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 with enough intensity to encroach Sloan's own form, blurring her lines and angles, 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 from her? She swore her arms clung to it the entire time. She touched her shoulder; her wounds had disappeared. 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 with a half-muddy amber glaze, 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. It babbled for a few seconds and ended with an interrogative.
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? My apologies, 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 in what became clear was a wall nearby. Sloan blinked; form and line oozed out the whiteness, things became clear at least as shapes, empty spaces. Structure. She rose and leaned toward the door to try and see through it, but only another white area awaited her. Nonetheless she did as bid and stepped through.
The moment she passed the threshold the whiteness of the space disappeared, replaced by a sterile but nonetheless existent lobby replete with desk and computer. A tropical plant served a spot of color, potted in the corner opposite the desk. A few empty chairs lined a wall.
In the center of the room stood a resplendent figure, draped in a low-cut white dress that flowed into the floor and had no distinct end. Her bronzed skin glowed in the otherwise opaque space, and her hair, so black as to be almost violet, formed a refreshing darkness to which Sloan's eyes naturally gravitated. Every detail of her presentation and body exuded perfection, from her finely-filed nails and her emerald eyes and her full lips and her full other stuff. The dress reminded Sloan of the pink-haired doll. The woman 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 head and stewed in her own ugliness.
I sense you are not at ease, said the beautiful lady. Again I apologize, typically we have better foreknowledge of new arrivals and deliver a more personalized transition experience. Would you prefer if I presented myself like this instead?
She snapped her fingers. Instantly her wardrobe changed into a conservative librarian look, with horn-rimmed glasses and her hair tied in a bun. She was still stupid hot.
Look, can you tell me where I am. How do I get back where I was?
We will discuss all these 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 in her gut. Her last memory of clinging to the doll as it opened a portal in spacetime. Had it taken her to... the afterlife?
She burst out laughing at the absurdity. Heaven! This was heaven, this was her first angel—Ereshkigal the sexy librarian! Her laughter might have gone on for awhile 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 with a slight tilt of her head. You were on the brink of despair, and she came to save you from a disastrous fate. She swallowed your pain and agony 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 she remembered. Maybe the doll did it when she whited out. But Sloan still had her Soul Gem, she had checked first thing.
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 would do any favors here. What would they do, boot her back to Mitakihara? She decided to roll with the flow for the time being and see what happened.
Uh, no. I was asking, because, uh. Because what about girls who have their gems shattered in battle? They come here too?
Ereshkigal's entire upper body rearranged its position, her head lowering with crestfallen expression, her smooth unblemished arms moving with operatic flourish to place one hand over her heart and another upturned in the air beside her. Unfortunately, such is not the case. Girls slain in battle will never know the salvation afforded to us by Madoka Kaname. For them, 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 owe Magical Girldom the duty of 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 in 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 for them?
Ah yes. Ereshkigal adjusted her pose again, like a mannequin in a store, to a more 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. Death became even shittier when you realized you fucked them out of eternal paradise in the afterlife. Was that really the arbitrary distinction between girls who went to heaven and those who just died? 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 apologize, Sloan. I see this explanation affected you negatively. Had I more tact, I would have refrained from telling you until after you had grown more comfortable in your newfound conceptual form. In this state, your bodily emotions and feelings will eventually ebb away and leave you at constant equilibrium, but it is not uncommon for those who first arrive to cling to their 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—rendered her incapable of salvation at Madoka Kaname's hands. Your part in her death did not change her ultimate 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 me. It is not that your emotions depart you entirely, but your new state allows you to master them and accept them. You will no longer be a slave to the whims of your hormones, as in technical terms you no longer control a physical body and thus have no hormones altogether. Give it time; you'll soon see what I mean.
This was what Sayaka and Nagisa became. Angels in heaven, before Homura Akemi pulled them back to earth and returned them to physical form. Did they have to sit in this room and listen to this stuffy bitch prattle about this shit too?
So where's Mami.
Mami Tomoe? Truthfully, I am uncertain. 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 of arms. Her librarian glasses twinkled.
What happens if she never arrives?
I'll have someone check up on Miss Tomoe and determine what happened to her. Glitches in the system must be eradicated, after all. However, I implore you not to worry about it. What happens happens—such is the will of fate. Soon you shall understand.
Oh god, when people start rambling about fate that's when you know you're dicked. Sloan suspected Mami was dead. She saw the gem explode. But it didn't explain what happened after, the weird contortions to the geography or the strange creature who appeared. 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 she could muster. 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 it. Light was Sloan's magical weapon of choice and she still found it too damn bright. 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 in Ereshkigal's mellifluous voice so smooth and silky Sloan missed the drift until she followed her into the next room and saw the rows upon rows of office cubicles that stretched down an infinite corridor. Sloan blinked to make sure she saw them right. Cubicles, like corporate office cubicles, adorned with vibrant colors that spanned the spectrum of the rainbow, some blue some green some red some orange some yellow some purple. Some of the cubicles had designs, some had pictures of starry nights or pastoral meadows. The doors opened and shut and girls buzzed between them, noses buried in files and forms, some in pairs that chatted amicably with facial expressions rather than mouths. Some trundled gurneys stacked with books, some ran with clipboards tucked under arms. One girl zipped past on a skateboard. All of them wore Magical Girl uniforms, fancy capes and gloves and boots—some uniforms even weirder—which only magnified the strangeness of the scene.
Sloan turned to ask Ereshkigal what the fuck was this only to find she now stood among a gaggle of girls, each with eyes riveted on the cubicles. They too wore uniforms and comprised a wide range of races and ethnicities. Some exchanged glances and asked questions in polyglot mental languages, a few Sloan at least guessed as European or Asian but some entirely incomprehensible. Each girl nodded and responded despite the fact that no two used the same tongue. Sloan counted between twenty to thirty in a group around her.
Uh, hello? said Sloan. Do any of you speak English?
The girl standing next to Sloan, who wore a floral kimono, tore her eyes from the cubicle scene and responded in not English. Sloan smiled and nodded like she understood. These were the girls who had succumbed to the Law of the Cycles. Their gems got muddy and the pink-haired doll warped them here. The ones at the cubicles had been here awhile, those in the group around Sloan were "new employees." Ready for the "onboarding process."
Sayaka spoke English—she said languages meant little to concepts. Okay, cool, explained why these chicks could communicate how they did. 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 in Sloan's group quit their chatter and diverted all attention toward her as she cleared her throat and gestured emphatically at the cubicles behind her. She began to speak, 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. Sloan tried to keep her head low because she was taller than most of the girls here. 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. Her longwinded speeches grew more agonizing without the ability to comprehend her words, it sounded like ceaseless babble. She gestured at the cubicles, at the girls with files who flitted between them. Sometimes she gestured at nothing or brushed back her luscious 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.
