued through wisps, dispersing them. A second arrow followed the first, and a third, and a fourth and a fifth and soon an uncountable number, until it seemed impossible that even a demigod could draw so many arrows so quickly. Several hit Erika, but she held the pendant of her gem in one hand to keep it safe and cared nothing for anything else. Delaney did not put especial focus into healing her.

They struck the ground. Or rather, Erika struck the ground, her shoes landing on the roof of a car. She absorbed the impact with her magical reserves so that she did not even stagger. Akemi made a powerful blast of her wings to stop her own descent and clear most of the remaining spirits. She pulled back her bowstring but Blue Hair came down too quick and with just enough of an opening and sliced deep through a wing. The dregs of Bourrasque Denouement dispersed, but they had managed enough distraction to allow Blue Hair a single solid strike.

The severed wing flopped with a limp splatter of blood. Akemi fell onto an intersection and backpedaled while Blue Hair went on the offensive with renewed vigor. The swiftness of her strokes prevented Akemi from using her time magic to heal. Delaney donned a more aggressive role, coming at Akemi from the opposite angle and deploying bubbles to corral Akemi into unfavorable positions.

Erika knelt against the roof of the vehicle where she landed and caught her breath. They had dealt a staggering blow against Akemi. Now they need only—

A portal opened beside her. Immediately, a girl who looked like Akemi leaned out. She recognized Erika with a dull surprise and drew back.

From context, this must be Omaha.

"Oh... you..."

"Yes," said Erika. "Me."

"We... we have a situation in here! But Sayaka isn't listening to me..."

"We're close to defeating Homura Akemi. Nothing else matters."

"If my portals are allowed to decay... Then it won't matter how close you are, because she'll only have to turn off time and win...!"

Did that mean some kind of danger had entered Omaha's void area? Erika had little conception of how Omaha's powers worked or why they made Blue Hair immune to time magic, but she conceded Omaha probably knew what she was talking about.

"Fine, move aside. I'll come."

Erika climbed through the portal into a dark world. Omaha had collected an odd assortment of knickknacks, most of which were chairs, some of which were nuclear warheads. Erika had no opportunity to ask about the latter because the situation that so distressed Omaha was clear at once. Many people bounced around this world, one of whom Erika recognized as Sloan. Most, however, wore golden armor.

Two more portals were open. Within one a girl in gold was propped, her back and legs folded to fit within the circular entryway as (aided by an excessively large sword) she held it open for more gold-armored girls to enter.

"I can't close it with that stupid sword girl in the way!" Omaha said. "She... she... I didn't even know they could be held open like that!"

This all seemed ridiculous. Erika had no clue what to make of it, nor could she appraise the actual danger posed by the girls in gold, most of whom were focused on the sea of grief cubes that floated near the nuclear warheads. Erika got the impression that about a million things had happened since her death and the amount of explaining it would take for her to comprehend this nonsense was simply insurmountable.

"I could alter the rules here so nobody's powers work but... it would also stop my powers..."

"Why not alter them so everyone's powers stop but your own?"

"Because the purpose of rules is they apply to everyone! They can't be broken just because one person wants to!"

She spoke with bizarre conviction and Erika considered it likely she was either handicapping herself for no reason save pride or else merely making an excuse for something outside her control. A wearisome thought, though upon entering this void Erika no longer felt wearied from using her finisher.

"We're making progress against Akemi, so merely hold out until we finish her. They're not even attacking you."

"It's not about me, do you understand anything! They're taking the cubes! Without them I'm powerless..."

Erika sighed. "I shall see what I can do."

Everything happened so fast, and Mami had so little understanding of it all. It made it exceedingly difficult to maintain a poised disposition, but when Nagisa suddenly returned and without explanation dragged her through a portal to a black void without gravity or much else, she had to concede herself flustered. It put her in a rather awkward position where Nagisa—as relieved as Mami was that she was unharmed—better understood the situation than Mami herself.

She had little time to think about it. The leader of the gold-armored ladies had followed them into the void, alongside some of her stronger comrades. She swung her halberd at Kyoko, although the lack of solid ground or friction caused her body to rotate with the attack. Kyoko tried to avoid but also lacked anything with which to brace against, so Mami had to coil ribbons around her to yank her out of the way.

Mami summoned and fired a rifle at the leader, but when the hammer fell, no ignition sparked. When Sloan raised her machine gun and fired, the light did not even escape the barrel before the overwhelming darkness extinguished it.

"How dumb can this be?" Kyoko pulled herself out of Mami's ribbons. "Where the hell are we?"

"We're outside the universe itself," said Nagisa. She kept close to Mami and Mami kept a close eye on her. "A lot of laws and rules and stuff don't work so well here."

Kyoko immediately lost control of herself and spiraled in a random direction. "I don't like it at all."

Meanwhile the girls in golden armor were mired in similar problems. The leader with the halberd fought to right herself, but she was now spinning in perpetuity; one of her allies tried to help her and only got sucked into the whirlwind. A third girl raised an arquebus and fired at Sloan, but encountered the same issue as Mami's rifle. Others floundered awkwardly in space.

It was rather comedic. Mami had to contain a smirk, despite the ostensible danger. And why not smirk? Nagisa had returned! Still, she wished she understood what was happening. She wanted to ask Sloan but her English suddenly failed her.

A new girl drifted beside them. She was young, perhaps a little older than Nagisa, though she carried herself with far more maturity. She held a katana despite being an obvious foreigner, and she spoke to Sloan in English. Cubes. She said something about cubes.

Then, quite shockingly, Nagisa spoke in English too.

Mami tried to exchange a glance with Kyoko to confirm she heard what she thought she heard, but Kyoko had gotten tangled in a chair and did not seem aware of much else.

"Bebe," said Mami, "did you speak English?"

"Oh yeah," said Nagisa. "I can speak a lot of languages. Like, all of them."

The girl with the arquebus floated at Mami and attempted to bludgeon her with the butt of the gun, but she moved so slowly it was trivial to summon ribbons to bind her.

"How?" said Mami. "Bebe, what are you not telling me?"

"I'm really sorry Mami, I probably shoulda told you earlier—I wanted to, but Sayaka said I couldn't..."

"What is it? What's going on?"

"Mami, so I'm... I'm not supposed to be here. In Mitakihara, I mean."

Sloan and the katana-wielding foreigner chatted about something, Sloan angrily and her friend calmly. Sloan gesticulated at the objects drifting around the void, including the grief cubes that the remaining gold-armored girls swam toward, scooping huge handfuls into whatever containers they could.

"Not supposed to be here? Bebe, please be clear. I don't understand what you're saying."

Nagisa's gaze would not meet Mami's, which usually meant she had slacked on her homework or stolen cheese from the pantry or misbehaved in some manner. "Well..."

Sloan said something to her friend which interrupted Nagisa's thought and caused her to say something in English. Sloan's friend wore an increasingly disconcerted expression.

Using the girl entangled with her for leverage, the leader of the girls in gold armor righted herself and lunged at them with her halberd. Mami's ribbons put an end to that.

Mami placed a hand on Nagisa's shoulder to regain her attention. "Bebe! Answer me now. What has happened to you and Miss Miki? What is going on here?"

Still Nagisa said nothing. That old fear settled in, the fear that things were incorrect, that the natural order had in some way become disorganized, an omnipresent and overbearing feeling of uncanniness, and the heart inside Mami's chest began to beat harder.

Sloan's friend, now furious, tore away from the group and plunged back the way she came. She barked English words into the air. They may as well have been ancient Mesopotamian. Sloan followed her friend and Nagisa turned to follow as well, but Mami held her shoulder.

"Bebe."

"Mami, I'm sorry, I promise I'll explain everything later, but right now something's happening and it's super important, okay?"

"No, tell me now. What is happening? Tell me, please!"

"Okay. I'll tell you. Madoka is in trouble."

"Madoka...? Miss Kaname?"

"Yeah, Madoka! She's really important. A lot of things in Mitakihara aren't what they look like, but it's really hard to explain right now. Can you trust me, Mami? Please?"

Sloan's friend seemed to repeat the same word—Homura? No, different: O-ma-ha. Omaha.

Mami wanted to be stern, but could she punish such a child with threats of withheld cheese? Much of Nagisa's childishness was gone; her gaze was now strong and determined, focused on a goal Mami could not comprehend. The disconnect between them struck Mami fast and tears welled in her eyes, unbidden and unwanted. She averted her face while she fought to control herself.

"At least. At least tell me what they're saying."

"They? Oh, you mean what's-her-name and the new girl."

"Sloan Redfearn, her name is Sloan Redfearn."

"Right." Nagisa led Mami by the sleeve toward where Sloan and Sloan's friend drifted. "They're looking for Omaha, who's like, the person who created this place? Kinda. This place always existed and will always exist, because it's outside the universe. But Omaha found a way to get here and go back."

Outside the universe? How did Nagisa, who struggled with long division, understand what she said?

Out of the darkness came another voice, also speaking English, weak and concluding with ellipses as though the words were decaying out of the speaker's mouth. No matter where Mami looked, she saw nobody.

"That's Omaha," said Nagisa. "She wants them to stop the girls from Chicago from stealing the grief cubes. If they take them all, Omaha won't be able to open portals anymore. At least that's what she says, I personally think she's just scared and mad. Though having the cubes is good because it lets us fight for a long time."

"Fight who? Fight who, Nagisa?"

Nagisa said nothing. Sloan's friend with the katana, however, shouted a great deal. Sloan herself interjected once or twice.

"Uh oh," said Nagisa. "This is the important part. You see those bombs over there?" She pointed at some objects Mami had never realized were bombs, half-shrouded in darkness as they were. "Sloan thinks Kyubey set it up so those bombs explode when we take Madoka here. She thinks Kyubey wants to kill Madoka."

"Kyubey? Madoka? What?" Nebulous black space mocked her from all sides. Could this be a dream? But so many years of fighting in wraith miasmas made her adept at knowing when she was awake and when she slept.

Omaha spoke. She was interrupted by Sloan, and soon everyone began to speak on top of each other.

"Omaha doesn't think Kyubey is capable of doing it even if he wanted to, and she doesn't think he wants to because she thinks he's her friend for some reason? And Sloan's friend, whose name is Erika I guess, says that in order to bring Madoka here a portal will have to be open, which means Kyubey could transmit a signal or something, even if he only had a brief moment to do it... I dunno, it's all pretty complicated, Sloan's talking about how it doesn't matter how he would do it, and Omaha's too quiet to hear."

The shouting match continued. Mami glanced over her shoulder. Broken chairs drifted among girls in gold armor. A girl in a lab coat clung to a crystal, and on the fringes lurked ominous shapes—bombs. Bombs!

Sloan's voice cut above the others. She sputtered a long and twisted sentence and fell quiet. Nagisa said:

"Sloan wants to know what Omaha planned to use the bombs for. She thinks Omaha intended to lure Homura in here and blow up the bombs as a last resort if nothing else worked. She says that was Kyubey's failsafe plan."

