we wuz magical girls n SHIEEEEEET

The sun sluggishly began traversing its predestined orbit over Mitakihara

The hustle bustle of a school morning hummed around the Mitakihara Middle School. The Minister for Education himself would be proud by the perfectly prim and proper pupils present, prancing with a punctual pace.

Yet the façade was quietly disturbed not by the existence of obstinate troublemakers, but a lack of them. The blemish took form in the truants who departed their homes yet never arrived at school. The teachers, spearheaded by the headmaster, have long achieved an unspoken agreement that they won’t persecute these malevolent outlaws – as long as they stayed quiet and hidden from the public eye.

And thusly, Madoka Kaname never knew her zygotes from her dermic layers. She had no use for them, nor mathematics and physics. For Madoka had long found her calling for the rough-and-tumble life of a street rapper; she was Shakespeare reincarnated, a bard of rhymes so sick they would have to be put down if they were pets.

Loitering around the city day and night, she went by Pinky; a cleverly designed allusion to her hair, a pale pink reminiscent of salmon sashimi.

That particular day, she went to her favorite hangout spot: a 22-story tall half-built apartment abandoned due to the property bubble popping. It was s haven for hoodlums, thugs, and lowlifes of all kind, scratching over each other in the bottom of the barrel. They called their de facto home, ‘Da Home’.

The cream Mitakihara sweater was quickly stuffed inside her bag. Swapping places with it was a black hoodie with pink stripes and golden cinnamon zipper teeth; the sliding pulley was adorned with an opaque glass keychain resembling a stylized and smiling white cat head; the hood part itself was folded on itself, making it look neater and compacter on the outside despite the gloriously roomy headspace. Madoka spent two semesters worth of tuition on it. The snugly tight hoodie hugged her growing body just right, making her subtle curves more pronounced.

She felt like a top dog every time she wore it. Unconsciously, her posture straightened, her walk more confident.

In the morning, the neighborhood of Da Home was engulfed in a sleepy, almost meditative atmosphere. The parties, physical companionships, and other debaucheries had gone long into the early hours of the morning, leaving everyone tired, sleep, and/or dead.

“Top o’ the mornin’! greeted an old bum who somehow managed to get himself drenched in sweat and stink already. The mushy grey slop on top of his head, that he insisted began as a top hat, earned him the name Headcase. He was holding a tin can filled with what could only be generously called tea.

“Peace out, man,” replied Madoka in her street voice. She hated how squeaky and innocent her usual voice sounded, which led to her perpetually grunting her words out. Headcase chuckled back merrily.

She stopped in the heart of the area, a clearing where the shanty huts were slightly more packed, subtly more neatly arranged, creating an impression of pathways. She looked at the figures – slumped over or lying down in the street (pool of dried blood optional), but the person she was looking for was nowhere to be found.

The tap on her shoulders drawn a sequence of actions: first, her legs sprung to a jump, distancing her from the unknown initiator; then, with a trained finesse, she pulled out a serrated box cutter from the pockets of her hoodie and thrusted it in the general direction of the assailant.

“Whoa, whoa, ease it, Pinkeye.”

“Ease it yoself,” said Madoka to the girl in front of her: Sayaka Miki, or Mickey, another exemplary Mitakihara truant and Madoka’s best friend of 10 years and going. Her shoulder-length straight hair was dyed an aqua blue, the color of a Pacific lagoon. At the moment, she was wearing tan tube top with shoulder straps made out of cute little nickel-iron alloy chains under a navy blue 100% cotton dry-washable bomber jacket. She complemented the tough-but-pretty look with a pair of olive camouflage pants slightly too long for her and ripped to shreds on one end (the left one from Madoka’s perspective, but, inversely, the right leg-sleeve from Mickey’s perspective).

“Can’t a nigga walk down in peace around here?” grunted Madoka, putting her weapon back in her pockets.

“Bitch, you’s hardly walkin’, standin’ around like a goddamn right fool, you did.” Mickey grinned and smacked the pink-haired barely legal schoolgirl on her back for good measure. “Lookin’ for someone?”

Madoka slapped the back of Mickey’s head, returning the greeting.

“Yeah, this blue-haired bitch right here. Last I heard, she owed me a hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Whoa, whoa. Chill, man. I thought we were cool?”

“Fuck cool. You borrowed them back in fucking September and my ma been a real pain about it recently. Dunno what she needs it for, but you better give it back real soon.”

“Well, shit.” Mickey avoided Madoka’s disgruntled eyes. Both her eyes and her grin slightly narrowed in obvious unease.

“Come on, I knows you have that much. You did all those jobs, right? Soft porn and stuff.”

“It’s called nude modeling! Ya just have no sense of art, dawg.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, homie. Just give me back my money.”

Mickey sat down on a rusty bench somebody had looted off the park. She put her hands over her face and slumped down. Without a word, Madoka sat down beside her and put her arm around Mickey, who was holding back her tears.

“Ssh, girl, let it out. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you feel bad, okay. Are you in trouble?“

Madoka was thankful that barely anyone was awake at this hour, as the usually strong girl started sobbing. But she quickly stopped and let her hand down, giving Madoka a sight to her tear-stricken face. A quiet minute passed before she spoke up.

“It’s K-Kyosuke.”

The name invoked a cold anger in her. The broke aspiring musician and Sayaka’s ex was a shameless gold digger who forced Sayaka to work as he tried to find a gig night after night, coming up with nothing but empty promises of recording deals. Who even listen to violins except for old snobs anyway?