After a solid five minutes of Ereshkigal's undying voice, she swept the flowing folds of her gown behind her and walked toward the closest aisle of cubicles. The group of new employees followed en masse, the one behind Sloan giving her a slight nudge because she apparently missed the cue for the guided tour of Dilbert Heaven to begin. Sloan popped the collar of her coat to up her inconspicuousness as she clomped in line with the others, but nobody paid her the least attention anyway. What the hell could Ereshkigal take so long to blab about. Yes, they're cubicles. How fascinating. Although Sloan did wonder what kind of work girls who existed as conceptual entities even did. The ones who ran between the cubicles clutched ledgers and documents. Did they do Madoka's taxes or what?
She slowed her pace. Gradually she worked her way to the back of the new employee group, allowing those more invested in Ereshkigal's monologue to surpass her in line. She observed the girls in the cubicles, but none even looked up from their stacks of paperwork as Ereshkigal and the new girls passed. Nobody paid Sloan the least attention. Her heart pounded in her chest as her mind formulated her plan.
They reached a junction at the end of the aisle, a crossroads that led to many more aisles of cubicles. While Ereshkigal and her tour group went down one aisle, Sloan shoved her hands in her pockets and slumped her shoulders and stepped into an entirely different aisle. 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 pocket, checked over her shoulder in case Ereshkigal glided after her to accuse her in Mesopotamian. But nobody came.
Each cubicle had a name on a plaque by the door. The names appeared to be in the native alphabet of the girl in question, so a lot had indecipherable characters, Cyrillic and Sanskrit and Hiragana and Hangul. Many were in Latin script but obviously not English—Scandinavian or Germanic or Italian or French. Sloan read the name on each plaque she passed until she reached one with an undeniably English name: Mary Wright. A painting of a pony emblazoned the ajar door to Mary Wright's cubicle. 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 very well 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 immortal conceptual spirits 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 and rifled through the papers within and removed a thick bound booklet titled OFFICES & EMPLOYEES. The S in both words looked like Fs.
Well, ye can borrow mine, I s'pose. Sorry for the wear, tis a trifle used. Check the back, it'll have the newest names.
She handed the directory to Sloan. It weighed nothing despite its thickness. Sloan opened to a random page, encountered a long list of names in minuscule font. After each name came a "Date of Employment" and an office aisle and number. The names were arranged chronologically, the oldest girls first, the newest last. She turned to the last page to see if her own name had joined the list and did not see it. However, the final page was not static; new names appeared at the end of the list as if by magic, each with December 25, 2013 as the date.
Sloan had seen 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 23. Even then, a ton of girls bit the dust that day. It took awhile until her finger found 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. Ain't it 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 stood and brushed past Sloan into the aisle. She pointed toward a junction of multiple other aisles. 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 an open 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 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? As a floorplan blueprint? For some reason Sloan imagined interlocking hexagons, although it could be anything. She kept her eyes open lest she bump into Ereshkigal and the tour group, but to house Magical Girls since the dawn of Magical Girls this place had to be huge enough to make that unlikely. Mostly she passed more girls with papers and trolleys and in small groups that chatted among themselves, garbed in a colorful array of costumes. A few nodded hello to Sloan as she passed, Sloan tried to smile and nod back.
Truthfully, it took a lot of effort not to break out in sprint. The realization that she could meet Delaney here, Delaney and Erika too, and maybe some others, built in intensity with each identical fork she reached. Her mind reeled. This was heaven, this was the afterlife. It was too amazing to think that such a place even existed for her to be that miffed it manifested as a gigantic corporate honeycomb. Sloan had met plenty of girls, usually rookies, who thought the Law of the Cycles led to some kind of heaven. But the grizzled vets puffed cigarettes and dismissed their theories as jejune fantasy. This was real, though, unless Sloan fell under the spell of a lucid illusion. She ought to keep that a possibility considering the strange circumstances that surrounded her appearance here. 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 skid to a stop. She looked over her shoulder at the girl who hailed her. Even without her bleached blonde 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. Ramsey's weirdly incorporeal embrace would not have registered on Sloan's sensory matrix if not for the visual cues. No warmth, no feeling. Like being hugged by a ghost.
It lasted only a short time before Ramsey released her and stepped away. Sorry, I forgot we don't feel anything up here. Ha! She scratched the back of her head with a nervous smile. And I guess I shouldn't be celebrating your death anyway, but I'm really glad you made it here! I've made 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 go with Ramsey for nomenclature, not a difficult mental note to make because not having to learn a new name always superseded having to learn one.
The moment of disappointment vanished from Ramsey's face, replaced by new brightness as she swiveled on a heel and turned back the way she came, grabbing the cuff of Sloan's sleeve to lead her. Oh, you have to talk to Selma too, she's just down the hall.
Sloan shuffled her feet, although she 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 during our lives, 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—bah whatever, go with the names you know—whom Sloan met once, maybe twice (probably once). All she remembered about her was that Delaney stabbed her throat out with the magic knife, so she felt none too swell about this dubious reunion. Indeed, when Woodbury looked up from her paperwork, the smile on her face faded.
Selma, Selma, look who I brought. It's Sloan!
Woodbury did nothing for a moment but eventually nodded. Oh, yeah. Hi Sloan! So you're here now too, huh?
I guess. No reason to bumble into a more precise explanation.
Of course. Death comes for us all. Woodbury returned to her paperwork. She tapped a keyboard and a screen blipped to life. On it a Magical Girl took down wraiths with electric bolas. Now if you'll excuse me, I got work to do... as do you.
She jotted notes on a paper while she watched the screen. Ramsey slumped her shoulders and sighed. Come on Selma, there's plenty of 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 around the girl with the bolas swiveled a little. Sorry, I know I'm being pretty lame right now. I'm sure we'll be good friends in time, Sloan. Our past differences don't mean diddly up here, I know I know. But I am busy right now.
The girl on the screen hurled her bolas. They wrapped around the neck of a wraith and crushed its static skull between two cobalt spheres. The wraith burst into cubes, which the girl scrambled to collect. She glanced over both shoulders as she picked each cube out of the ground. Around her shanty houses leaned and trembled. It looked like a Brazilian favela.
What are you watching? said Sloan. She tried to sound sincere, not so hard because she kinda was.
Didn't Ereshkigal tell you? said Ramsey. She shoulda said what we do during the orientation tour.
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 snuff 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 can speak literally all languages. Like, how do they decide which to use?
Ramsey's explanation 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 on Madoka's queue so she knows where and when to go to take 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 live girl you watch—gets taken. But that hasn't happened yet for me, so I've only seen her the one time.
