Work Text:
Somewhere along the line, the inhabitants of what would eventually become Homura's apartment rebelled against the building's classical exterior in favor of minimalist modernism taken to its absolute extremes. The end result is rather like how Homura thinks of herself, with a sharp disjunct between the carefully cultivated and elegant outer facade and the boring--all right, plain--interior hidden inside.
Homura crosses her arms and surveys the barren living room with annoyance. A small table impossible to remove is bolted to the floor in a sunken circle at the center, surrounded by a series of brightly colored benches whose lack of backs or armrests make it impossible to sit comfortably in any position despite the padded cushions. The atmosphere is all wrong, and it simply won't do, not for what she has in mind.
But rather than take time she doesn't have to redecorate--especially given she'll likely abandon the place in a few weeks when Walpurgisnacht destroys the city yet again--she's arrived at a much simpler solution. She removes the holographic projector pilfered from a high-end electronics store from her shield and plugs it into the wall, navigating the controls as it connects to the wifi network, and observes the results.
Click. The peeling paint on the walls vanishes beneath a stream of pure white light, now a blank slate extending into infinity.
Click. The next layer of gears and cogs appears centered above the ring of seating, the shadow of a pendulum swinging back and forth behind them with a distinctive tick as a reminder that every moment counts. She can't afford complacency, even--especially--here.
Click. Rows of candlesticks and pillars appear as if by magic, the fake flames wavering in an imaginary wind.
Click. Click. Click. Now that she has her canvas, the pages and charts she's painstakingly assembled across too many timelines to count appear one by one, until the room is a visual extension of her own mind and all the tangled trajectories she seeks to unravel. Each image is encased its own gilded frame like a Renaissance painting, and each individual "paintings" can be shifted with the crook of a finger to glimpse the hidden patterns within their contents. Eighteenth-century woodcuts of a geared blob with a suspicious resemblance to Walpurgisnacht mingle with every mention of the witch in literature starting with Goethe's Faust, most of it in the original German. Juxtaposed among them are satellite maps of Mitakihara with the locations of the witch's manifestations across timelines, as well as Homura's own notes of weapons and trajectories she can bring to bear in the coming battle.
A successful hunter understands their prey intimately, and while Homura may know the Stage-Constructing Witch better than anyone in history, it still isn't enough--not yet, anyway. She must model the myriad possibilities, account for endless variables, list every factor that might sway the outcome, however slightly. Thus far, every attempt has failed to yield the desired results, but for all their inherent limitations, Homura's models of probable futures will be the key to her eventual success. Even randomness has its rules and she's determined to uncover its secrets no matter how long it takes.
Her task completed, Homura surveys her transformed surroundings with satisfaction. Now that the projector is up and running, everything is clean and clear, orderly and organized, the way the rest of the world ought to be and isn't. There's no need to look beyond the surface, to the tawdry truth beneath the holograms. Her life is grim and depressing enough as it; she deserves a small amount of beauty in her life, even if it's only an illusion.
But before she can congratulate herself on her success, the shadows on the wall shift and blur. Instead of German poetry or geographic coordinates, the rococo gold-rimmed frames now contain scenes from Homura's own life, as if the projector has hijacked her own memories and is broadcasting them across this vast canvas without her conscious assent or control.
Madoka at her desk at school, blushing as Ms. Saotome calls on her--Madoka on her knees, cradling a wounded Kyubey in her arms. Madoka, hugging Homura after the defeat of the School Representative Witch as Mami indulgently looked on--Madoka, sobbing in the train station besides their mentor's corpse after she nearly murdered Homura. Madoka writhing in pain in the wreckage after they'd faced down Walpurgisnacht together, her back arching as she screams and a new witch emerged from her tainted soul gem--Madoka, pleading for release as her gem continued to darken, until Homura aims her gun and fires--
No!
With a start, Homura jerks, and everything in the room is as it should be, exactly where she placed them earlier. According to the new clock display positioned discreetly in the corner, hours have passed since she began this redecorating project. She belatedly realizes she hasn't eaten or slept in days; under the circumstances, no wonder her concentration is slipping.
Whatever she saw just now must have been a trick of her mind, a momentary glitch not worthy of concern. Once she has a solid meal and a few hours of sleep under her belt, she can get back to work without her memories playing tricks on her like that. Now that she has the projector, she can carry it with her across timelines, and pickup where she left off after every reset, for as long as it takes to finally defeat Walpurgisnacht and save Madoka once and for all from the dreadful fate of becoming a witch.
The world outside Homura's apartment is a cruel, wretched place, but like the witches she fights, she can create a refuge for herself, a perfect world where she controls everything as she pursues the obsession that has consumed her. Unlike those poor lost souls, however, her efforts serve a higher purpose, the stepping stones upon which her quest ultimately depends. She will take the vision so carefully nurtured here and project it upon the world--and, like the Stage-Constructing Witch herself--shape reality itself into the ideal future that has thus far eluded her.
The irony does not escape her.