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[Hide] (401.9KB, 1536x2048) Rain was pouring down on the wreckage that was once Mitakihara City. A single gunshot echoed through the debris, followed by a strangled cry. Fresh smoke escaped the bore of Homura’s Beretta, having used it to end Madoka’s life before she could be reborn into a terrible witch. Madoka’s brain matter and pints of blood lay splattered on a crushed concrete wall nearby.
Homura stared at the mess splattered across the wall for several long, silent moments. Rain hissed as it met the warm blood, washing streaks of red down the concrete. An eyeball, dislodged from the velocity of the bullet, had tumbled from the concrete back onto what would’ve been Madoka’s head, now reduced to a gaping hole in her neck that out of its graceful body.
“Why couldn’t I save you!? Why!?” Homura’s voice cracked as she screamed into the sky, rain soaking her hair, her clothes, the gun still clenched in her hand. “I tried to warn everyone—and they didn’t believe me!”
Her words were swallowed by the storm, lost among the endless patter of rain and the distant groan of ruined buildings. She stood in the wreckage like a ghost, hoping—begging—that some god, some cosmic force, would answer. That someone, anyone, would tell her why . Why it had to end like this. Why she was always left behind.
Homura looked down at the lifeless body once more. Her legs buckled as she knelt beside it, her fingers trembling as she reached out and rested her palm on what was left of Madoka’s torso. The skin was cold beneath her hand.
More tears spilled down her cheeks as she leaned in, burying her face in the crook of Madoka’s shoulder, trying to find warmth that wasn’t there. Her sobs came ugly—harsh gasps against skin already turning pale. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried. I really tried.”
She stares at where Madoka’s head would’ve been had she not shot her in her face. The image of Madoka’s face in pain, pleading to be put down as her body twitched and stretched, flashed in her mind, the distressed sound of Madoka whimpering her rang in her head, “I-I don’t want to become a witch, Homura-chan…”.
Homura leaned closer and embraced what was left of the body. It was cold, lifeless—yet still warm in places where blood hadn’t yet cooled. The slick warmth of Madoka’s insides pressed against her cheek, and for a moment, it almost felt like an embrace. She nuzzled closer, desperate for the illusion of comfort. “I loved you,” she whispered. “I wanted to save you… Why did you ask me to do this to you!?”
Her face slid along exposed flesh, into the cavity where Madoka’s voice had once lived. A strange warmth pulsed there, imagined or real. Madoka had always made her feel safe, even now. Homura’s lips brushed the edge of the wound, almost reverent, almost worshipful.
A need stirred inside her. To understand what it meant to be this close, this exposed, this connected. Slowly, trembling, she opened her mouth and bit down.
It was spongy, wet, laced with the sharp taste of iron and bile. It was revolting, but it was Madoka. She gagged as the texture filled her mouth. Her body rebelled, but she forced herself to chew. Tears streamed freely now, mixing with blood, with rain, with everything. She clung tighter to the cooling corpse.
Homura didn’t want to return to the past just yet. She could have. The gears in her shield turned softly, humming with the weight of one more rewind—one more try. But her fingers stayed still, curled tightly around what remained of Madoka’s shredded body. She wanted to stay here—just a little longer. Here, where Madoka was real. Where her blood was warm. Where her voice, imagined or not, still whispered in her ears like the last fading echo of a dream.
Homura dared to swallow the piece of Madoka, her throat constricting as her body betrayed her with the urge to gag. She clenched her jaw, fighting it furiously. To spit it out would be to defile her. To let it fall back into the rain-soaked ruin would be to vandalize the magnificent body before her with her own rejection.
She pressed her face deeper into the wound, the cavity now an altar to the only thing she had ever loved. There was no one around to judge her. No one around to stop her. The city was a wreck—not in fire or destruction caused by a witch, but in the slow collapse of one girl’s heart.
Another bite. This time slower. Not out of curiosity, but reverence.
The once repulsive texture was starting to become bearable—familiar. The flavors of copper and salt had slowly begun to grow on her. Her body had noticeably started to resist less and less; her stomach, which had churned with each bite, began to settle. Her hands no longer trembled. She chewed softly, gently, like one might cradle a cherished memory between their teeth. Once she had finished praising the morsel with her teeth, she let it rest for a moment on her tongue, then slowly slid it down her throat. It went down much easier than before.
Her mind was racing for a way to correctly justify this deplorable sin she was committing upon Madoka’s glorious corpse. Homura's voice was shaky, her arms trembling. “This way, wherever I go... a piece of you will still be with me, Ms. Kaname...” She paused, pressing her forehead to Madoka’s cooling skin as if hoping for a final blessing. “Not just in my memories. Not just in time. Inside me. Safe.”
Her eyes drifted to a smear just below the jagged edge of the concrete wall—soft, pale, and streaked with blood. Bits of brain matter clung there in uneven globs, like crushed fruit. One piece had slipped free and landed beside what was left of Madoka’s neck, the pulp still glistening in the rain.
Homura stared.
Hesitant, she reached over, took it, and ate from it; for it was her body. It collapsed against her tongue. It was soft, and greasy, almost sweet with a light tang of iron. Not like flesh. Flesh resisted. This one dissolved. The body of a goddess.
This was where Madoka had lived—her dreams, her voice, every gentle laugh. The thoughts she never spoke aloud. The soft songs she hummed when she thought no one was listening. Every memory they shared, every tear she shed for others. It had all passed through this place. Now, that essence— Madoka’s essence —was melting between Homura’s teeth.
Not just muscle and nerve. This wasn’t meat . It was history. Intimacy. Divinity . The final echo of a girl who will one day carry the weight of the universe with a smile on her lips. And now, she was dissolving into Homura, piece by piece, as if her very being had always been meant to be consumed —taken in, cherished, made inseparable. There was no blood, no bone, no rot. Only warmth. Only closeness. Only the taste of what once was love, now unnameable and irreversible.
And then, without warning, her stomach convulsed.
A sour wave surged up her throat. She gagged, choking on the holy pulp, her hand flying to her mouth too late to stop it. She doubled over, retching violently into the mud and blood-soaked rubble. Bitter acid tore through her throat, and with it came half-chewed fragments—warm, red, unholy. It splattered at her knees.
She coughed, gasped, spat until nothing was left but the taste.
Rain fell harder now, as if to wash the blasphemy from her skin.
She coughed violently, strands of saliva and vomit clinging to her chin. Her vision swam. The wind cut through her soaked clothes, and suddenly the corpse didn’t look peaceful—it looked ruined. Empty. Mutilated.
Homura stumbled back on her hands, slipping in the mess she had made. Her breath hitched, short and shallow. “What… what did I do?” she whispered. Rain pelted her face, stinging her skin like penance.
The time shield at her wrist clicked softly. Its magic was still alive. Waiting.
Her hands shook.
She couldn’t stay here.
Not like this.