Sloan wondered if she could telepathically lower her voice at least so all the girls around couldn't key into their conversation but gave up and went ahead with her question. And when you saw her, did she look... What did she look like?
Ramsey stopped in front of her office 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 when I saw her. I don't quite remember too well.
Oh, oh I see. Well, you'll be able to see her yourself eventually. Not only when you look after your charges but I hear from some of the older girls like Ereshkigal she sometimes comes around for visits. But 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 Ramsey wasn't going to give her the best answers to her questions. 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 right? She helped you out in Minneapolis. I only met her once down there but I've talked to her a coupla times up here and she seems pretty nice. She's down this way, come on!
And again they were off, Sloan displeased with Ramsey's tagalong attitude, she would kinda like to talk to Delaney one-on-one, or maybe with Erika. But whatever, Ramsey was harmless enough.
She thought she might feel some trepidation as they approached Delaney's cubicle but the previous post-death reunions loosened any anxiety about the situation. Plus she remembered the situation downstairs was a trifle more urgent than up here. When the plaque emblazoned 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 bedroom. She had the same white hair she had when she died. She rolled away from the desk and span 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 with how things operate.
She did not stand. Between her and Ramsey awkward and unneeded 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 really 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 no, 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 lascivious bosom.
Well, some things about her had certainly changed, but Sloan at least got the impression she was actually speaking to Delaney again and not some 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 be sure to come.
I'm not sure I know Erika Dufresne, said Ramsey.
You don't. She's on the next wing, Aisle 9229. She croaked a couple days before we did, 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 and left 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 resolve in life?
Sloan jammed her hands in her coat pockets and avoided Delaney's gaze. I thought you said you didn't feel the urge to—
I know. I'm just trying to give you that old Delaney Pollack you know and love! We don't even have corporeal bodies even more, and these ghost avatars or whatever 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 have only one seat apiece. Well, that didn't stop Sloan. She sat on the desk beside the computer screen and scraped her boots against the floor. 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 immediately tore away from the conversation and clacked some keys on the keyboard to zoom its view on the sleeping girl. 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 and do absolutely nothing, 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 this?
Delaney scratched her pen across the notebook. Unlike Mary Wright, she used a perfectly modern writing instrument. Was the pen a "concept," like the girls kept saying they themselves were? An illusion? Nothing here felt like anything, nothing here made any sound. I already told you I remember everything. You ought to also, which means 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 computer screen to her notebook to Sloan. She placed the pen lengthwise across the top of the notebook and clasped her hands together.
Should those words mean something to me?
They were... You... Sloan remembered she had a better way to prove this. She patted the pockets of her coat to discern where she had arranged all her collectibles after relocating them from her prior coat. She found the folded piece of paper in her lower left side inner pocket and handed it Delaney. It read the same as it had the morning after the archon died in Minneapolis:
WILLISTON — SLOAN REDFEARN (FARGO) / ERIKA DUFRESNE (WINNIPEG).
MINNEAPOLIS — CLAIR IBSEN.
MITAKIHARA — HOMURA AKEMI.
Delaney read the paper. She read it again. Her eyes scanned the words, 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's eyes scanned the paper again. She turned it around and upside-down and scrutinized it close to her face with red eyes—Clair's eyes.
It's my handwriting, but. How did you even bring this here? This is a real object.
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.
She sidled aside to allow entry. 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 very many at that. Death did wonders for her acne. A clear face took the childish edge off her appearance and 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 tight 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 conversations like this. Existential ramblings on emotion and memory and the conceptualized afterlife. She guessed concepts had little else to do but contemplate their existence and philosophize, and maybe in a different circumstance a bare heart-to-heart with Erika might drop into Sloan's wheelhouse but she had to forget this safe and pleasant place and remember the world beneath. Something had happened to Mami. Sayaka fought Homura. Sloan had never met Madoka but she was probably a nice person too. Omaha existed.
Close the door, Erika. I have something to show you all.
Erika stood still, quizzical, and eventually Ramsey had to twist 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 have to make the offices so claustrophobic? You'd think every girl would get her own pasture or something. Sloan maneuvered best she could to the middle of the office, her three companions triangulated around her. She slipped a hand into her coat and rummaged through the random junk. When her hand emerged, it held her Soul Gem.
The reaction from her companions was instantaneous. Ramsey and Erika in unison: That's—
Then Delaney: Her Soul Gem.
It cannot be, said Erika. Our Soul Gems must 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.
Uh, said Ramsey.
What to explain first? Homura Akemi, doll Madoka, the situation in Mitakihara? Sloan took a deep breath even though no air existed in this realm. 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 had closed in on her, 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 are seeing 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 human flesh?
The philosophical quandary never reached resolution. Delaney lifted her head and brushed aside the thin strands of white hair 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 have 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 clanged her fingers against the keyboard. A variety of menus and windows cropped 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 from the sleeping Italian girl 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? ventured 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 (HOMURA AKEMI) 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 YEARS | 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 stared at the screen and 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 these things, 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. Like the Greeks believed. 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 peer directly into 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 her 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 we need to 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 own memory. Do you think a piece of paper and a single oddity in the system will convince Ereshkigal? The only thing she will 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 wait for her to go on another orientation tour, said Sloan. We can sneak through her office 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, why were they even a thing Sloan ever in her life needed to think about? She wanted to stop scrambling for contingencies and have them 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. Everything Sloan said had some arbitrary rule to diddle her. When down below something had happened to Mami, Homura and Sayaka were fighting, Kyoko and Nagisa already dead. She wanted out of this damn white office and 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 right after.
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. I can distract her while you guys get through the portal. I know I can!
Sloan looked from Delaney to Erika and tallied mental bets on which would be first to declare the plan infeasible. For a long time neither said anything. Long enough that Sloan considered venturing an affirmation to Ramsey's idea.
But Delaney did eventually speak. If Madoka is truly in danger, I'd feel more secure with a stronger plan.
Do you have one? said Ramsey.
No.
Then it's settled, we do it. We can't wait forever! Ramsey reached for the door's handle.
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 herself to protect us. If we return to the physical plane, we suffer risk of permanent death.
Sayaka mentioned the same thing. A flicker of pause 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. Either she reversed the destruction or she drilled herself so far into the ground to make her own 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 defense and protection of Madoka Kaname. Delaney finally stood from her chair and tucked it beneath her desk. Death in her name is but 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 aisles. The girls who ran back and forth with trolleys and files maybe heard, if not the whole thing, snippets of their conversation, enough to be alarmed at least. But none reacted, none did anything but continue on their business. They must be used to tuning out extraneous conversation from their perfectly clear minds. God this was a weird fucking place. It got weirder the more Sloan mulled it over, the more she considered that nothing she saw had any physicality to it. Spirits and illusion. Mary Wright could use a quill and Delaney a pen because neither existed. Like Neo in The Matrix. Bending spoons.