Homura?

Omaha spoke.

"Omaha, who is really upset by the way, says the bombs were for a different reason. She says the failsafe plan didn't need bombs, because if Omaha lured Homura into here, which would be easy because it's the only way Homura could actually win, then all Omaha would need to do is kill herself and Homura could never escape."

"What?" said Mami.

"It's true, of course. Homura probably doesn't understand how this place works. She probably thinks it's just a distorted version of the real world, like a wraith miasma, so if she killed Omaha, everything would return to normal. But this is its own place... Even if Homura hesitated at first, she would come in here eventually. Otherwise she'd go crazy knowing she had no way to really be safe without killing Omaha."

Mami clutched at her forehead. She wanted to take Nagisa out of here, her and Kyoko and Sloan and escape to a world she understood where she could place everything into proper compartments and make sense of it and control it. With ribbons she could bind Nagisa. There were three portals open. One was guarded by the gold-armored girls but the other two were clear. Yes, that was it. That was the solution. She had a distinct advantage in this place with her powers—

Sloan cut off her thoughts with a sharp, terse sentence.

"She wants to know, then, what the bombs are for," said Nagisa.

Nobody spoke. An inviolable silence reigned. Mami could take Nagisa and probably Kyoko at one time. She would have to return for Sloan, if she chose to return. No. Of course she would return for Sloan.

A hundred portals opened at once, below them. Mami drew back because for a moment she thought they would be sucked through into the world beneath, but they continued to drift. The portals formed a neat checkerboard pattern of circles staring onto a vast cityscape—Mitakihara. No, wait. Only one was Mitakihara. Each portal looked onto a different city. She recognized Tokyo and Paris, and Moscow and Seoul, and Washington and Rio de Janeiro. She recognized Sydney and its opera house, Shanghai and its strange towers, Istanbul and its Hagia Sophia, Athens and its Parthenon, Mecca and its black square. London, Rome, and Berlin. Kyoto, Mumbai, Singapore. Cities Mami always wanted to visit, landmarks and buildings and cultures, and for a moment she stood suspended in awe at the entire breadth of human society stretched before her.

"Oh no," said Nagisa.

Mami turned to her. "What do you mean?"

The dark objects in the far reaches of the space began to move, notable because nothing else in the space moved, neither the chairs nor the cubes, nor the gold-armored girls, the girl with the crystal, Kyoko, Sloan, or Sloan's friend, all of whom stared silently at the portals. The dark objects, the missiles, filled the space above their heads, above the windows to the cities of the world.

Nagisa broke away toward one of the portals that had been open before, the one that looked onto a busy city intersection. Mami went after her, hesitant to stop her because she had no idea whether she ran toward danger or away from it, unsure of anything and paralyzed by her uncertainty, but she knew she must stay with Nagisa no matter what. Her ribbons allowed her to move fast, but not as fast as Nagisa, who reached the portal and leaned out and shouted:

"Sayaka! Sayaka Sayaka Sayaka, she's doing the thing! The thing!"

Over her shoulder, Mami saw Sayaka and another girl fighting—what couldn't be—Homura? Surely her, but with a long black wing and another severed stump, blood pouring down her side as she wielded a bow Mami had never seen before. She clutched Madoka under one arm, which did not impede her ability to use a two-handed weapon.

"Nagisa, what thing, what thing is she doing?" said Mami.

"SAYAKA SHE'S GONNA BLOW UP EVERYTHING!"

Sayaka froze mid-swing and turned her head over her shoulder, her eyes huge and blood running down her face. She said, frantically, "Tell her I only need more time! Tell her there's no need for that yet!"

Why were they fighting? Mami had always detected a hint of animosity between Homura and Sayaka, but to descend to this—inconceivable, inexplicable... She grabbed Nagisa by the shoulders and pulled her close, and though Nagisa struggled to escape Mami did not let go because she could think of nothing else to do to escape the confusion.

The bombs fell through the portals and onto the cities below.

The cars on the street with Sayaka and Homura and the third girl stopped. The stoplights went black and the lights within the glass towers vanished.

The glass shattered. The world went an almost pure white with only etches of outlines within. Mami seized Nagisa's head and tucked it under her arms, pulled her away from the portal as cataclysm swallowed the city. A horrid shriek of conflagration swarmed, followed by a radiating pulse of heat that seared Mami's flesh and ate at her clothes, filling the air with charred flecks. She burrowed Nagisa deeper, covering her with as much body and ribbon as possible.

The portal turned from white to red and the heat and sound for a moment nullified. The red bubbled against the portal, squeezing its way in, forming a convex lens that Mami, although her eyes sizzled, found her attention drawn to. The convexity extended, rounder and rounder until without warning it burst into a deluge of liquid and through the portal rushed Sayaka Miki and the unknown girl who had been with her. They flowed into the space and the red liquid flowed over Mami and Nagisa and healed Mami's skin, but as soon as the liquid sloshed through the portal the heat resumed.

Then all portals turned off at once.

Three in the morning in Fargo, North Dakota. Damn cold and swallowed in snow.

The Magical Girl formerly known as Anoka, now no more than a Lily Cheong, trudged down a main street wrapped in jackets too thin to stop her arms from trembling. The streets were all dark, nobody stirred in a night like this in a city like this. Well enough Lily knew these towns, but she'd hoped she wouldn't have to see them again so soon. Minneapolis had been nothing after all. A bust. Baloney.

Getting back was difficult. Especially since she no longer had Gwen. Or anyone but her own self. She knew most likely how this story ended, a frozen corpse on a roadside somewhere. In her case, maybe not even a body. But she ain't dead yet.

Still, Fargo was the biggest city until Billings so she needed to stock up on cubes while the cubes came good. If only this place had more wraiths. No wonder Fargo—Sloan—was such a jerk, she lived in the pits.

Lily grumbled in her thoughts and a little under her breath, because at least grumbling took her mind off the cold. Her boots crunched against swept and salted sidewalks. Damp seeped through supposedly waterproof rubber and sogged her woolen socks, which had a lot of holes in them.

A lot of miles back to Vancouver, back to Calgary. Was it worth it just to apologize to parents who barely even cared about their daughter and probably never noticed she went missing? Her parents or Gwen's. When she left Minneapolis it felt so important to do... something, to make something right. But she no longer knew what that something was or if she had any power to undo it. Gwen died. Lily had a hand in her death. Did an apology change anything?

She could've stayed in Minneapolis. No less cold but more cubes. Especially with the residents having offed themselves Shakespeare-style, with only the blandest left alive because someone needed to say a final line. A stage dense with corpses. Everything since then felt like overtime, time that should not exist—

A shape scampered across the road and roused her attention. She blinked, unsure she saw anything at first, because who but a lunatic would be out in subzero temperatures? But the shadowy figure remained, running across the snow with jerky wide jumps of legs. A second figure opened a door and ran too. They shouted at each other, gruff manly words more sound than sense. Lily checked to make sure she hadn't blundered into criminal activity. No gangsters waiting in getaway cars, only rusted snow-covered vehicles against the curbs.

She followed behind the two men, hands in her pockets, keeping her distance though neither seemed particularly interested in their surroundings. They spoke in stark whispers. Lights turned on around the street. More slumped figures streamed out doors that before seemed welded to the backdrop. The hell was this? Mass delusion? Or only her delusion? A crowd gathered. Men and some women and no children but mostly men. Fear laced their whispers, but their words remained unknown to Lily.

Who were these pilgrims?

The mob came to a pickup in the middle of the road with the bed open and men crawling across it in plaid flannel jackets. It was as though the truck was their destination the whole time. Maybe it was, because they all went silent without a command from anyone. Lily drew up the back of their cluster and stood on tiptoe to see what was in the truck, but broad shoulders blocked her.

She did, however, hear the crackle of a radio:

"We are receiving reports... these are verified eyewitness reports... The cities of New York... Los Angeles... Washington... Toronto... We are receiving reports... The president, we believe, is still alive... I repeat, we believe the president is still alive..."

Whispers electrified the crowd. Faces turned toward each other, chapped lips expelled gusts of white breath. Their terror took on a physical dimension and seeped into Lily's own psyche. The radio continued:

"Yet unverified reports... Mexico City... London... Paris... Madrid... Rome... Berlin... No word on who has perpetrated these attacks... If you're just joining us now... We believe an attack has transpired... A worldwide attack... Not only the United States..."

Someone in the crowd, a woman, screamed.

Twenty-one people inhabited the space between universes. Twelve hailed from Chicago, and, having seen what they did before the portals closed, clustered around their leader, Laquesha Kabwe, known as Cicero. Kabwe told them to maintain their discipline and continue collecting the grief cubes. Soon, she assured them, the portals would reopen, the trick would be revealed, and they would regroup with the eight girls left behind in Mitakihara. The girls absorbed her confidence and became confident themselves.

Serena Ru, known as Hennepin, clung to a crystal and tried not to admit to herself she was scared.

Kyoko Sakura struggled against a cluster of floating chairs that seemed magnetized to her. She tried to move closer to her friends, but her frantic flailing only pushed her farther away. She thought she saw Sayaka in the distance. The thought made her struggle more and propelled her deeper into the void.

Erika Dufresne and Sloan Redfearn, known as Winnipeg and Fargo respectively, shouted at the warden of the void. Redfearn used ample expletives while Dufresne made do with gesticulations to convey her fury and disbelief.

Delaney Pollack, known as Regina-Saskatoon, cured her irradiated body with magic blood and straightened her outfit.

Mami Tomoe clutched Nagisa Momoe in her arms and refused to relinquish her. Although the danger to either of their persons had long passed, Tomoe gave no sign of altering her behavior. Both –omoes were covered in Pollack's blood.

Sayaka Miki, also covered in Pollack's blood (and good thing too, because she suffered the worst of the nuclear explosion that engulfed Mitakihara—though one could argue her self-healing was sufficient for recovery), turned her head in search of the girl known as Omaha, seeing nothing else in her anger, and not seeing Omaha for reasons we will discuss in the next paragraph.

The girl known as Omaha could not be seen because her power allowed her to disappear at will, and within a realm defined by emptiness, this power was even stronger, so that she could ebb away her existence until she disappeared from even herself. The voices of her guests filtered through the negative space and reached her only via osmosis:

Miki: What did you do? What did you do, dammit! We injured her, we had her on the ropes!

Dufresne: Nuclear weapons. How did she even get them?

Redfearn: Omaha. Omaha. Omaha. Omaha.

Pollack: I simply wish to know the purpose.

Miki: [Rubs face with hand.] A backup strategy. I didn't think we'd need it, but...

Tomoe: [In Japanese.] Please, someone explain. Miss Miki, someone, please.

Miki: [Ignoring her. In English.] The idea was Homura might be too tough to beat no matter how long we waited. But her hold over Madoka's consciousness is only so strong, she can only block out so much. We figured a worldwide cataclysm would awaken her memories.

Redfearn: You agreed to this?!

Miki: She already had the bombs, the hell was I supposed to do?

