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Madoka stumbles towards Homura, reaching for her face with bloated, discolored hands. Despite herself, Homura can’t help but lean into the touch.
Homura has been surviving alone for the past few weeks she has spent in this apocalyptic mess of a loop, after all. Is it so wrong to indulge in the first friendly face she has seen in a month?
Madoka cups Homura’s face gently, her purple-black fingers caressing Homura as if she’s the most invaluable treasure Madoka has ever seen. Homura leans her head into Madoka’s hand, smiling slightly. She peers at Madoka’s face with half-lidded eyes.
Kami, Homura is so ẗ̶͕͙̞̦i̷̧̟̿̈́͂ṟ̵̍̕e̸͕̜̦͉̊͋͝d̴͙̤͖̒̈́. Would it be so bad to abandon her self-appointed mission of turning back time to save Madoka, and simply sink into this Madoka’s embrace, until the two are entwined into one, forever together and forever in bliss? She won’t have to p̴u̶s̶h̶ h̴̠͐é̴͓r̷̞͛ṡ̷͍e̷͈̾l̷͈̕f̸̙̋ à̷̳̲̖̮̊n̶̘̱͔̉͌͠ỵ̸̧̛͚͉̾m̴̭̈̀̇ó̷̺͙r̷͇̖̾̑̐e̵͍̙͙̓̿ ̶̧̻̞̲̈́̂
Madoka is smiling back at Homura—at least, as much as one can smile with peeled lips and half-rotted gums. The singular clump of pink hair on her scalp sways in the wind. Homura misses Madoka’s pigtails, but Madoka looks beautiful no matter what hairstyle she’s sporting.
Madoka leans in. This close, Homura can make out the splotches of blood and discolored grey-green liquid staining her school uniform. Madoka’s mouth opens, her teeth sharp and blood-stained, as she closes the distance between her mouth and Homura’s neck—
Homura’s neck? That isn’t—
Homura blinks, and a heavy fog seems to clear from her mind.
Oh.
Homura’s head springs up. She looks at Madoka with new eyes—no, this isn’t Madoka anymore, simply a zombie wearing Madoka’s rotting face. Homura can’t believe—after the past few weeks—she should’ve been used to the depressant drugs the zombies emit as they get close to their prey—but—Madoka’s face has gotten past her guard far better than any calmative drug can—the sheer stupidity of that—
Madoka is so close Homura can smell the rotting stench of her breath now. Her teeth are inches from Homura’s neck, threatening to tear Homura’s throat out and turn her into one of them—zombies rise from the corpses of those killed by other zombies—and Homura—
She cannot allow that. She still hasn’t completed her mission to save Madoka, after all—being a zombie is no better than becoming a witch—
Homura draws a loaded pistol from her shield. Quick as a flash, she presses the muzzle against Madoka’s heart, undoes the safety, and presses the trigger.
Bang.
The momentum from being shot at point-blank sends Madoka stumbling back. Her hands are torn roughly from Homura’s face, her nails leaving behind long gouges in Homura’s cheeks that flash purple as they heal.
Homura takes advantage of the zombie’s loss of balance. She draws a grenade launcher from her shield this time, and—pressing her lips together tightly—shoots Madoka.
Bang.
The sound from the much louder explosion echoes in Homura’s ears unceasingly, making her flinch. Blood and flesh splatter over her dress, staining the purple fabric red. Homura inhales sharply, and chokes on the scent of smoke and Madoka’s blood.
When the flames and smoke clear, there is nothing left of Madoka but pieces of bloody flesh.
Homura stifles back a sob. She can’t stay here—every death of a zombie sends out a signal to its companions, summoning them to avenge their fallen comrade. It’s a bit too similar to Kyubey’s modus operandi for Homura’s comfort—but the evidence supports Homura’s theory that this timeline anomaly is caused by a magical girl’s Wish going awry.
She stumbles away from the scene on unsteady feet, storing her weapons back into her shield. Using a grenade launcher on Madoka—no, the zombie wearing the shell of Madoka—probably seems overkill, but Homura has discovered from experience that zombies get up again and again and again no matter what injuries they sustain. They can only be stopped by being blown to literal smithereens—Homura and the zombies are alike, in that regard.
Homura wipes a chunk of Madoka’s flesh from the surface of her shield. It looks like a section of the small intestine, from the looks of it. She examines the hourglass embedded into the shield, with purple sand trickling from the top to the bottom in a constant motion.
The top half of the hourglass is almost empty. Five more days—that is how long it will take for the remaining sand to drain into the bottom half of the sandglass. Five more days, and her rewind magic will be replenished enough for Homura to reset the timeline again.
Five days. All Homura needs to do is survive for five more days, and then she can make her escape from this hell to a brand new one.
She can do this. For Madoka, she must do this.
Homura squeezes out the blood—Madoka’s blood—drenching her skirt, and keeps walking.