If Sloan used her power to perceive through this hollow shroud, what would she discover behind it? She decided not to try.
Nice coat by the way, love. Delaney tilted her head and winked. 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.
The conversation could have died there, but 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 three companions responded immediately. Ramsey, in the lead, rubbed her throat 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 during their conversation in Omaha's void. Once again Sloan got that uncanny feeling she had unraveled merely a tiny corner of an overarching tapestry, that events beyond her comprehension swirled around and propelled her one way or another. Silly girls talked about fate, predestination—as though a deity had 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, as paths set in motion by the structures that held up this world, cells of a jail into which mortals were born and had no chance to escape. Death, despair, failure.
Again that hesitation: She had already killed Clair. She had already killed the Minneapolis girls and Erika and Delaney. She had already killed Kyoko and Nagisa and Mami. Why was she leading Erika and Delaney once more into the breach to die again?
We're here, said Ramsey. They reached the end of the infinite office complex. Ereshkigal stood at the entrance with a new group of neophytes. She enacted puffstool elocution in ancient Mesopotamian and the girls bobbed heads in agreement. Sloan sidled behind Delaney as the tour group forged past them into the offices, but Ereshkigal's absorption in her own words was total enough to render surreptitiousness superfluous.
A plain white door hovered in the plain white wall. Ramsey inched toward it, stood on tiptoe to peer inside even though absolutely nothing was visible.
What's your plan, said Sloan.
Delaney gave Ramsey a small shoulder rub. Perhaps it won't be so hard. Normally girls here don't ever want to leave—the serene peace of the afterlife far outstrips the misery that forms their last memories of life. But we shouldn't be lax, we likely only have one chance.
Trust me. Ramsey balled her fists and donned 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's grasp and ventured inside the room. The moment she crossed the threshold she vanished, absorbed entirely by the light. Sloan leaned close to the door to better perceive something beyond it, but Erika yanked her back with a tug and indicated her to act casual with a sharp motion.
Nothing happened. They stood in group. Girls flitted between the offices. The static of their conversations fizzled in Sloan's inner ear.
Um, Miss Ereshkigal? said Ramsey's voice.
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, distant. As though demanding the elucidation of a word poorly heard.
Yes. Pause. Love. Pause. I'm well aware that, as concepts, we are incapable of feeling erotic love or the physical pleasures that come from it. I want to instead speak about... platonic love.
Platonic love. The same disinterest.
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.
But Sloan had no Plan B. Instead she listened to Ereshkigal:
And what, pray tell, pertaining to platonic love do you wish to speak? Shall we discuss platonic love as defined by the philosopher Plato himself? In which a beautiful being inspires another being 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 mandated absences. As such, I have observed the love between humans in all its forms across all the centuries of humankind. From those observations I have written several treatises on elements of 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 as time as any.
She grabbed Sloan's wrist and led the way through the door, Erika at Sloan's back. As they stepped through the blindingly white threshold, Ereshkigal droned:
In truth, I have yet to notice love in the way Plato describes it among mere humans. I notice it frequently among our own types, as their love toward Madoka and the beautiful and wondrous miracles she creates has often ameliorated the vulgar dispositions of sour or depraved girls. Her beauty does indeed enlighten and edify, and to love her in a non-platonic way would be sacrilege.
The interior of Ereshkigal's office had altered since Sloan last visited it, unless the first room Sloan entered after coming to this astral plane wasn't her office but some kind of reception area. The dimensions had expanded and rows upon rows of wooden shelves provided structure to the otherwise-nebulous whiteness. At the fore of the office, behind a lima bean desk with a three-screened computer, Ereshkigal sat. She leaned over the desk on her elbows while Ramsey sat opposite her and nodded along to her words. She did not glance in their direction as they entered, and Delaney soon pulled her behind a row of shelves.
Among humans I instead have witnessed four kinds of love. The first love is erotic love and involves base sexual pleasures. It is not a type of love worth dignifying with a nineteen-thousand word dissertation, although in my diligence I have indeed written a nineteen-thousand word essay on the subject. However given the way you conducted your life on Earth, Chelsea, I feel you are no stranger to this type of love and thus a longwinded explanation will be unnecessary.
Holy shit could this really be working? They were already out of direct sight, the three of them ducking behind the shelves. It oughtta be easy street from here—Well, no, of course not. Not far down the aisle, atop a small librarian stepladder, a second Ereshkigal tapped her finger along the spines of the tomes on the top shelf. She found one she liked and extricated it before she climbed down the stepladder with graceful swan steps made more impressive by her unending gown. Sloan and Delaney and Erika froze against the shelves as she cracked the book open and walked past them, her nose buried within the pages.
The second kind of love is familial love. The love between those related by blood. Like erotic love it is a base form of love, rooted in the physicality of DNA, meaningless outside shared genetic dispositions and humors. However on an instinctual level this love can be the most powerful love of all, as when a mother loves her daughter enough to sacrifice her life. Although you never knew motherhood, I bore five children prior to my death at the age of nineteen. Three of those children failed to survive past early infancy, and even their deaths wracked my heart with agony and demanded of me immense fortitude. 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 Madoka Kaname 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 brief 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 pausing at every junction of aisles to check in case more Ereshkigals drifted around. Like the offices, the aisles of shelves 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 the true definition of platonic love that mortal humans harbor. 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 and it has nothing to do with spiritualism. It is the love that causes two people unrelated by blood to sacrifice their lives for one another. It is the love that cannot be rent by petty squabbles and strife. It is the love that our Goddess, our Madoka Kaname somehow managed to hold 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 the capabilities of any normal human, any normal being. Transcends the love of you or I, 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. Ahead down the aisle two Ereshkigals worked, back to back as they perused opposite shelves. With Erika taking the lead, 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 had her first conversation with Omaha as they walked hand-in-hand 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 a lot of time 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 bright light that coated the wood-colored shelves in whiteness. They bore toward the light at a full sprint.
It's quite alright, Chelsea. You are still new, your integration into the cohesive whole remains incomplete. Asking these questions and receiving answers from the proper authorities is key to your development as a secretary of the Law of the Cycles. 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 had, perhaps, no 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 act of 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 or you or any girl here, could replace her, could fulfill her true duty toward humanity.
I see, said Ramsey.
The shelves melted away into the white. All became white, ahead and behind, Delaney and Erika and Sloan herself, arms and legs vanished into the aether. Ahead the whiteness focused, intensified, stretched like a maw.
That's it, said Delaney. That's 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, with the ribbons and gifts and unreal colors. With 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. She did not even know if her eyes were open or shut.
But 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.