Pollack: [Casual shrug.] If it works, I don't see the issue.

Miki: Will you shut up?

Pollack: Humanity breeds with unparalleled fecundity. What is several billion, if a billion remain? Madoka Kaname is irreplaceable.

Redfearn: You sound like Kyubey.

Pollack: How bizarre! I'm told we look alike, too.

And similar. These words were ultimately meaningless because these actors had little to no control over what transpired. Besides, while what Pollack said was met with disdain by most who understood her, Miki and Dufresne both knew her point was sound. Of those who had returned from death, only Nagisa Momoe held a contrary opinion, but she remained quiet except to whisper explanations to Tomoe that did not ease Tomoe's harried confusion.

A new portal opened. It was larger than the others, its diameter the size of a cinema screen. It opened slightly above the Earth's moon. Past the craterous gray landscape the sunned side of Earth revolved at a rate too slow for human perception. Clouds, visible from space, coated fragments of continent.

Earth was of little importance to the one known as Omaha, who had opened the portal. Her interest lay in the one who stood atop the moon's surface, Homura Akemi. Blood flowed from her severed wing and drifted in the weightless space. In her hands she held Madoka Kaname, whose glazed eyes peeped from a tilted head. The fourteen dolls, which Akemi named Stolz, Schwarzseherei, Lügner, Kaltherzig, Selbstsucht, Verleumdung, Schafskopf, Eifersucht, Faulheit, Eitelkeit, Feigheit, Dämlich, Unterlegenheit, and Sturheit, stood around her in a circle. They too watched the Earth. The fifteenth doll, Liebe, was absent; she had much work to do on the planet below.

The conversation inside the void ended. Everyone watched through the portal in silence.

Akemi tilted back her head. A smile twisted on her lips.

Akemi: [Telepathically, due to a lack of sound in space.] Is that all?

She lowered Kaname to the ground. The dolls Selbstsucht and Eifersucht attended the unconscious body while a bow of purple energy appeared in Akemi's hand, held straight at her side.

Miki: [Drawing swords.] Homura, stop. Can't you see this is going too far?

Akemi: [Head tilted.] Too far? I didn't expect your camp to pull a gambit like this. Using the world itself as a weapon against Madoka...? You're more devoted than I suspected, Sa-ya-ka Mi-ki.

Miki: I didn't—

Pollack: [Stepping forward.] Your name is Homura, is it not? We haven't gotten the chance to be acquainted properly. My name is Delaney Pollack.

Akemi: I am aware of you.

Pollack: Fantastic! That quickens things somewhat. [Clasping hands.] Now, we've clearly reached something of an impasse. We've both dealt blows to one another and have indicated the capacity to deal more. How about we settle down for some good old fashioned diplomacy? We can set forward our respective desires and determine a compromise—

Akemi: No.

Pollack: Consider how many innocent human beings have been hurt, Homura. You may believe yourself a demon, but you know nothing of soullessness. Billions of lives are in your power to save. It would be rather simple for you to do it. Shall you withhold salvation? Would you not prefer to be an angel?

Akemi raised her bow and drew the string. A long, purple shaft appeared, nocked by magic, the arrowhead aimed at Earth. Akemi's muscles tensed as she pulled back the string, bent it and her bow, and the arrow built in intensity.

Akemi: You seek to use this world as a weapon against me. Then I must remove it.

Miki: Homura, what are you—

The arrow swelled until it no longer fit within the confines of the bow, until it stood a length that extended beyond both ends of the cinema screen portal, until Akemi and her fourteen dolls and Kaname disappeared beneath its glow. Some of the guests, Dufresne and Miki in particular, understood Akemi's intentions and staggered with their weapons toward the portal, but suddenly the distance between them and the entrance had extended and no matter how they churned they drew no closer. Kabwe barked orders and her subordinates abandoned their previous tasks to arrange themselves into battle formation. Tomoe clutched Momoe as one clutches a pet or doll. Redfearn sat on a chair and propped her chin on her wrists.

Akemi released the arrow. It soared across the relatively short distance between Earth and its largest satellite. The endless purple line dug into the planet's surface at the intersection of equator and prime meridian, off the coast of the nation of Ghana.

The ocean parted in a swirl and the arrow entered the spheroid with little further disruption beyond a few ripples of tidal waves that submerged much of coastal western Africa. The purple light vanished into the crust and mantle, and other than the puncture where it struck nothing changed across the planet's surface.

Then the planet imploded. The puncture became a concavity, widening and widening, pulling in the continental plate of Africa, moving up toward Europe and down toward Antarctica and west toward South America, until an entire hemisphere flattened inward. Molten cracks spread across the land and beneath the oceans as they sloshed into the dent. A large fragment broke from the rest of the planet and exposed the core beneath, which by the power of Homura Akemi's demigod magic crumpled into a smaller and smaller sphere of flame. The pieces of the planet shattered into rocks and other debris; with no gravitational core to bind them, they floated into the vastness of space.

In all, it took only a few minutes for the planet to become irrevocably broken, and all humans upon its surface to perish.

Akemi dropped her bow, sat on the surface of the moon, and slipped her arms around Kaname. She and her dolls watched the flickering remnants of her apocalypse. The dolls raised their hands and applauded.

Redfearn:

Pollack: Well, that was certainly unexpected.

Tomoe: [In Japanese.] This isn't real, right? This can't be real.

Momoe: [In Japanese.] Mami... Yes, yes it's a trick. It's not real.

Pollack: Well.

Sakura: [Wading to the rest of the group.] [In Japanese.] What the hell is this? Sayaka, what the fuck is happening?

Pollack: Well, let us not grow too perturbed. Rally the troops and let's put an end to this.

Kabwe: [To her subordinates.] A Puella Magi has generated an illusion to break our morale. We shall not allow such knavish deception to degrade our order, shall we?

Subordinates: [In chorus.] No, milady!

Ru: [Under her breath.] Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha?

Redfearn:

Pollack: Erika, she hasn't yet tended to her injuries. This is the chance to strike.

Redfearn: DELANEY WILL YOU SHUT UP?

Redfearn: YOU'RE GOING TO TALK LIKE WE'RE STILL IN A FUCKING FIGHT?

Redfearn: WHO EVEN ARE YOU?

Pollack: Love—

Redfearn: [Much more quietly.] We. We have to kill Madoka again.

Miki: Kill her. [Considering the ramifications.] And then turn back time...

To turn back time. To bring back the world and the people on it. To try again. And if again they met failure, to turn back time again. And if again they met failure, to turn back time again. And if again they met failure, to turn back time again. And if again they met failure, to turn back time again. And if again they met failure, to turn back time again.

What mattered was God. Yes. Correct.

Pollack: If we turn back time, we won't have the bombs again.

Redfearn: Good?

Dufresne: The bombs were ineffectual anyway. They failed to awaken Madoka Kaname.

Pollack: That's not to say they didn't have another purpose. It was our lovely Kyubey's plan to use them, wasn't it? He's not the kind to make a plan that won't work.

Miki: [Hands splayed out, very expressive.] Are you dense? What did any of that accomplish?

Pollack: With the world destroyed, it won't be long before Ereshkigal and the rest upstairs notice what happened. Eventually an entire army of our kind will be mobilized. Against such numbers, not even Homura can win.

Pollack: [Turning on a heel for dramatic effect.] Thus, the current situation is quite beneficial. Redoing it for a "more optimal" outcome with success so close is simply illogical, right my loves?

Redfearn: More optimal? Delaney, Earth is toast. Gone. We failed.

Pollack: You failed, perhaps. The universe is not solely Earth. Sloan, love, I know you feel you're still important here, but allow me to converse with Erika and Blueberry for a moment, hm?

Momoe: You're crazy!

No. She's right. Somehow.

Momoe: Madoka would never want this. She gave up her own life, her own existence, so people on Earth could be happy.

Yes. And as such God is good. And as such we must forfeit our lives for her sake.

On the lunar surface, Akemi clutched tighter Kaname.

Momoe: If we saved Madoka at the cost of so much suffering, she wouldn't want it. She'd be so sad...

Life is transient, God is eternal. The Bible and her Friend (friend?) told her so.

Pollack: She's probably sadder in the sorry state she's in now, no?

Redfearn: God dammit Delaney. God dammit. How is this even a discussion. Erika, how is this even a discussion. You don't believe this do you?

Dufresne: I agree that Madoka Kaname's importance supersedes that of any human, but I believe we have crossed a line somewhere.

Redfearn: Thank you, I think.

Miki: We have to turn back time. It's not a debate.

By hurting God. By killing her. Again and again and again. Weakening themselves every time. Reducing their chances every time. Struggling to inflict pain in an endless cycle. Binding her. Wrapping her arms around her, holding her in space and stroking her pretty hair.

WHAT WAS THE ANSWER? The world was gone. God... What would God say if she saw this? The world belonged to God. Their lives were forfeit for her. But was it their role to destroy the world in her name? Confusion, uncertainty, that heavy anxiety. Oh no.

The portal closed. The void plunged in darkness. All rules ceased in this world, physics and matter and energy. The chairs and the people and the detritus froze. Voices became silent. Nothing but black. Nothing but space.

Enough space to think. Enough time to think.

Omaha: [Internal monologue.] Because. As you know. Homura and her, they're. Quite similar. And at one time. Homura herself. Was. A regular girl. Like you. But inside. Lurked the capacity to. Become what Homura now was. Satan. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Asmodeus. Pazuzu Azazel Belial Baal Belphegor Moloch. Adversary to God.

Omaha: And that thing inside was.

Omaha: You destroyed the world for her. You would turn back time every time for her. For God. What if. Could you. It was always a possibility.

Omaha:

Omaha:

Omaha: Sloan.

Redfearn: [Appearing out of the darkness.] What? Where—?

Omaha: Sloan. I.

"I feel every possibility is wrong," said Omaha.

"Huh?" said Sloan. They floated together, face-to-face, enveloped in blackness the center of which flickered a dim glow to coat their features with shadow.

"Either way, whether I turn back time or progress with the world destroyed... Either way I become her."

"You mean Homura."

"She and I are the same person," said Omaha. "Our eyes, our skin, our genetic makeup. Only our experiences separate us. My entire life I have hated her. I have blamed countless misfortunes on her. The Man Who Said He Was My Father, the basement where I slept. The testing of Job, the temptation of Christ. Everything... her..."

Sloan said nothing. What could Sloan say? Why did Omaha decide to talk to her? Why not Sayaka, who knew Homura better, or any of them?

"Those ills, those physical ills, war, strife, famine, pain, sadness... I surpassed her in those today. She and I worked, I the first and she but the second, to inflict an eternity's suffering in mere minutes."

"Omaha," said Sloan.

"But those were physical ills. And long I thought that no physical ill could surpass her truest crime: the pain she inflicted on God, the pain she inflicted on Madoka Kaname. How she replayed the same torturous moments again and again so every time God would suffer anew, a hundred, a thousand times, how she severed God from the world she loved, how she, how she, how she..."

