Episode 1, Act 1 - Touchdown

=- July 3rd, 2022 -=

"Madeline, I've got a wand but I don't know how to use it." My dear student spoke with frustration as I fussed with my blue hair in a mirror. A jar of pink ooze sat on the coffee table, doing nothing in particular, and I'd determined by this point that she wasn't about to learn anything from them. Which left things up to me, her dutiful and shining mentor.

Yeeeah. That's how she sees me. I don't get it.

Alright; you want to learn about wands? I know wands, inside and out. This is a story about how I received my wand and learned how to use it. Get out your pen so you can keep up this time.

"Pen and paper, out and ready!" Olivia held dearly to her notes. It brought a smile to my face, and I sat down beside her on the couch, starting my tale at the most appropriate point. The very beginning of my career.

=-⏱️-=

Since February 12th, 2012, Society has been aware of Malice.

Malice sets in the hearts of men and women alike, in the dark spaces of our psyche and pokes out through secret holes in the world. Society first became aware of Malice when a player on the Bronx Beaters couldn't handle their team losing the Superbowl. He transformed; the star quarterback became a demented, hulking beast wearing thick leather armor and wielding the pigskin on a flail. He changed right in front of thousands of people, and started his rampage with the opposing quarterback.

Everyone was confused and incredulous, then they saw him growing. He was shifting, morphing into something more. They looked for alternative causes; a trick of the light, maybe, a hologram. CGI! When he swung his flail, everyone laughed and smiled, it was ludicrous. Then the ball came down, and the opposing quarterback was reduced to meat paste. Things weren't so funny now.

The smart members of the crowd were already headed to the doors. There was a panic that swept through the stadium, and then he went wild. His strikes were cold, and calculating, in retrospect. It seemed as if he could only see the colors of the enemy team, the Sunhawk Smashers-- blue and gold. Every victim was one of the three: wearing blue and gold, blonde or blue eyed. He could, even in his monstrous state, discriminate. Victims that didn't fit the bill were the ones crushed by the crowd, the ones who stood just a little too close to another target as they were pulped into bloody chunks. Incidental deaths.

Cops arrived, much too late, and opened fire. The Beater took to the bullets like a sponge to water. If anything, it served to make him more angry, and his devastating trail continued to lead outwards from the incursion point, toward the boys in blue. Incursion point. That word became a part of society's vocabulary pretty quickly. "Did you hear about the Treversons?" They'll whisper in hushed tones, knowing that they're being listened to at all times, passively monitored for signs of Malice. "Their little boy was so tired of the beatings. Their house became an Incursion Point. Can you believe that? An Incursion Point, on our street? Unthinkable."

Eugh. The less said about them, the better. 

The Bronx Beater continued his path of destruction. The boys in blue were next-- it was their mistake, their fault for being the color that the Beater hated. If they'd just known-- a lot of pigs could have been spared the slaughterhouse that night. The cops don't wear blue anymore. They wear suits, bright whites and deep blacks. The Beater taught them that lesson.

The nation was inflicted with a sort of hushed apathy. "These things happen, it's no different from a mass shooting!" Those words meant nothing to the family and friends of those the Bronx Beater killed. The internet was wild with speculation. They were quick to blame drugs, maybe it was his skin color, maybe he had mental health issues! Nobody was talking about the terror that the Bronx Beater was causing, his unstoppable rampage, only looking for people to blame. Doing nothing about it.

I was there, in the middle of all of it. Running from the Beater. My mother had always said my eyes were pretty. A beautiful golden color that nobody else could match. I was a rebel, too; bright blue hair, maybe to tell the world I wasn't about to conform to expectations that easily. My hair is naturally blue now, but it wasn't then. All told, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The point is that I had gold eyes and blue hair, and the Beater seemed to take that personally. When he was finished making ham skillets, he focused right in on me. We locked eyes. In that moment, I knew I was fucked. I started running. I ran so hard, my breath was ragged, my legs were jelly. I didn't look back. Never look back when a monster is running you down, smashing behind you with a club or a flail or whatever weapon he holds. Just run.

I managed to catch two turns quicker than he could and saw a dumpster. I could hear him; he was close. Not so close I couldn't make a move! I lifted the lid and dived straight in. A little pizza grease and spiky glass wouldn't make me pass up a great hiding space. He stomped right by, looking for his prey.