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 with enough intensity to encroach Sloan's own form, blurring her lines and angles, 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 from her? She swore her arms clung to it the entire time. She touched her shoulder; her wounds had disappeared. 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 with a half-muddy amber glaze, 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. It babbled for a few seconds and ended with an interrogative.
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? My apologies, 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 in what became clear was a wall nearby. Sloan blinked; form and line oozed out the whiteness, things became clear at least as shapes, empty spaces. Structure. She rose and leaned toward the door to try and see through it, but only another white area awaited her. Nonetheless she did as bid and stepped through.
The moment she passed the threshold the whiteness of the space disappeared, replaced by a sterile but nonetheless existent lobby replete with desk and computer. A tropical plant served a spot of color, potted in the corner opposite the desk. A few empty chairs lined a wall.
In the center of the room stood a resplendent figure, draped in a low-cut white dress that flowed into the floor and had no distinct end. Her bronzed skin glowed in the otherwise opaque space, and her hair, so black as to be almost violet, formed a refreshing darkness to which Sloan's eyes naturally gravitated. Every detail of her presentation and body exuded perfection, from her finely-filed nails and her emerald eyes and her full lips and her full other stuff. The dress reminded Sloan of the pink-haired doll. The woman 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 head and stewed in her own ugliness.
I sense you are not at ease, said the beautiful lady. Again I apologize, typically we have better foreknowledge of new arrivals and deliver a more personalized transition experience. Would you prefer if I presented myself like this instead?
She snapped her fingers. Instantly her wardrobe changed into a conservative librarian look, with horn-rimmed glasses and her hair tied in a bun. She was still stupid hot.
Look, can you tell me where I am. How do I get back where I was?
We will discuss all these 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 in her gut. Her last memory of clinging to the doll as it opened a portal in spacetime. Had it taken her to... the afterlife?
She burst out laughing at the absurdity. Heaven! This was heaven, this was her first angel—Ereshkigal the sexy librarian! Her laughter might have gone on for awhile 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 with a slight tilt of her head. You were on the brink of despair, and she came to save you from a disastrous fate. She swallowed your pain and agony 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 she remembered. Maybe the doll did it when she whited out. But Sloan still had her Soul Gem, she had checked first thing.
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 would do any favors here. What would they do, boot her back to Mitakihara? She decided to roll with the flow for the time being and see what happened.
Uh, no. I was asking, because, uh. Because what about girls who have their gems shattered in battle? They come here too?
Ereshkigal's entire upper body rearranged its position, her head lowering with crestfallen expression, her smooth unblemished arms moving with operatic flourish to place one hand over her heart and another upturned in the air beside her. Unfortunately, such is not the case. Girls slain in battle will never know the salvation afforded to us by Madoka Kaname. For them, 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 owe Magical Girldom the duty of 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 in 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 for them?
Ah yes. Ereshkigal adjusted her pose again, like a mannequin in a store, to a more 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. Death became even shittier when you realized you fucked them out of eternal paradise in the afterlife. Was that really the arbitrary distinction between girls who went to heaven and those who just died? 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 apologize, Sloan. I see this explanation affected you negatively. Had I more tact, I would have refrained from telling you until after you had grown more comfortable in your newfound conceptual form. In this state, your bodily emotions and feelings will eventually ebb away and leave you at constant equilibrium, but it is not uncommon for those who first arrive to cling to their 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—rendered her incapable of salvation at Madoka Kaname's hands. Your part in her death did not change her ultimate 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 me. It is not that your emotions depart you entirely, but your new state allows you to master them and accept them. You will no longer be a slave to the whims of your hormones, as in technical terms you no longer control a physical body and thus have no hormones altogether. Give it time; you'll soon see what I mean.
This was what Sayaka and Nagisa became. Angels in heaven, before Homura Akemi pulled them back to earth and returned them to physical form. Did they have to sit in this room and listen to this stuffy bitch prattle about this shit too?
So where's Mami.
Mami Tomoe? Truthfully, I am uncertain. 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 of arms. Her librarian glasses twinkled.
What happens if she never arrives?
I'll have someone check up on Miss Tomoe and determine what happened to her. Glitches in the system must be eradicated, after all. However, I implore you not to worry about it. What happens happens—such is the will of fate. Soon you shall understand.
Oh god, when people start rambling about fate that's when you know you're dicked. Sloan suspected Mami was dead. She saw the gem explode. But it didn't explain what happened after, the weird contortions to the geography or the strange creature who appeared. 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 she could muster. 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 it. Light was Sloan's magical weapon of choice and she still found it too damn bright. 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 in Ereshkigal's mellifluous voice so smooth and silky Sloan missed the drift until she followed her into the next room and saw the rows upon rows of office cubicles that stretched down an infinite corridor. Sloan blinked to make sure she saw them right. Cubicles, like corporate office cubicles, adorned with vibrant colors that spanned the spectrum of the rainbow, some blue some green some red some orange some yellow some purple. Some of the cubicles had designs, some had pictures of starry nights or pastoral meadows. The doors opened and shut and girls buzzed between them, noses buried in files and forms, some in pairs that chatted amicably with facial expressions rather than mouths. Some trundled gurneys stacked with books, some ran with clipboards tucked under arms. One girl zipped past on a skateboard. All of them wore Magical Girl uniforms, fancy capes and gloves and boots—some uniforms even weirder—which only magnified the strangeness of the scene.
Sloan turned to ask Ereshkigal what the fuck was this only to find she now stood among a gaggle of girls, each with eyes riveted on the cubicles. They too wore uniforms and comprised a wide range of races and ethnicities. Some exchanged glances and asked questions in polyglot mental languages, a few Sloan at least guessed as European or Asian but some entirely incomprehensible. Each girl nodded and responded despite the fact that no two used the same tongue. Sloan counted between twenty to thirty in a group around her.
Uh, hello? said Sloan. Do any of you speak English?
The girl standing next to Sloan, who wore a floral kimono, tore her eyes from the cubicle scene and responded in not English. Sloan smiled and nodded like she understood. These were the girls who had succumbed to the Law of the Cycles. Their gems got muddy and the pink-haired doll warped them here. The ones at the cubicles had been here awhile, those in the group around Sloan were "new employees." Ready for the "onboarding process."
Sayaka spoke English—she said languages meant little to concepts. Okay, cool, explained why these chicks could communicate how they did. 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 in Sloan's group quit their chatter and diverted all attention toward her as she cleared her throat and gestured emphatically at the cubicles behind her. She began to speak, 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. Sloan tried to keep her head low because she was taller than most of the girls here. 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. Her longwinded speeches grew more agonizing without the ability to comprehend her words, it sounded like ceaseless babble. She gestured at the cubicles, at the girls with files who flitted between them. Sometimes she gestured at nothing or brushed back her luscious 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.