Omaha began to cry.

Sloan floated to her, embraced her in her arms, and held her.

"It's okay. It's okay."

"This world cannot bear two devils. No, it already could not..." She looked up. A gaggle of amorphous shapes drifted beyond the tear-coated lenses of her eyes. The shapes were Sloan.

"Omaha, it's okay. We can make her turn everything back."

"No..." Omaha wiped her eyes. "You're missing the point... I know what I have to do. There's only one thing..."

"One thing? Omaha, what—"

Omaha relinquished her. Sloan faded into the darkness, and again only Omaha remained, alone. She straightened the ruffled folds of her cloak and rubbed her eyes until she saw clearly again the nothingness around her. Only one thing to do now.

A small portal opened beside her. Beyond it sat Homura Akemi and the fourteen dolls and Madoka Kaname. Omaha stepped out of the portal.

A quiet and perfect moment. Absolute stillness save the residual turning of the moon, all its half-shrouded craters, her with Madoka and nobody else. Arms around her body, fingers between strands of pink hair. Before them spanned a panorama of stars, planets, asteroids, heavenly bodies. Aquarius, Pisces, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn...

If this moment might last forever. But she had not finished yet. The girls Omaha salvaged would prepare for a final assault. The Law of the Cycles might spit out a few more seraphs, or a few thousand, or a few million. Well, but time would destroy them. She extended her arm and stopped it, even though to her nothing seemed to stop, so still the universe had been before. Now the Law, bound by her power, could not muster its forces to usurp her.

It ruined the vista, however. Made the pretty colors gray.

The portal opened behind her. So soon? Well, time made no difference there, so perhaps they already spent an eternity in preparation. Let them come.

But they did not come. Only the one, Omaha.

She hovered slightly above the ground, her feet dangling, her arms limp at her sides, her hair in scraggly bands down her shoulders. The portal remained open behind her, its void attached to her back, strung in wispy tendrils to the dark robes of her cloak. The void's blackness swirled, spreading across the lighter blackness of space. In it appeared the faces of those inside, whose names Homura recalled in the database of her almost infinite memory: [Miki, Nagisa, Dufresne, Pollack] [Tomoe, Sakura] [Kabwe, Seward, Black, Yankowski, Abgaryan, Galloway, DeWinter, Nguyen, Hodgkins, Weir, Shanbhag, Rojas] [Ru] [Redfearn].

Omaha's glasses glimmered in the rays of a nearby star. Homura grimaced to look at her, for she looked exactly as Homura had, an eternity ago—a different time and universe.

Homura, I want to talk to you.

Talk to me?

Yes, you. I give up. I surrender. You can kill me if you want, but I want to talk to you first.

Homura's eyes narrowed. She surveyed the surroundings, surveyed Omaha. The trap. It had to be somewhere. Her dolls looked too, and because they knew her thoughts and countenance, they shrugged.

Voices filtered from the portal: "Omaha, what are you doing?" "Get back in here!" "Are you nuts?"

Omaha held a hand, the one with the bracelet and her Soul Gem, to her chest. The fingers of her other hand worked with methodical motion to remove the bracelet from her wrist. What trap. Had to be one. It was her own mind she conspired against, she knew its workings even if initially obscure. She thought back to that other time, the way her brain functioned then. What would such a Homura design?

Such a Homura tossed the bracelet toward the other Homura. It drifted slowly in the gravity, twisting and turning, attached to void so it did not freeze with time. Homura reached for her bow. A trap—at any moment portals could open on every side. She remained vigilant, did not move until the bracelet was within arm's length and the void around it dispersed and it stopped moving. She reached to take it in the hand that stroked Madoka's hair.

More protests came from those in the portal, but some power seemed to hold them back. The bracelet was thin in Homura's hand. She could crush it easily. In an instant.

You can crush it easily, said Omaha. In an instant. And I will die and the portals will close and all those inside will remain inside forever.

Perhaps. Or perhaps killing Omaha would expel everything inside her dimension, creating a sudden all-out attack.

When you kill me, said Omaha, you'll win. Irrevocably. I want to talk to you first, but if you don't want to talk to me, I understand. If you do kill me, though, will you turn back time to bring the world back?

Homura tilted her head, processing strategies, the words only partially meaningful to her.

Omaha repeated: When you kill me, will you turn back time to bring the world back?

I. Homura considered. If your goal is to trade your life for something, you've made a grave error.

Yes. The world was dangerous. The world was unnecessary. Her and Madoka, Madoka and her, this moment forever: What else was needed? She had thought these thoughts before but when the world still existed it seemed somehow forbidden to destroy it, as though its celestial power held sway over her; but in a single moment, that power gone, she wondered why she ever harbored compunctions. Why she let Miki, Tomoe, and the others live. What logic made them necessary? Only burdens.

I see. Omaha closed her eyes. Will you permit me a conversation, at least?

A conversation gave Homura time to prepare for an attack from the others. Or was the conversation a distraction? Was Omaha surreptitiously opening voids around the moon and depositing her soldiers in key locations for an ambush? The faces behind Omaha remained unchanged, the most critical enemies (those who had returned from death) accounted for. Only a handful of the Chicagoans escaped her vision.

Very well, said Homura. She placed her bow against her leg and wrapped her arm around Madoka. Her other hand held the bracelet and Omaha's soul.

Omaha expelled a breathless breath and lowered her eyes. She looked pathetic. Repulsive... And yet Homura could not wholly despise her, despite everything. A single stirring spark of pity from a pit inside Homura she thought long-filled with love for another, for Madoka. A kernel, an ember.

I love Madoka Kaname, Omaha said. You may scoff... I know I've never met her. Never heard her speak. Never touched her. But... even so... I love her... I love her more than I love anything in the world or the universe. I love her more than my one Friend. I love her because she is so good, so perfect, so full of love for everyone else, even someone as pathetic and repulsive as me. That was the first thing I heard about her: That she loved me, even me! Me, alone in a basement, unseen by anyone... Even so, she could see me and love me.

Charcoal bones festered in Homura's skin.

I love her because I hate myself. Because I have no happiness, because I have nothing but emptiness, but still she loves me, and so I loved her back. I would do anything for that love. Do you... Do you love her too, Homura Akemi?

I, said Homura, clutching Madoka tighter to her, until her head lolled against Homura's neck. You equate your love to mine? To mine? Have you any idea, any idea how much I love her, and what I would do for her, and what I have done for her? Have you any idea at all?

I know what you did, said Omaha. Miss Miki told me. You turned back time so many times to save her from a fate that seemed inescapable... No matter how much it hurt you, no matter how many times you saw her die. I know... I know. And you would do it again.

Yes, said Homura. Yes.

I just want her to be happy, said Omaha. I was willing to let myself become a monster to swallow her anguish. I was willing to destroy myself so she would live. Because I hate myself and I love her. Why must she have misfortune while I'm alive? I am the one who deserves to die. Why is it her who suffers?

Homura lowered her head. She clenched her jaw.

I love her because she loves me, said Omaha, even though I hate myself. So I would do anything for her, no matter how evil, no matter how depraved, as long as it made her happy. When you hate yourself, sacrifice becomes such a trivial thing... Such a thoughtless, immediate action. It feels almost natural... When you value yourself less than something, someone, else.

Trivial? said Homura. The pain I've endured. Everything I've endured. You know nothing about what I've endured. Nothing.

Yes, that's exactly it... My pain is surely only a fragment of yours. But if you think about it... if she loves me, and I hurt myself, does it not hurt her? Does it not hurt her the same way it hurts me when she is hurt?

A scene from infinite memory: Two girls, lying amid the rubble of a ruined city, both filled with grief, both about to die... And one takes the grief of the other so the other may live.

And if Madoka loves everyone, said Omaha, everyone in the whole world, which is exactly why she is so good and so worthy of love, how much does it hurt her when...?

Her voice trailed off. Homura's eyes turned toward the ruins of the planet, the few stray scraps of rock that swirled in the vortex.

At what point, Omaha continued, was a line crossed? At what point did my pleasure in making her happy become indulgent? Because if hurting me and hurting everyone else hurts her, then how can I say I do what I do out of love for her, instead of out of hate for myself?

No, said Homura. No, she... she...

But she looked down at Madoka. Madoka, silent and serene, her eyes glazed, her mouth a placid line. No, no, no, she's happy. She's happy, everything was done for her happiness, for her protection, to create a safe place for her to live without fear or despair, everything was done to that end, everything always, Homura had never been forgetful or inattentive, everything was for her, everything everything everything.

Madoka's eyes saw nothing. They were big and round like the eyes of the fourteen dolls gathered around her.

Perhaps I only think this way because I don't truly love her the way you do, Homura. Because I've never seen her or met her. Maybe it's because my connection to her was always aloof no matter how personal I tried to make it in my mind, how her love to me was given through the words of a book thousands of years old. Perhaps I'm just rambling. I just want to ask you one final question, Homura Akemi.

Omaha paused. Her eyes shone behind the glasses and she looked at Homura as if expecting a rebuttal, a counterargument, and Homura groped for things to say but seemed to grab sliding slopes, her mind was not prepared for this kind of attack, she had strategies and metaphysics bouncing in her head but this, but this—

Who is happy now: Her or you?

And Homura opened her mouth and a great big sob cracked in her throat, swallowed by the airless space, because she knew at once the answer, she knew at once what she had done in making Madoka, the one she loved, into nothing more than a mindless doll for her own pleasure, the glazed eyes, the motionless body, she had to do it because she knew that if Madoka could see the world as it was she would be hurt beyond repair, that her soul would crumple and die, and that Homura had made this world the way it was, her and Omaha together, those who supposedly loved her most did the most to hurt her and only by robbing her of everything—mind, sense, breath—could she be sustained, and how much did Homura have to take from her, why did Homura take anything at all because in the beginning the only thing she wanted was to give, give, give Madoka everything so all Homura's rotten insides and outsides and everything could be put to a purpose more worthy than its own selfish wants, why had this happened, why had everything come to this, when were things corrupted, was it when Homura took Madoka's powers from her or was it when she created a false Mitakihara to ensnare her or was it even earlier, that scene from infinite memory, when she swallowed Madoka's last bits of hope to survive and turn back time in the name of saving Madoka, which of these things were good and which bad, which made Madoka happy and which hurt her (how much was her own selfishness, how long had everything been her own selfishness and not what she thought was selfless love), suddenly everything got confused in Homura's mind and she thought: this was Omaha's plan, her grand scheme to confound Homura, and maybe Homura would have believed it and despite the confusion stuck to her original convictions until the very end but who was she talking to a separate unconnected alien entity named Omaha or was she talking to herself, that same self in that scene from infinite memory with the glasses and the knotted hair, whose words rebounded in her brain, again the thought that this was exactly why the Incubator chose her own clone to war against her, this kind of confounding, but the Incubator would never make a plan like this, based on emotions he could never understand, and what did any of it matter anyway if the words spoken were her very own from a different time and place? Tears froze down her cheeks and she clutched Madoka as though even now she tried to extract Madoka's warmth and take it into her, as if even now she had not robbed Madoka of enough, and she thought of the Madoka this morning who gave her the scarf and the Madoka a million years ago who gave her love and the million Madokas in between.