He had been the reason that Sayaka left school; she couldn’t keep her eyes open after working night shifts. Being a plaything in shady bars that employ schoolgirls to amuse their patrons late into the morning tend to do that to a girl.

Yet Sayaka stayed for three years, working to the bone. It was not until she caught Kyosuke fornicating with an infamous skank from the slums by the name of Hitomi Bang Bang that she left their trailer for good.

“That douche? What’d he do?”

“He…he broke his wrist. It’s terrible, he looked awful and he cried and he apologized to me. That slut left him, ran away with his savings and his dog. He couldn’t play music, he was starving. He could’ve died, Pink—Madoka.”

It took all the self-control in Madoka not to slap her blabbering best friend right there. He was a no-good leech and she’d been trying so hard to convince her to leave him day after day. It broke her heart seeing the energetic girl becoming exponentially thinner and paler through the years. All just to let the loser have his way without one fricking try at getting a real job.

And now, the one thing that she secretly feared would happen, happened. She rebounded.

“You’re such a stupid bitch.”
“I knows.”
“You didn’t have to do that, gurl. He cheated on you!”
“I knows. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just…oh God, you’ll never forget the douche, will ya?”
Mickey shook her head.
“You gotta be the most fucking stubborn girl in this city. You gonna kill yourself if you keep doing this each time the bastard stubbed his fucking toe.”
“I promise it gonna be the last time. He said it gonna be the last time too.”
“Yeah, we all knows his track record. I’m just saying if there be a prize for breaking promise...gurl, he’ll be one rich motherfucker.”

Mickey looked dazed, staring emptily at the ground spotted with trodded-on papers and empty cans. Somehow it seemed just fitting.

“So you got nothing?”
“Well, I have like fifteen bucks in mah purse and another fifty in mah place. If ya need ‘em, take ‘em.”
“I can’t, homie. You keep them. You need to eat.” Madoka hugged her, feeling the warmth of the frail body that youthful vigor had long deserted. She was downright pitiful.
“I-I’ll work harder. Just give me a bit of time, I’m gonna return yer money soon, Pinky.”

The worst thing was, Madoka knew she really would. She always did. She’d find more jobs, chipping away her youth even more just for a buck or two.

Madoka should say no. Refusing it was the right thing to do.
So easy, too. Just one syllable and Mickey wouldn’t have to slave away herself even more than she already did.
“We’ll get the money together, homie.’

Damn. But she really did need the money. Madoka’s latest job was a dog walker and after a very embarrassing incident that left her covered in dog poo and the dog covered in hers, she swore off odd jobs. And selling her parents’ possessions on eBay didn’t really count. Good thing they somehow missed that they were missing a son.

“Ya don’t have to, ya know, it’s mah f—“
“Naw, shut up. It’ll be faster with the two of us, right?”

Mickey hugged Madoka even closer. Chest against chest. Mickey’s familiar scent was still there, no amount of cheap perfume could erase it. Much like Sayaka Miki herself, her bravery and determination always shining through the ghetto life.

Finally, they let go.

Madoka wiped the tears that had rebelliously escaped from her eyes. “So, how we doin’ this?”

“Uuh right…ya mind sellin’ yer undies?”
“WHAT NO. That’s…disgusting.”
“Shame.”
“Don’t tell me you been doin’ it.”
“N-No.”
Madoka’s perpetually pink eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Well, maybe once. ONE TIME, okay?” said Mickey, shrugging it off.

“Really? Ne’er heard of it, I did’n. Woulda giv’n ya everything I got, rightfully I would.”

Madoka and Mickey nearly jumped out of the bench. Headcase had sneaked behind them and was grinning wide, ear to ear. His breath, now that the girls noticed him, smelt like old English Breakfast tea.

“Whoa, not cool, dude.”
“Yeah, creep!”

Headcase let out a short, sharp chuckle that resembled a sickly neigh.

“Easy now, missies. Ol’ Headcase here happened to hear yer pleas, and I just got a gig for y’all fine young ladies.”

“Let’s go, Pinky,” Mickey said, already standing away from the old man, “no need to hear this freak out.”

“Cross my heart, this shit is legit. I got this from Mammy.”

“Mammy? You mean, THE Mammy?” Madoka couldn’t help but ask, despite herself. Everyone knew of Mammy, and Mammy knew everyone. She was basically the landlady, security guard, and advocate of Da Home. You made trouble, you gonna face her.

Or so the stories went. Those lucky enough to see her were unlucky enough for it to be the last time.

“Yes miss! ‘Ts all secret-like, yes. Very good money, and she’s only lookin’ for dolls such as yourselves, she be.”

“Just how good are we talkin’ ‘bout here?” asked Mickey.

“Up to ten grands, so I heard, yes Ol’ Headcase did.”

Ten grands would be more than enough to repay Madoka’s money. Heck, she could just retire and hold rigged rap battles every night. It almost sounded too good to be true.

“And what’s the job?”

Ol’ Headcase's grin widened even more, even though it should’ve been anatomically impossible. The exposed bronze-white gums made Madoka scrunched her nose up in disgust.

“Naw, that’s not how it goes, no missie. You follow Ol’ Headcase here and he’ll take you to Mammy. It’s confidential. But if ol’ me were yous, I’d take it, no questions asked. Before some other nigga takes it, yous got me?”

Madoka and Mickey exchanged a look; one look was all needed for them to make up their minds. Even if it was a scam, they’d have each other.

“Okay dawg, take us there.”

Why do you guys think stealing shitty fanfictions is gonna provide you any sort of enjoyment or fulfillment?
Fuck you.