After a solid five minutes of Ereshkigal's undying voice, she swept the flowing folds of her gown behind her and walked toward the closest aisle of cubicles. The group of new employees followed en masse, the one behind Sloan giving her a slight nudge because she apparently missed the cue for the guided tour of Dilbert Heaven to begin. Sloan popped the collar of her coat to up her inconspicuousness as she clomped in line with the others, but nobody paid her the least attention anyway. What the hell could Ereshkigal take so long to blab about. Yes, they're cubicles. How fascinating. Although Sloan did wonder what kind of work girls who existed as conceptual entities even did. The ones who ran between the cubicles clutched ledgers and documents. Did they do Madoka's taxes or what?
She slowed her pace. Gradually she worked her way to the back of the new employee group, allowing those more invested in Ereshkigal's monologue to surpass her in line. She observed the girls in the cubicles, but none even looked up from their stacks of paperwork as Ereshkigal and the new girls passed. Nobody paid Sloan the least attention. Her heart pounded in her chest as her mind formulated her plan.
They reached a junction at the end of the aisle, a crossroads that led to many more aisles of cubicles. While Ereshkigal and her tour group went down one aisle, Sloan shoved her hands in her pockets and slumped her shoulders and stepped into an entirely different aisle. 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 pocket, checked over her shoulder in case Ereshkigal glided after her to accuse her in Mesopotamian. But nobody came.
Each cubicle had a name on a plaque by the door. The names appeared to be in the native alphabet of the girl in question, so a lot had indecipherable characters, Cyrillic and Sanskrit and Hiragana and Hangul. Many were in Latin script but obviously not English—Scandinavian or Germanic or Italian or French. Sloan read the name on each plaque she passed until she reached one with an undeniably English name: Mary Wright. A painting of a pony emblazoned the ajar door to Mary Wright's cubicle. 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 very well 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 immortal conceptual spirits 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 and rifled through the papers within and removed a thick bound booklet titled OFFICES & EMPLOYEES. The S in both words looked like Fs.
Well, ye can borrow mine, I s'pose. Sorry for the wear, tis a trifle used. Check the back, it'll have the newest names.
She handed the directory to Sloan. It weighed nothing despite its thickness. Sloan opened to a random page, encountered a long list of names in minuscule font. After each name came a "Date of Employment" and an office aisle and number. The names were arranged chronologically, the oldest girls first, the newest last. She turned to the last page to see if her own name had joined the list and did not see it. However, the final page was not static; new names appeared at the end of the list as if by magic, each with December 25, 2013 as the date.
Sloan had seen 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 23. Even then, a ton of girls bit the dust that day. It took awhile until her finger found 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. Ain't it 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 stood and brushed past Sloan into the aisle. She pointed toward a junction of multiple other aisles. 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 an open 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 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? As a floorplan blueprint? For some reason Sloan imagined interlocking hexagons, although it could be anything. She kept her eyes open lest she bump into Ereshkigal and the tour group, but to house Magical Girls since the dawn of Magical Girls this place had to be huge enough to make that unlikely. Mostly she passed more girls with papers and trolleys and in small groups that chatted among themselves, garbed in a colorful array of costumes. A few nodded hello to Sloan as she passed, Sloan tried to smile and nod back.
Truthfully, it took a lot of effort not to break out in sprint. The realization that she could meet Delaney here, Delaney and Erika too, and maybe some others, built in intensity with each identical fork she reached. Her mind reeled. This was heaven, this was the afterlife. It was too amazing to think that such a place even existed for her to be that miffed it manifested as a gigantic corporate honeycomb. Sloan had met plenty of girls, usually rookies, who thought the Law of the Cycles led to some kind of heaven. But the grizzled vets puffed cigarettes and dismissed their theories as jejune fantasy. This was real, though, unless Sloan fell under the spell of a lucid illusion. She ought to keep that a possibility considering the strange circumstances that surrounded her appearance here. 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 skid to a stop. She looked over her shoulder at the girl who hailed her. Even without her bleached blonde 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. Ramsey's weirdly incorporeal embrace would not have registered on Sloan's sensory matrix if not for the visual cues. No warmth, no feeling. Like being hugged by a ghost.
It lasted only a short time before Ramsey released her and stepped away. Sorry, I forgot we don't feel anything up here. Ha! She scratched the back of her head with a nervous smile. And I guess I shouldn't be celebrating your death anyway, but I'm really glad you made it here! I've made 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 go with Ramsey for nomenclature, not a difficult mental note to make because not having to learn a new name always superseded having to learn one.
The moment of disappointment vanished from Ramsey's face, replaced by new brightness as she swiveled on a heel and turned back the way she came, grabbing the cuff of Sloan's sleeve to lead her. Oh, you have to talk to Selma too, she's just down the hall.
Sloan shuffled her feet, although she 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 during our lives, 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—bah whatever, go with the names you know—whom Sloan met once, maybe twice (probably once). All she remembered about her was that Delaney stabbed her throat out with the magic knife, so she felt none too swell about this dubious reunion. Indeed, when Woodbury looked up from her paperwork, the smile on her face faded.
Selma, Selma, look who I brought. It's Sloan!
Woodbury did nothing for a moment but eventually nodded. Oh, yeah. Hi Sloan! So you're here now too, huh?
I guess. No reason to bumble into a more precise explanation.
Of course. Death comes for us all. Woodbury returned to her paperwork. She tapped a keyboard and a screen blipped to life. On it a Magical Girl took down wraiths with electric bolas. Now if you'll excuse me, I got work to do... as do you.
She jotted notes on a paper while she watched the screen. Ramsey slumped her shoulders and sighed. Come on Selma, there's plenty of 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 around the girl with the bolas swiveled a little. Sorry, I know I'm being pretty lame right now. I'm sure we'll be good friends in time, Sloan. Our past differences don't mean diddly up here, I know I know. But I am busy right now.
The girl on the screen hurled her bolas. They wrapped around the neck of a wraith and crushed its static skull between two cobalt spheres. The wraith burst into cubes, which the girl scrambled to collect. She glanced over both shoulders as she picked each cube out of the ground. Around her shanty houses leaned and trembled. It looked like a Brazilian favela.
What are you watching? said Sloan. She tried to sound sincere, not so hard because she kinda was.
Didn't Ereshkigal tell you? said Ramsey. She shoulda said what we do during the orientation tour.
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 snuff 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 can speak literally all languages. Like, how do they decide which to use?
Ramsey's explanation 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 on Madoka's queue so she knows where and when to go to take 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 live girl you watch—gets taken. But that hasn't happened yet for me, so I've only seen her the one time.