You can kill me, said Omaha. My existence, I see now, will only hurt her more, so I'll do what I should have done long ago and give it up. But please, please bring the world back, and let Madoka be happy. Please do it. That's all I want.

Should have done long ago. Should have done long ago. Should have done long ago. Homura remembered that first time, that first time Madoka died. And every subsequent time. Each new time created by Homura herself, and now this time, also created by Homura, all time created by Homura, and this is what time led to, this empty void and this lifeless doll.

The shield appeared on Homura's wrist. She churned the gears back, to before her arrow pierced the planet, to before the bombs dropped, to the time when the city remained as it always had. Time turned as it always had, as had become so rote it hardly seemed consequential when Earth reappeared in front of her, whole and unharmed with her on the moon beyond it, because her own powers so deadened her to the world this felt her natural location relative to it.

Let Madoka be happy. That's all I want. What I should have done long ago. I am the devil, after all. I am the embodiment of evil. I ate up so much despair I transformed into it, and then I allowed myself to infect her. That's what a witch is. One who takes on curses and begins to curse in kind. Magical Girls never come back from being witches, after all.

She tossed the bracelet to Omaha and did not care to watch if she caught it or not. She placed Madoka on the ground and stood up and ignored the glances of her dolls. From the back of her hand emerged her Soul Gem, which despite its great size was now muddied with darkness. It hovered before her eyes, scornful and spiteful.

Sayaka. Nagisa.

"Homura," said their voices from Omaha's void. "Homura."

I realize I have made some errors. Please keep Madoka company and make sure she's never lonely, okay?

She lobbed her Soul Gem. Although she did not use much force, the low gravity lifted it high into the starry dark. From her shield she grabbed a simple handgun and aimed.

A blade severed her arm cleanly before her finger squeezed the trigger. The arm and the shield floated. The scythe that cut it continued a staggered and arduous swing, painting an arc of blood. Omaha's hands wrapped around her and held her.

No, said Omaha, there's no need.

The gem drifted to the ground and her shield drifted into space.

Chapter 42: Wing of Gold Leaf

Cicero awoke on grass. "Awoke" only a temporary descriptor of the action, because she did not remember sleeping, although she did remember void.

She sat up, no longer armored, and rubbed her eyes. Her legs stretched in front of her along the summit of a small hill overlooking a city, the same city she had seen from the plane: Mitakihara. A tree's leaves rustled in gentle wind. Clouds drifted in immense blue sky.

The eleven soldiers who had been in the void with her lay scattered down the side of the hill, awakening in turn with rubbed eyes and stretched limbs. Their heads lifted from the grass, sticks and stalks in their hair. They looked left to right at their fellows, at the city, at the clouds.

A moment of tranquility passed.

Cicero bolted upright and brushed the grass off with one swift sweep of an arm. "To attention!" she commanded. Her soldiers without delay lurched to their feet and saluted. She glanced from face to face and confirmed they were the eleven who had been with her, and that the others were absent.

"Elmhurst," she said. "Establish contact with Berwyn. Lombard, establish contact with Addison. Ascertain their whereabouts and confirm their status. Account for the missing members of our platoon."

"Yes, milady," the two said in chorus. They transformed and summoned radios to their hands. They blurted quickly and soon made reports.

"Berwyn and her squad are at their appointed location in the center of the city, milady," said Elmhurst.

"Addison and the remaining four are at the apartment complex, milady," said Lombard. Her eyes shifted sideways. "They're rather confused about what happened."

"What's happened is that a Puella Magi used powerful magic to confound us with tricks and illusions. Fortunately, we have suffered no casualties." A long exhalation. Cicero surveyed the city and its towers, which no longer seemed so tall as before. The city itself seemed like it had shrunk to be no larger than Cincinnati, where Cicero lived before she contracted. "We regroup with Addison and Berwyn. We have an improved awareness of our adversaries and the capabilities of the chief target, Omaha. Once we have reassessed the situation, we shall renew the assault on the city and its Puella Magi. Our objective remains unchanged: We do not leave until we have procured the grief cubes of the Minneapolis archon."

Cicero looked up, but nobody moved. They stared at her like dullards, some with mouths agape. No, not at her. Past her.

Darien, always impudent, spoke up: "Milady, behind you."

She considered berating her for insolence (Darien's flashes of disobedience sporadic but essential to squash, especially if she were to eventually become Cicero's successor), but something told her she better check what they stared at. Her eyes shifted, she turned her neck slightly.

At the summit of the hill, arranged in neat rows, lay a vast swath of grief cubes. They undulated up and down the hill, and across to the next hill, and ended finally at a distant third hill. They glittered under the late afternoon sunlight.

A piece of paper fluttered in the wind, pinned to the earth by a long needle. It read:

Please leave the others alone.

On the junction outside Homura Akemi's apartment, the doll named Liebe hobbled up to Madoka Kaname. She moved sheepish, a little unsure, like she wasn't used to her feet. She avoided eye contact as she extended a thin white arm and handed Madoka a note. The note had writing on both sides. Madoka, starting to remember who she was and why she was here, already knew what was written, and despite everything the knowledge only made her sad, not so sad as to cry but rather a kind of melancholy, the kind where you know something is for the best but that doesn't make it hurt any less, and the melancholy was only tempered by the faith that no matter what, things would work out in the end. And the words on the note only strengthened that belief. She read the back first:

Hello Miss Kaname,

My name is Omaha, and we've never met, but I want you to know that you mean a lot to me and got me through some really bad times, and I hope to see you someday but that time is not now, I know you probably don't care, or maybe you do, yes of course you do because you care about everyone, but anyway thank you for everything and I hope to see you someday.

Omaha

Madoka smiled. With her mind returning she knew everything about Omaha, what she did, what she didn't do, what she wanted and hated and loved. She really was a lot like Homura, with the same things that were so nice and kind about her, and also the same mistakes. But people always have the chance to change. Even if they can't there's always that piece of them worth saving. She turned the note over:

Madoka,

I know what I have done. I was very selfish and I see that now. I don't know if you'll forgive me or not, and honestly I'm not sure which is worse, because I do not deserve forgiveness. I'm going away for now, along with Omaha. I think I can learn a lot from her about myself and who I am, and how I can be a better person. Most importantly I think I need to learn how to... live without you, even for a time. How to love myself, even though right now that seems like the hardest possible thing to do. But if I can't love myself I have no right to love you, you who love everyone including me despite my flaws. Or maybe I don't have to love myself, but I need to be able to appreciate your love, truly appreciate it, rather than burrow inside it. I fear I am beginning to ramble, and if this was goodbye I would take the time to put my thoughts in better order, but right now I'm not ready for that. This isn't goodbye, however. If you'll accept me, I'll return. But I need to figure things out first, both for your sake and mine.

The increasingly shrinking font bunched up at the bottom of the paper without an inch of extra room. As before, Madoka understood what Homura meant, even if Homura hadn't communicated it very well. Of course Madoka forgave her, although it wasn't like her forgiveness was some huge important thing. What Homura had done was wrong, but that wasn't enough to ruin their friendship.

She would have a lot of time to dwell on Homura and what happened, but now it was important to wrap things up in Mitakihara. She patted Liebe on the head. The other fourteen dolls stood in a bunch behind Liebe, their eyes low, their feet toeing the cobblestone, their hands clasped behind their backs.

"Thank you for giving me this." She smiled to each in turn. "Did Homura leave you here alone?"

Some of them nodded.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure to take care of you all."

They were pleased by this and clapped their little hands. They gathered around her, less shy now, and clasped at the long flowing strands of her dress, which began to manifest as her consciousness ebbed back into her.

Across the cobblestone scampered a small white creature. The dolls pulled away from her and drew spears like thin pins, but truly there was no danger. Madoka placed a gloved hand on the head of the foremost, Stolz, and stepped between their ranks to approach the Incubator.

I find myself again confounded, it said. A rare occurrence, although it has become more common as of late. It squatted on its haunches and batted an ear with its back paw.

"Did things not go as you planned, Incubator?"

Not exactly. In fact, we're unsure what exactly transpired. One moment Miss Akemi was locked in combat. The next, you have awoken and Miss Akemi has disappeared. We can only assume manipulation of time was involved. However, the outcome has proven fortuitous to the universe. You have been freed. Miss Akemi's arbitrary laws can no longer be enforced on us.

Even toward this creature, although she knew its grander designs, she felt no ire. It, too, did what it thought right for itself and for existence altogether. Its methods, although cruel, had ultimately pure aims. And yet such aims meant nothing if bought with suffering.

"I hope you take this ordeal as a warning not to meddle anymore with the emotions of people," said Madoka. "Everything that came to pass stemmed from your actions."

The placid face smiled back. I am aware.

"Good. I know you're one to learn from your mistakes." She considered the fifteen dolls gathered around her. "Nonetheless, I'll have these dolls keep an eye on you. Do you guys think you can do that?"

Ja, ja, they chimed in chorus. It became a song; they nearly cheered it, running around Madoka in circles.

"Thank you very much," she said. "I know you'll all do a great job."

While I assume you'll leave this plane of existence soon, said the Incubator, I would like to talk to you to satisfy certain curiosities of mine—

A sword whizzed across the air and impaled the poor creature. Madoka flinched from the sight (so much for godliness, ha) while Sayaka skittered beside her, another blade already drawn. She regarded the dolls, who stared back agape, and grabbed Madoka by the shoulder.

"It's you," she said. "It's really you."

"Of course it's me, Sayaka," said Madoka. "It's always been me. There was no need for you to be so violent, you know."

Sayaka regarded the body of the Incubator and shrugged as she sheathed her blade. "It's best not to let that thing talk. Besides—"

Before she could finish, Nagisa plowed into Madoka, knocking aside any dolls in the way. She wrapped her arms around Madoka's waist and nearly bowled her over. "We did it! We did it we did it we did it, and nobody even got hurt! Well, got hurt for long I guess."

Madoka giggled. She ruffled Nagisa's hair and pulled Sayaka close to join in as well. Sayaka was reluctant but eventually gave in and laughed.

"You guys did a really good job," said Madoka. "I'm really proud of you both."

"Aw, come on," said Sayaka. "We didn't do that much. Nagisa mostly ate cheese the whole time."

"Hey! That's not true at all! I saved your dumb butt plenty of times. Homura woulda killed you that one time if not for me." She stuck out her tongue.

"Killed me! Yeah right, she just had me in a rough spot, I'da made it out." Sayaka pulled away and crossed her arms. She turned up her nose and let out a low harrumph, but she could not keep up the façade for long before she broke into a wide smile. "I'm just joking, everyone did their part. What's important is you're back, Madoka. I'm just sorry it took three whole years."