Sloan wondered if she could telepathically lower her voice at least so all the girls around couldn't key into their conversation but gave up and went ahead with her question. And when you saw her, did she look... What did she look like?
Ramsey stopped in front of her office 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 when I saw her. I don't quite remember too well.
Oh, oh I see. Well, you'll be able to see her yourself eventually. Not only when you look after your charges but I hear from some of the older girls like Ereshkigal she sometimes comes around for visits. But 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 Ramsey wasn't going to give her the best answers to her questions. 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 right? She helped you out in Minneapolis. I only met her once down there but I've talked to her a coupla times up here and she seems pretty nice. She's down this way, come on!
And again they were off, Sloan displeased with Ramsey's tagalong attitude, she would kinda like to talk to Delaney one-on-one, or maybe with Erika. But whatever, Ramsey was harmless enough.
She thought she might feel some trepidation as they approached Delaney's cubicle but the previous post-death reunions loosened any anxiety about the situation. Plus she remembered the situation downstairs was a trifle more urgent than up here. When the plaque emblazoned 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 bedroom. She had the same white hair she had when she died. She rolled away from the desk and span 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 with how things operate.
She did not stand. Between her and Ramsey awkward and unneeded 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 really 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 no, 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 lascivious bosom.
Well, some things about her had certainly changed, but Sloan at least got the impression she was actually speaking to Delaney again and not some 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 be sure to come.
I'm not sure I know Erika Dufresne, said Ramsey.
You don't. She's on the next wing, Aisle 9229. She croaked a couple days before we did, 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 and left 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 resolve in life?
Sloan jammed her hands in her coat pockets and avoided Delaney's gaze. I thought you said you didn't feel the urge to—
I know. I'm just trying to give you that old Delaney Pollack you know and love! We don't even have corporeal bodies even more, and these ghost avatars or whatever 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 have only one seat apiece. Well, that didn't stop Sloan. She sat on the desk beside the computer screen and scraped her boots against the floor. 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 immediately tore away from the conversation and clacked some keys on the keyboard to zoom its view on the sleeping girl. 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 and do absolutely nothing, 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 this?
Delaney scratched her pen across the notebook. Unlike Mary Wright, she used a perfectly modern writing instrument. Was the pen a "concept," like the girls kept saying they themselves were? An illusion? Nothing here felt like anything, nothing here made any sound. I already told you I remember everything. You ought to also, which means 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 computer screen to her notebook to Sloan. She placed the pen lengthwise across the top of the notebook and clasped her hands together.
Should those words mean something to me?
They were... You... Sloan remembered she had a better way to prove this. She patted the pockets of her coat to discern where she had arranged all her collectibles after relocating them from her prior coat. She found the folded piece of paper in her lower left side inner pocket and handed it Delaney. It read the same as it had the morning after the archon died in Minneapolis:
WILLISTON — SLOAN REDFEARN (FARGO) / ERIKA DUFRESNE (WINNIPEG).
MINNEAPOLIS — CLAIR IBSEN.
MITAKIHARA — HOMURA AKEMI.
Delaney read the paper. She read it again. Her eyes scanned the words, 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's eyes scanned the paper again. She turned it around and upside-down and scrutinized it close to her face with red eyes—Clair's eyes.
It's my handwriting, but. How did you even bring this here? This is a real object.
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.
She sidled aside to allow entry. 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 very many at that. Death did wonders for her acne. A clear face took the childish edge off her appearance and 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 tight 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 conversations like this. Existential ramblings on emotion and memory and the conceptualized afterlife. She guessed concepts had little else to do but contemplate their existence and philosophize, and maybe in a different circumstance a bare heart-to-heart with Erika might drop into Sloan's wheelhouse but she had to forget this safe and pleasant place and remember the world beneath. Something had happened to Mami. Sayaka fought Homura. Sloan had never met Madoka but she was probably a nice person too. Omaha existed.
Close the door, Erika. I have something to show you all.
Erika stood still, quizzical, and eventually Ramsey had to twist 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 have to make the offices so claustrophobic? You'd think every girl would get her own pasture or something. Sloan maneuvered best she could to the middle of the office, her three companions triangulated around her. She slipped a hand into her coat and rummaged through the random junk. When her hand emerged, it held her Soul Gem.
The reaction from her companions was instantaneous. Ramsey and Erika in unison: That's—
Then Delaney: Her Soul Gem.
It cannot be, said Erika. Our Soul Gems must 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.
Uh, said Ramsey.
What to explain first? Homura Akemi, doll Madoka, the situation in Mitakihara? Sloan took a deep breath even though no air existed in this realm. 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 had closed in on her, 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 are seeing 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 human flesh?
The philosophical quandary never reached resolution. Delaney lifted her head and brushed aside the thin strands of white hair 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 have 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 clanged her fingers against the keyboard. A variety of menus and windows cropped 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 from the sleeping Italian girl 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? ventured 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 (HOMURA AKEMI) 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 YEARS | 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 stared at the screen and 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 these things, 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. Like the Greeks believed. 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 peer directly into 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 her 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 we need to 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 own memory. Do you think a piece of paper and a single oddity in the system will convince Ereshkigal? The only thing she will 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 wait for her to go on another orientation tour, said Sloan. We can sneak through her office 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, why were they even a thing Sloan ever in her life needed to think about? She wanted to stop scrambling for contingencies and have them 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. Everything Sloan said had some arbitrary rule to diddle her. When down below something had happened to Mami, Homura and Sayaka were fighting, Kyoko and Nagisa already dead. She wanted out of this damn white office and 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 right after.
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. I can distract her while you guys get through the portal. I know I can!
Sloan looked from Delaney to Erika and tallied mental bets on which would be first to declare the plan infeasible. For a long time neither said anything. Long enough that Sloan considered venturing an affirmation to Ramsey's idea.
But Delaney did eventually speak. If Madoka is truly in danger, I'd feel more secure with a stronger plan.
Do you have one? said Ramsey.
No.
Then it's settled, we do it. We can't wait forever! Ramsey reached for the door's handle.
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 herself to protect us. If we return to the physical plane, we suffer risk of permanent death.
Sayaka mentioned the same thing. A flicker of pause 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. Either she reversed the destruction or she drilled herself so far into the ground to make her own 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 defense and protection of Madoka Kaname. Delaney finally stood from her chair and tucked it beneath her desk. Death in her name is but 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 aisles. The girls who ran back and forth with trolleys and files maybe heard, if not the whole thing, snippets of their conversation, enough to be alarmed at least. But none reacted, none did anything but continue on their business. They must be used to tuning out extraneous conversation from their perfectly clear minds. God this was a weird fucking place. It got weirder the more Sloan mulled it over, the more she considered that nothing she saw had any physicality to it. Spirits and illusion. Mary Wright could use a quill and Delaney a pen because neither existed. Like Neo in The Matrix. Bending spoons.