Nagisa finally released Madoka and she steadied herself on her heels. After so long not using them they felt really weird for her feet. "There's nothing to be sorry about, Sayaka."

"Where's Homura anyway? She may have released you, but I still don't trust her. After everything she's done, and the power she has, I'd like to keep my eyes on her."

"Don't worry, Sayaka," said Madoka. "She's perfectly safe. I understand your feelings, but I know she's a good person at heart."

Sayaka's next thought was That's what you said before she turned into the devil. She did not transfer the thought telepathically, which made no difference because Madoka could read it anyway, and Sayaka surely knew that. But because she did not say it, Madoka made no comment. What Sayaka did say was: "Well, if you insist, I guess I won't argue."

"If Homura was good enough to free Madoka of her own will," said Nagisa, "I'm sure Madoka's right about her. Don't be such a sourpuss, Sayaka."

"Sourpuss?" said Sayaka. "What kinda word is that? You been looking through Mami's books again, you little... ragamuffin!"

Sayaka hooked her gloved fingers into claws and lunged at Nagisa. Nagisa let out a gleeful shriek and scampered away, dodging between dolls while Sayaka chased. They ran circles around Madoka and made her kinda dizzy.

Without warning, Sayaka skidded to a halt and stood straight, her face changed from mischievous to nearly panicked. Madoka did not need to look to know what she saw. After Nagisa ran another complete circle and crashed into Sayaka's back, Madoka turned to address the pair of friends who approached.

"Hi, Mami! Kyoko!" She waved.

Neither Mami nor Kyoko waved back. They stood side-by-side in the cobblestone street, the blocky tenements arranged around them and the city spanning a great distance across the horizon above. The setting sun formed an orange half-disc broken by black towers, but its light crept in and caused Madoka to squint until she shielded her eyes with her raised hand.

Kyoko spoke first. "So what the hell was all that? Anyone mind explaining?"

A barrage of thoughts bubbled in the minds of all four friends, but especially Sayaka and Nagisa, who knew what would soon come. Sadness, anxiety, regret... The emotions of an imminent farewell. It made Madoka sad too, to think she would have to leave this world again, leave behind Mom and Dad and Tatsuya, and all her friends from school, and Mami and Kyoko. Just as Homura had left her.

Perhaps that was why, although reclaiming her true identity as the Law of the Cycles caused her to remember everything Homura did in the past three years, Madoka could not truly feel anger. Because she had given Madoka something special: three years of a normal life. It made wrenching herself away a new difficulty, a hardship she would have to bear a second time. And while she knew her true place and true purpose, those three years were something to cherish, just as she cherished the thirteen that preceded them, the special memories of her friends and family that made her who she was today and forevermore. Homura gave her something. Everyone, if you looked, gave you something.

"I'm starting to remember," said Mami. "You... None of you are supposed to be here, are you?"

Silence from the other side. Nagisa stared at her feet and Sayaka closed her eyes.

The task of explanation, then, would fall to her. "Mami, Kyoko. I'm sorry this had to happen. But you're correct, we do not belong in this world. We have not for a long time now..."

"Whaddya mean by that," said Kyoko. "I asked for explanations, not more damn riddles. Why're you in that fancy dress, Madoka? Come on, can someone just lay it out clear already?"

"Don't you remember, Miss Sakura?" Mami's eyes stared ahead, focused unblinking on Nagisa. "We were trapped inside a false Mitakihara. Miss Akemi became a witch, and then she..."

Kyoko turned away on a fast heel and shoved her hands into her pockets. She retrieved a box of pocky and stuck a stick between her teeth. It bobbed while she spoke. "I thought that was a dream."

"It really happened, Kyoko," said Madoka.

With a toss of her head, Kyoko snapped the pocky stick and expertly caught both halves in her mouth. She munched, her eyes peering deeply down the road. "So that means you're all dead."

"Not exactly!" Nagisa held out her hands. She thought by doing so she could placate Mami before she got upset, and Madoka, able to read Mami's thoughts, knew Mami's reaction already. "We're more like, um, angels? Well, really we're just assistants to the Law of the Cycles, to make sure it runs right."

"Which means you'll be going away forever," said Mami. She remained outwardly placid. "Is this true?"

"Well... We'll be going away. But someday you'll join us, Mami!"

The strangeness of knowing what people will say before they say it filled Madoka with unease. She had never quite gotten used to this side of herself. She knew Mami and Kyoko's futures, the same futures of all Magical Girls. She knew how this conversation ended.

"Someday?" Mami said. "Is there not... Is there not some way we could be together now?"

"Mami..."

"Bebe, you have been the most special person in my life these past three years, even if you were not supposed to be here. I would just like... I understand there must be rules as to why you cannot stay. But if that is so, is it possible I could... go with you?"

Nagisa stepped forward and placed a hand on her arm. "No, Mami! You should stay here. Stay and live your life, and do all the things you wanted to do. Like go to college, and become a teacher, remember?"

"Yes," said Mami. "Yes, that's true." Although the thoughts in her head were: None of that matters if I'm alone.

"Mami, you shouldn't worry about being alone," said Madoka. "Many more people will be your friend, some you've met already and some you'll meet soon enough. I know your bond with Bebe is very special, and I know saying goodbye is always hard. But sometimes it's important to make new experiences. Your life is a gift you should treasure."

Before Mami spoke again, her thoughts went to Homura, and her expression changed. "Yes. I suppose you're correct. But Bebe..."

Nagisa grabbed Mami's hands with her own. She looked up at Mami and smiled. "Mami. I want you to live a good and happy life, okay? I don't want to see you cry over me, because we're going to meet again someday. If I find out you were moping around like a big lame bluh, I'll be really mad!"

This caused Mami to suddenly giggle, and she wiped the corner of her eye although she had not been crying. She wrapped her arms around Nagisa and hugged her tight, and Nagisa hugged Mami back, and Kyoko shoved another stick of pocky into her mouth and said:

"So that's it, huh?"

She stared directly at Sayaka. Sayaka dreaded this moment more than she had dreaded the battle with Homura, and if not for the serious mien Madoka would have giggled.

"Well, you heard the boss," said Sayaka. "I gotta go back where I came from."

"After everything? You're just gonna leave?"

"I had my shot at life. And I got a second chance, too, thanks to Homura. I already owe more than I own."

Her eyes met Kyoko's. Kyoko stood, shoulders straight and hands clenched, heart racing and blood surging.

"That's. That's so dumb! Look, I dunno what dumb rules you got going on or whatever. You're my best friend, and you're not gonna ditch me for such a stupid reason."

"Kyoko," said Madoka, "I'm afraid I can't allow Sayaka to stay. The rules for Magical Girls should probably stay in place, for everyone's benefit. I really wish none of this had to be, that every girl had the chance to live their full lives happily... But a balance must be struck."

The explanation did not placate Kyoko. None would. The burden of infinite knowledge was to know that sometimes happiness was impossible. Kyoko would not be happy if Sayaka left and Sayaka would not be happy if she stayed. Even such a simple, small strife could not be resolved by all Madoka's godly powers.

But there was a way the pain could be mollified; the one who knew the words for that was not Madoka.

"Kyoko," said Sayaka. "Look. When you're dead, things are different, you can't experience life but you remember everything you did experience when you were alive. So those experiences, those moments, you treasure them. And the moments I had with you, all of them, good and bad, I know I'll treasure, and I'm so glad I had them. And I want you to continue living, and have your own experiences, and live your life the way you want. Same goes for you, Mami."

"Yeah, that's right," said Nagisa. "Homura paired us up the way she did because she thought we couldn't survive without someone else. But you also have to be able to live life for yourself!"

"I understand," said Mami. Although the thoughts in her head were not so certain.

Kyoko scraped a shoe against the cobblestone. "Pah." What she did not say: Shoulda cut town long ago.

"Kyoko," said Sayaka. "I'm sorry. For everything. For being so stuck up. For getting mad at dumb stuff. For not telling you what was going on. And for leaving." She stepped forward and, before Kyoko could react, threw her arms around her.

For a moment Kyoko stiffened, her mouth twisted into an uncertain snarl, but the moment passed and her shoulders slackened and she reciprocated the hug, tight and forceful, like squeezing a doll. "Dammit, you don't get all the apologies! I made some mistakes too y'know."

Sayaka rested her head against Kyoko's; their foreheads touched. "I promise we'll see each other again one day. I promise."

Neither said anything for a long time.

Nagisa tugged on Mami's sleeve. "Come on, we oughtta give em some alone time."

Images and ideas entered Mami's mind and she concealed a light blush with a turn of her head. "Oh, yes, ah."

Meanwhile, different images entered Madoka's mind, not of the companions around her but of another girl, hidden in a shadowed alley between two dusty tenements to the side of the street, watching Madoka and Mami and the others without daring to join them, even though the light of the street would allow her to heal the wounds across her body.

Madoka decided a polite nudge might spur things along.

"Come on, Mami. There's someone else you should talk to."

"Me?" said Mami. Madoka gave Nagisa a look. Nagisa nodded and pulled Mami by the arm, while Kyoko and Sayaka continued their quiet farewells in the middle of the road.

Madoka extended an arm over the heads of the dolls clumped around her and pointed toward the alley. The girl crouched in the crevasse turned away when she saw she had been spotted. But Madoka called to her:

"You can come out. We won't hurt you. You're wounded, aren't you? Come on out and Mami will heal you. Right, Mami?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" A flash of light enveloped her and she transformed into her Magical Girl outfit, which looked so cool and which Madoka had always wanted to wear (even if just for a minute!). "Come on, don't be shy."

The figure only retreated deeper into the alley, out of sight. The poor girl had received a lot of abuse lately, so it made sense she was not keen on trusting. Madoka tried a different tactic and hailed the girl in English instead of Japanese. "Serena, it's okay. You're safe now, everything's over."

Suspicion brewed in the girl's mind, but the invocation in her native tongue stirred her and she poked her head from the shadows. A trickle of half-dried blood ran from the corners of her lips. She held her gored stomach with a hand.

"The hell are you," said Serena Ru. "Some kind of angel?"

"Someday I'll be able to tell you," said Madoka. "For now, you should get yourself patched up."

With a half shrug, the figure slumped against the wall. Madoka nodded to Mami; Mami started forward and Nagisa trailed at her heels.

Madoka clasped her hands and exhaled slowly, one of the last breaths she would take before again leaving this plane of existence. Nagisa and Sayaka she would allow to leave on their own time, although she knew neither would want to linger long and increase the pain of goodbye. For Madoka herself it was best if she left silently, unheralded, as was her burden to bear.

The dolls gathered closer, sensing her intentions. She read again the words on the note, first Omaha's and then Homura's. No matter how hard she tried she could not sense their presence. But she believed Homura's promise. She would return some day, when she was ready.

Mami and Nagisa tended to Serena. Sayaka and Kyoko whispered to one another. Madoka patted the heads of the dolls. "I have one thing left to do," she told them, and then she left to do it.

In a dark cranny constructed of black bricks, Sloan reposed against the wall and absorbed the cool air on the skin beneath her coatsleeves. So very tired. But at least it was done. Done and done well, and now they all could be happy and it turned out the best possible way. She guessed that was what she set out to do here, although she wasn't sure how much she mattered in the end.

What she had secretly hoped, when she killed Madoka and the timeline reset, what she hoped was that it would go further back, way back, days back, weeks back, before she embarked for Williston and this whole shitty debacle started. Wishful thinking, probably. Ah well.

Two pairs of smart shoes clipped against the ground, one pair to either side of her. She did not have to look up to know who they were.

"Everyone's having a nice heartfelt reunion out there." Delaney motioned toward the end of the alley, where a sunnier road waited. "Shame on you for sulking like this."

Erika's boot nudged a pile of glittering grief cubes at Sloan's side. "It appears Omaha left these for you. You should attend to your Soul Gem."

Sloan's eyes fell on the pile. More than enough for a cleanse. "Nah."

"Oh, rubbish love. No need for the doom and gloom. Think of the life you've yet to experience. That blonde girl, she's fetching, eh? You could probably weasel your way into her heart like the little weasel you are." Delaney winked.

She felt too tired to vocalize what she thought, which could be pretty succinctly summed as quitting while ahead. She mustered half a shrug.

Erika knelt beside her. She leaned close and angled her head to make contact with Sloan's lazy eyes. "Hey. Look at me. You did a fantastic job, Sloan. I'm proud of you. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, very proud, love." Delaney did not kneel. "Who knows what might have happened if not for you."

"The Incubator may have killed Madoka," said Erika. "Or something equally heinous. You have a lot to be proud about, so cut out this sniveling."

Not sniveling. Only fatigue. Neutral, oblique, empty fatigue. A desire to go to sleep on a note of lukewarm happiness.

A hand fell on Erika's shoulder. "I think it's best to let her be, dear," said Delaney. "It is the fate of Magical Girls, after all. The lucky ones at least."

Erika stared at Sloan a long time. Her hands balled into fists against her legs and, it was hard to tell in the dark, her body maybe began to tremble. Sloan exhaled and opened her mouth to try to say something, some word or phrase to placate them, because really she was done with this shit.

But before the words came, Erika grabbed Sloan by the shoulders and leaned forward and kissed her on the lips and at first Sloan had honestly no idea what was happening but soon it became undeniable.

The kiss lasted a long time and Sloan lay dumb under its force before Erika finally pulled away, her face bright red even in the shadows. Delaney whistled.

"Well," said Erika. "What about now?"

Now Sloan only felt guilty, because if the kiss was meant to do something, to galvanize her back to life, it only felt dull and empty, although she could tell Erika perhaps had not done it solely for anti-despair cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Sloan thought back to the last time they were like this, when they killed the Williston archon, before Omaha appeared. That was the feeling Erika had taken with her to the afterlife.

Sloan said nothing, because anything she said would only make it worse. Erika's blush turned to a clear sadness, and ultimately she stood up and looked away without saying anything.

"I'd do a lot more than kiss you, love," said Delaney, "but it'd probably be improper. Besides, no offense, I think I'm over you in that way."

Since Sloan had never asked for either of them to be into her in any way, she mostly hoped it would end soon.

And, thankfully, neither companion spoke again, because an odd light extended down the corridor, illuminating it with a pure whiteness that dribbled through the grooves of the mortar, shining across first Delaney, then Sloan herself, and lastly Erika. Sloan's head lolled to face the light, which somehow did not blind. The light seeped into her skin, its presence enough to melt the melancholy and exhaustion.

From the light emerged a sole figure. Sloan had seen her before, with the flowing white dress and the pink hair, although now she was neither a doll nor a benign Japanese schoolgirl. Sloan supposed she beheld God, or as close as this world had to one, and although her first inclination was toward some snide jab, or a joke, a sarcastic comment, whatever, the light effaced her to tranquility and she welcomed the figure's approach.

Delaney and Erika stepped aside and averted their gazes. But the Goddess touched each on the shoulder as she passed, and smiled too.

"Delaney Pollack and Erika Dufresne, right? Thank you so much for all your help."

"It was nothing," said Erika.

"Yeah," said Delaney.

"Because of what happened, I never got a chance to really talk to either of you," said Madoka Kaname. "I'm truly sorry for that. I generally make it a habit to meet personally all who comprise the Law of the Cycles."

"That's quite all right," said Erika.

Delaney said nothing.

"Don't worry. Now there's all the time in the universe to make amends."

Erika got halfway through a simple pleasantry when Delaney blurted: "Are you mad at me?"

"Mad at you?" said Madoka. "No, of course not. You've done your best. And everything turned out fine in the end."

"I mean," Delaney rubbed her wrist, "I mean before that. What I did before that."

Madoka smiled. She placed one of her slender gloved hands on Delaney's shoulder. "Don't worry. We can talk about that if you want. But first, I have something important to do."

Her eyes flitted toward Sloan. Both Delaney and Erika seemed to understand at once, and truthfully Sloan understood too. Not even a twinge of dread struck her, Madoka's voice so calm and soothing and pleasant that no words she spoke could cause pain.

"So there's nothing we can do," said Erika.

"I'm afraid not," said Madoka. "But I think this isn't so bad a way to go? Sloan's really done a lot. And I don't think Sloan feels all that bad about it, do you?"

Sloan said: "No, this is a good time."

Erika looked as though she might say something, but Delaney grabbed her and pulled her aside. "Then it's for the best. Come, Erika dear, let's leave them be. Sloan perhaps has some personal business to discuss with our dear Goddess."

"Very well." Erika closed her eyes in acquiescence. "Sloan, until we meet again."

Delaney bowed with a flourish of her hand. "Au revoir, Mademoiselle Redfearn. See you on the other side."

She wrapped her arm around Erika's shoulder and they both turned away. Sloan watched them go, down the long and narrow aisle, until they became nothing but shadows, and then nothing at all.

The alley fell silent. When she mustered the strength, she looked toward Madoka.

Madoka was now no longer in her goddess garb. She had returned to the simple schoolgirl outfit, and she no longer stood but sat. They were both sitting, in plush velvet chairs, because they were no longer in an alley but a movie theater, lined with long rows of identical empty seats. A massive screen stretched before them, a circle of light from an unseen projector dancing across it.

"Where..." Sloan looked down. She opened her coat and checked her Soul Gem, but it no longer existed. Her tiredness evaporated, the dryness in her throat disappeared. "So that's it then."

"Yes," said Madoka. "I figured you weren't one for theatrics. No need to make a big show out of it!"

Sloan took another glance around the cinema. "I guess I'm afterlife Dilbert now."

"Oh, you mean the office? You were there before, that's right. Sorry, I'm still getting used to having this form back, so I don't remember things right away like I usually do." Madoka reclined in her chair. She grabbed a soda in her cupholder and slurped from a straw, although Sloan had the suspicion they were not in a real theater and it was not a real soda. "Even though it's a conceptual plane of existence, it's more familiar if it looks like something in real life. But I had no idea what to make it look like, a school, a meadow... If it was something normal, I worried everyone would get bored. Plus, I need them to do important jobs, so I can't have everyone slacking off!" She giggled and beamed. "I'm kidding, of course, it's not a big deal."

"So why an office?"

"Oh." Madoka clasped her hands. "I thought about something that would make people feel fulfilled. My mom worked at a big company with offices like that, and even though she worked hard and came home late, she always seemed really satisfied... So that's how I designed it to look. Probably pretty silly, huh?"

Sloan could not help but smile. Although ostensibly God, this Madoka girl acted so sheepish and bubbly it was nowhere near an overwhelming experience. Did she do that by design? Sloan got the impression she was actually like this.

"I think it's fine," said Sloan. "Not sure how someone from ancient Mesopotamia would feel."

"Well, everyone gets used to it really quick," said Madoka. "Anyway, that's not what we're here to talk about! We're here to talk about you, Sloan."

"Me." Oh boy. "Not much to talk about."

"Oh, come on! It's your life, there's tons to talk about."

"Alright." Sloan stared at the blank cinema screen. "I did a bunch of shitty stuff and then I did one okay thing at the end. And I guess that's enough to go to heaven. You're one lenient judge."

"I'm not really a judge," said Madoka. "Everyone seems to think that, but if a Magical Girl feels despair, I always come to help her. It doesn't really matter who they are or what they've done. There are girls who have done awful, terrible things, and some who keep doing awful, terrible things right until the end. But nobody, not even the worst person in the world, is all bad. Everyone has something inside them worth saving. I truly believe that."

Sloan chuckled, and then laughed outright. Nobody is all bad! Everybody is worth saving! "That's... So all that time Delaney was worrying, it didn't mean a thing."

"That's not true," said Madoka. "It was the good inside her that made her worry. I guess you're right to laugh... A lot of people do. I know I'm not a philosopher. But I believe everyone deserves happiness, and I try to give it to them."

Slowly, Sloan stopped laughing, and soon she stared at her boots beneath the seat. "I took happiness away from a lot of people. I killed them."

"I know," said Madoka. "And I'm not going to say what you did was alright. But now, that stuff doesn't matter. Now your existence will be for the good of all Magical Girls. Everyone makes mistakes."

Unreal. The simplicity of her morals, it was in some ways aggravating but in others a welcome relief. Still, it did not overcome Sloan's own thoughts, which turned toward Clair Ibsen, her friend, the one she killed, who did not even have the chance at an afterlife for redemption.

Madoka's hand touched her shoulder. "Let's talk about your life, Sloan. I don't think we need to talk about the things you did wrong, though. You've thought about them a lot on your own, haven't you? I'd like to talk about the things you haven't thought about so much—the good things you've done."

"I had some tangential hand in your rescue, I guess," said Sloan. She bit her lip and added: "Sorry for murdering you that one time."

"Oh, don't worry about that." Madoka jiggled her cup. Only ice sloshed around. "But you're right, that's one nice thing you did. Not just saving me—you helped it be so nobody had to die. That's important, right? I think without you, a lot of people would have wound up hurt. Although you did do one thing super wrong!"

"Only one?"

Madoka covered a giggle with her hand. "You left without saying goodbye to Kyoko and Mami! Come on, how could you? They'll be sad when they find out."

Oh. Sloan had actually actively avoided meeting them. When they woke up back on Earth, and she saw they would have some reunions with their more longstanding friends, she decided not to make things awkward by dying in the middle of it.

"After you put in so much effort to save them, too." Madoka clapped her hands twice and the lights in the theater dimmed. A reel began to churn and images faded onto the screen. "They're two of my best friends, so I'm really glad you did what you did. Mami in particular would have enjoyed being your friend, I'm certain."

The screen came into focus. On it was Mami and Nagisa, on the street in front of Homura's apartment. Mami knelt beside Hennepin, who looked like she had fallen into a thresher. Small yellow ribbons slid into the wounds and stitched them, while Hennepin protested with pained grunts.