If Sloan used her power to perceive through this hollow shroud, what would she discover behind it? She decided not to try.
Nice coat by the way, love. Delaney tilted her head and winked. 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.
The conversation could have died there, but 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 three companions responded immediately. Ramsey, in the lead, rubbed her throat 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 during their conversation in Omaha's void. Once again Sloan got that uncanny feeling she had unraveled merely a tiny corner of an overarching tapestry, that events beyond her comprehension swirled around and propelled her one way or another. Silly girls talked about fate, predestination—as though a deity had 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, as paths set in motion by the structures that held up this world, cells of a jail into which mortals were born and had no chance to escape. Death, despair, failure.
Again that hesitation: She had already killed Clair. She had already killed the Minneapolis girls and Erika and Delaney. She had already killed Kyoko and Nagisa and Mami. Why was she leading Erika and Delaney once more into the breach to die again?
We're here, said Ramsey. They reached the end of the infinite office complex. Ereshkigal stood at the entrance with a new group of neophytes. She enacted puffstool elocution in ancient Mesopotamian and the girls bobbed heads in agreement. Sloan sidled behind Delaney as the tour group forged past them into the offices, but Ereshkigal's absorption in her own words was total enough to render surreptitiousness superfluous.
A plain white door hovered in the plain white wall. Ramsey inched toward it, stood on tiptoe to peer inside even though absolutely nothing was visible.
What's your plan, said Sloan.
Delaney gave Ramsey a small shoulder rub. Perhaps it won't be so hard. Normally girls here don't ever want to leave—the serene peace of the afterlife far outstrips the misery that forms their last memories of life. But we shouldn't be lax, we likely only have one chance.
Trust me. Ramsey balled her fists and donned 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's grasp and ventured inside the room. The moment she crossed the threshold she vanished, absorbed entirely by the light. Sloan leaned close to the door to better perceive something beyond it, but Erika yanked her back with a tug and indicated her to act casual with a sharp motion.
Nothing happened. They stood in group. Girls flitted between the offices. The static of their conversations fizzled in Sloan's inner ear.
Um, Miss Ereshkigal? said Ramsey's voice.
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, distant. As though demanding the elucidation of a word poorly heard.
Yes. Pause. Love. Pause. I'm well aware that, as concepts, we are incapable of feeling erotic love or the physical pleasures that come from it. I want to instead speak about... platonic love.
Platonic love. The same disinterest.
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.
But Sloan had no Plan B. Instead she listened to Ereshkigal:
And what, pray tell, pertaining to platonic love do you wish to speak? Shall we discuss platonic love as defined by the philosopher Plato himself? In which a beautiful being inspires another being 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 mandated absences. As such, I have observed the love between humans in all its forms across all the centuries of humankind. From those observations I have written several treatises on elements of 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 as time as any.
She grabbed Sloan's wrist and led the way through the door, Erika at Sloan's back. As they stepped through the blindingly white threshold, Ereshkigal droned:
In truth, I have yet to notice love in the way Plato describes it among mere humans. I notice it frequently among our own types, as their love toward Madoka and the beautiful and wondrous miracles she creates has often ameliorated the vulgar dispositions of sour or depraved girls. Her beauty does indeed enlighten and edify, and to love her in a non-platonic way would be sacrilege.
The interior of Ereshkigal's office had altered since Sloan last visited it, unless the first room Sloan entered after coming to this astral plane wasn't her office but some kind of reception area. The dimensions had expanded and rows upon rows of wooden shelves provided structure to the otherwise-nebulous whiteness. At the fore of the office, behind a lima bean desk with a three-screened computer, Ereshkigal sat. She leaned over the desk on her elbows while Ramsey sat opposite her and nodded along to her words. She did not glance in their direction as they entered, and Delaney soon pulled her behind a row of shelves.
Among humans I instead have witnessed four kinds of love. The first love is erotic love and involves base sexual pleasures. It is not a type of love worth dignifying with a nineteen-thousand word dissertation, although in my diligence I have indeed written a nineteen-thousand word essay on the subject. However given the way you conducted your life on Earth, Chelsea, I feel you are no stranger to this type of love and thus a longwinded explanation will be unnecessary.
Holy shit could this really be working? They were already out of direct sight, the three of them ducking behind the shelves. It oughtta be easy street from here—Well, no, of course not. Not far down the aisle, atop a small librarian stepladder, a second Ereshkigal tapped her finger along the spines of the tomes on the top shelf. She found one she liked and extricated it before she climbed down the stepladder with graceful swan steps made more impressive by her unending gown. Sloan and Delaney and Erika froze against the shelves as she cracked the book open and walked past them, her nose buried within the pages.
The second kind of love is familial love. The love between those related by blood. Like erotic love it is a base form of love, rooted in the physicality of DNA, meaningless outside shared genetic dispositions and humors. However on an instinctual level this love can be the most powerful love of all, as when a mother loves her daughter enough to sacrifice her life. Although you never knew motherhood, I bore five children prior to my death at the age of nineteen. Three of those children failed to survive past early infancy, and even their deaths wracked my heart with agony and demanded of me immense fortitude. 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 Madoka Kaname 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 brief 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 pausing at every junction of aisles to check in case more Ereshkigals drifted around. Like the offices, the aisles of shelves 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 the true definition of platonic love that mortal humans harbor. 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 and it has nothing to do with spiritualism. It is the love that causes two people unrelated by blood to sacrifice their lives for one another. It is the love that cannot be rent by petty squabbles and strife. It is the love that our Goddess, our Madoka Kaname somehow managed to hold 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 the capabilities of any normal human, any normal being. Transcends the love of you or I, 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. Ahead down the aisle two Ereshkigals worked, back to back as they perused opposite shelves. With Erika taking the lead, 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 had her first conversation with Omaha as they walked hand-in-hand 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 a lot of time 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 bright light that coated the wood-colored shelves in whiteness. They bore toward the light at a full sprint.
It's quite alright, Chelsea. You are still new, your integration into the cohesive whole remains incomplete. Asking these questions and receiving answers from the proper authorities is key to your development as a secretary of the Law of the Cycles. 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 had, perhaps, no 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 act of 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 or you or any girl here, could replace her, could fulfill her true duty toward humanity.
I see, said Ramsey.
The shelves melted away into the white. All became white, ahead and behind, Delaney and Erika and Sloan herself, arms and legs vanished into the aether. Ahead the whiteness focused, intensified, stretched like a maw.
That's it, said Delaney. That's 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, with the ribbons and gifts and unreal colors. With 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. She did not even know if her eyes were open or shut.
But 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.