"Mami can get really lonely, even though she tries not to show it. So it's really sad for her when Nagisa and Sayaka and you leave, and it gets worse because Kyoko leaves not long after."

The screen changed. It switched ahead; they were no longer viewing the present but what could only be the future. Well, it made sense for a Goddess to be able to see all points in time, Sloan supposed. On the screen was Kyoko, in some neon-lit urban area, bundled in a jacket as she walked with her head low.

"Kyoko was always a restless spirit. She goes back to wandering, never staying anywhere too long." Madoka narrated the events on screen, which showed Kyoko in various settings, sometimes battling wraiths, sometimes helping out younger Magical Girls. Sleeping under overpasses, eating random foodstuffs. "She meets a lot of people and does her best to help them out."

"So is this some kind of lesson," said Sloan. "Like, you helped this person out, and she helped these people, so in a sense you helped those people too?"

"If that's the way you want to see it! Which I think is a pretty fine way to see it, personally."

A final shot of Kyoko showed her walking across a bridge during sunset, a pack slung over her shoulder, a candy cane in her mouth. Two other girls walked alongside her, both looking maybe twelve years old. They chatted to each other while Kyoko stared onward in silence. Then the screen switched to Mami's apartment, unchanged from when Sloan last saw it. Mami sat at the triangle table alongside Hennepin. Both ate sponge cake.

"Hennepin stays with her?" said Sloan.

"Yep," said Madoka. "Her Japanese gets really good really fast, so she figures why not stay? It's a good thing, too, because if Mami were truly alone again I don't know if she would last long. But she and Serena strike up a... friendly rivalry."

A new scene played. Mami and Hennepin fought a horde of wraiths together, like the time Sloan and Mami fought the greater wraith at the hospital. They both seemed to gun for kills, with aggressive grandstanding and flashy acrobatic stunts.

"Together, they train the next generation of Magical Girls in Mitakihara. And so the cycle continues."

Sloan thought none of this would affect her, had even prepared to harden her heart, but somehow the sight of Mami and Hennepin competing wormed its way deep, especially since it was such a random combination of people from Sloan's life, two people who never would have met each other if not for Sloan. She laughed, because what else could she do but laugh at something so ridiculous?

The laughter came fast and easy, it tumbled out, especially as the screen showed more scenes from the daily life of Mami and Hennepin. Mami and Hennepin!

"You touched more people than just those three, however," said Madoka. She waited for Sloan's laughter to subside before the screen changed again. This time not to a person Sloan recognized, but a place. A place she would know anywhere, despite its generic buildings and flat topography.

Fargo.

"Oh come on," said Sloan. "You're gonna show all the random civilians I saved from wraiths now? That's overkill."

Madoka smiled. "If I did that, we'd be here for days, ha ha. No, I'm here to focus on someone else."

Sloan took a closer look. She noticed the camera (or Eye of God) focused on a single figure, hunched against the wind as she strolled down the main street. It was hard for Sloan to recognize her, buried beneath so many layers.

"Anoka."

"Lily's her real name," said Madoka. "You saved her in Minneapolis."

She had wanted to go back to Vancouver or wherever she was from. Something about apologizing for the girl she killed. Sloan could not even remember the details, although she told that big tragic backstory and everything.

Madoka said nothing more. The snow melted, the seasons changed. Anoka remained in Fargo. She fought wraiths, she helped passerby Magical Girls. It played like a montage.

So Anoka stayed in Fargo. Helped more Magical Girls. That was the theme. The people Sloan helped pay it forward. The Law of the Cycles. Sloan had always wondered why they called it that. Seemed like an odd name for disappearing from existence. But that was the logic of God, who sees all creation from beginning to end. Renewal, rebirth. Things happen again, endlessly. The people Anoka helped would help others. And so on. And together they formed a chain, helping each other from one end of infinity to the other.

"In the end, they all die." Sloan slid her hands into her pockets.

"Yes," said Madoka. "But they also all lived."

The screen went dark.

"So is that it?"

"There's plenty others I could show you, people you helped a lot who you maybe don't even remember, but I think you're getting the idea now. However, there is one person I want you to see. Someone especially important to you, although you haven't seen her in a long time."

One more. Okay.

The projector flashed again and a new scene appeared. At first, Sloan wasn't sure what she was looking at. It was a room with pale blue walls, a chair, screens and diagrams on the walls. A counter with a sink, hand towels, cabinets. Like some kind of doctor's office. Or a scientific laboratory.

A woman walked into view, a woman with Sloan's face. Sloan blinked. It was her, it looked exactly like her, only older by maybe ten years. She wore a lab coat and busied about the counters, shuffling files and folders.

And then Sloan realized: Morgan. Her twin sister Morgan.

She remembered her wish. So that Morgan would see again. Because Morgan had always been better than Sloan, smarter, friendlier, kinder. A more perfect iteration of the same human being, and that thought had filled Sloan with so much jealousy.

"She's a doctor," said Sloan.

"An optometrist, to be exact."

Optometry. Of course. Unlike Sloan, Morgan never hated the doctors they went to see, even though they performed so many tests and asked so many questions. She always asked questions back, what is this tool, what's the purpose of this examination, do you have any new developments, what are your hypotheses? She liked the word hypothesis, took every possible chance to use it.

On the screen, Morgan stepped back from her papers. She took a deep breath, sighed, and stared at the counter, at some small framed pictures. Three of them: A handsome man, a pair of children, and the third a family photograph, Sloan and Morgan and Mom and Dad, with an obscure blue backdrop and both girls in identical dresses. Sloan remembered when the picture was taken, she hated the stiff collar, tugged at the bows even when Mom slapped at her hands.

"She still remembers you," said Madoka. "She thinks about you a lot."

The dam burst. Sloan folded in on herself and pushed her hands to her face and cried, strong waterless sobs that caught in her throat and only confused her because none of it was real, she was not real, she was dead, a ghost, a wisp of air. Morgan. Morgan, Morgan, Morgan. It began with Morgan, Morgan and Sloan, two copies but one blind, and Sloan traded her soul and life to cleanse that blindness.

If the screen showed more, Sloan did not see. Madoka's hands wrapped around her and hugged her, patting her back and stroking her hair. "You've done a lot to be proud of. You made a wish to help her, remember? Even though later you told yourself it was for spite, when you made that wish... you did it to help her."

Because Morgan had always been good. Because Morgan had always been smart. Because she deserved a chance...

"I forgot," said Sloan. "I can't believe I forgot. I forgot that I love her."

"She loves you too, Sloan."

The love welled inside Sloan's chest, the love she buried so long beneath snow and mud and dirt and the entire city of Fargo, love for Morgan and for Mom and Dad too, and love for Clair and love for Delaney and love for Erika and love for them all, Omaha and Homura and Mami and Kyoko and Hennepin and Anoka and Ramsey, the ones she killed, the ones she saved, she realized she loved them all, and that they meant so much to her, and that above all she was grateful to have shared her life with them.

That was what she forgot, love, what she had killed inside herself, and next to Madoka, who exuded love, who seemed to be nothing but pure love bundled into one singular essence, she remembered, and she loved them all, and she loved the ones they loved, and the ones nobody loved.

"It's okay, Sloan. Now you understand. Now you understand."

The cinema broke away. The seats and screen ebbed into nonexistence, fading, becoming nothing, until only the projector remained, spilling light into the white void, illuminating that which was always illuminated, that which was always good. The light shone strong and bright in Sloan's eyes.

It went out, and Sloan vanished too.

THE END

Chapter 43: Credits

I. Special Thanks

To everyone, for reading this story for over 10 years.

II. Cast (In Order of Appearance)

Sloan Redfearn (Fargo)

Lily Cheong (Anoka)

The Incubator

Omaha

Delaney Pollack (Regina-Saskatoon)

Erika Dufresne (Winnipeg)

Homura Akemi

Madoka Kaname

Stolz

Schwarzseherei

Lügner

Kaltherzig

Selbstsucht

Verleumdung

Schafskopf

Eifersucht

Faulheit

Eitelkeit

Feigheit

Dämlich

Unterlegenheit

Sturheit

Mami Tomoe

Nagisa Momoe

Alyssa Rae Coles (Bloomington)

Selma Smith (Woodbury)

Clair Ibsen (Minneapolis)

St. Paul

Serena Ru (Hennepin)

Yvonne Lizondo-Perez (Sepulveda)

Destin Carmichael

Lynette Ibsen

Chelsea Stoddard (Ramsey)

Liebe

Laquesha Kabwe (Cicero)

Leah Roth (Berwyn)

Elmhurst

Lombard

Addison

Niles

Westmont

Burbank

Maywood

Mia Abgaryan (Darien)

Stephanie Galloway (Hinsdale)

Charlotte DeWinter (Norridge)

Alsip

Bellwood

Melissa Haskins (River Forest)

Clearing

Crestwood

Stickney

Xochitl Hodgkins(?) (Hodgkins)

Lyons

Kyoko Sakura

Tomohisa Kaname

The Chief Handmaiden

[NAME REDACTED] (The Empress of Chicago)

Sayaka Miki

Ereshkigal

Mary Wright

Morgan Redfearn

III. Titles

Bavitz, Ian Matthias. "The Mayor and the Crook".

Hopkins, Gerard Manley. "Pied Beauty".

Bosch, Hieronymus. The Garden of Earthly Delights.

de Pizan, Christine. The Book of the City of Ladies.

Milton, John. Paradise Lost.

Bavitz, Ian Matthias. "Float".

Browning, Robert. "My Last Duchess".

Strunk, William Jr. & Elwyn Brooks White. The Elements of Style.

Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man.

Jonah 4:6.

—

Okonma, Tyler Gregory. "Nightmare".

Bavitz, Ian Matthias. "Garbage".

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. "Kubla Khan".

Eliot, Thomas Stearns. "The Waste Land".

Staples, Vincent Jamal. "3230".

Shakespeare, William. Timon of Athens.

Aeschylus. Agamemnon.

Egan, Jennifer. A Visit from the Goon Squad.

Milton, John. Paradise Lost.

Hussie, Andrew. Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff.

Danielewski, Mark Z. House of Leaves.

Shakespeare, William. King Lear.

Okonma, Tyler Gregory. "Tron Cat".

Kafka, Franz. The Trial.

—

—

Pynchon, Thomas Ruggles Jr. The Crying of Lot 49.

Bavitz, Ian Matthias. "The Mayor and the Crook".

Hussie, Andrew. Homestuck.

Ibsen, Henrik Johan. John Gabriel Borkman.

Vonnegut, Kurt Jr. Slaughterhouse-Five.

Gardner, John Champlin Jr. Grendel.

de Pizan, Christine. The Book of the City of Ladies.

Barthes, Roland Gérard. "The Death of the Author".

Wilhousky, Peter. "Carol of the Bells".

—

Moiderah. Magica Madoka Veneficus Puella.

Gastrow, Jason. "Bubsy 3D 2".

Bavitz. Fargo.

—

Bavitz, Ian Matthias. "Garbage".

Afterword

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