I was silent, choking on the noxious fumes. Trying not to panic, not to cry. Panicking now would do nothing. Crying now might do worse. I swallowed those feelings, and slipped out of the dumpster when I felt the coast was clear; when I knew he wasn't around. 

He was, unfortunately, still near. There's a prickling feeling in the back of your neck when Malice is in the area. You learn to pick out that sense, to trust in it, to trust your gut. Your body knows when you're in mortal danger, and it'll pick up on signs subconsciously before the rest of your body catches on. The faster you notice it, the safer you are. I ran for a ladder on the side of a convenience store-- it was down, wouldn't you know, work being done on the sign. Checking quickly that it was stable, I clambered up, to get a sightline on the Beater, to know where he was, so I could go the opposite way and never stop moving. So I could live.

I walked onto the gravel rooftop, thoughts scattered. I pulled up the ladder behind me, onto the rooftop. That was stupid. Malice doesn't need a fucking ladder to reach you, Madeline. It can climb just fine itself, leap that distance, even! But I thought I was safe. I walked right past the toaster--

"Is that a toaster?" I couldn't stop myself. I just had to blink. A toaster on the roof? Is this some kind of joke? Well. it might work as a flail, as a weapon, if I just wrapped the cord around my--

"HEY!" The toaster SHOUTED in my ears. It shouldn't have been able to, it was a toaster, it... "Who you callin' a toaster? I'm not a toaster." A pink ooze was dripping from the toaster lid... what the hell was this? "I'm a slime, kid. A slime that's about to save your sorry keister."

Oh. Oh no. You get out of my head RIGHT now!

 "I'm not in your head, relax. Your aura is doing all the talking for you, kid." I gave the metal refuse a look.

"Right. My aura." There was something about the toaster that made me put my fear on the backburner; made me swallow my panic and face the very real reality that a toaster was talking to me--

=-⏱️-=

"You're getting narration and the past mixed up, kid. Whatever, this isn't my recollection of events." Of course it isn't. You're an unreliable narrator, you moldy bitch. "Okay. Whatever. It's your story to tell. I'm just making it clear that you were much less eloquent back then."

My student Olivia was a thin twig no older than eighteen. At the moment, Olivia is currently rapt with attention to my story. She had tan skin, frizzy black hair; your picturesque nerd, maybe a bit too small for her clothes and a bit too mousey to pull off any sort of look. This lesson was for her benefit... right. Right. I composed myself a little more. Okay. Maybe I was playing my intelligence up a little; I wouldn't want her to feel inadequate. Let's try this again.

=-⏱️-=

"Abuhbuh," I mumbled, trying to get my thoughts straight. "I'm talking to a toaster. You're okay, Madeline, you're just going crazy... that's what you'll tell the school counselor when he asks you why you're a splat of meat on the pavement..."

"You're welcome to wallow in self-pity while I keep talking, okay? But I'm not going to repeat myself." The toaster had popped out a slice of bread, covered in jam. The jam moved as if it had a face; there were some 'eyes' and a mouth, but they didn't feel quite right. Pink and blue blobs, maybe a little indent in the mouth pocket. "First, I'm not a toaster! I'm a slime."

"Slime in a toaster. That makes you a toaster," I pointed out, to which the slime got rather yellow. The shade of frustration, I would come to find out later; frustration and banana. Did you know that she tastes like bananas? You just have to get her nice and angry!

"I'm a Neverlander. I come from a place beyond this world to help humanity deal with their Malice." The metal muffler kept talking as if I wasn't there. Maybe she was the one who wasn't there. See, we have this theory...

"--and you show great potential. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?" The toaster kept talking and I forgot myself a little. Potential? What the hell potential did a twelve year old girl have? I barely figured out how to tie my laces. The most I could do was run track at school-- huh?

"Roll back a little bit, toaster phlegm. What do you mean by 'potential'?" I was filled, buzzing with nervous energy, pain and anticipation and excitement...

=-⏱️-=

"Stop! Kid, your magic is going wild..." Lo and behold, the moldy bitch speaks again. What's wrong? Don't like your jar?

"I despise my jar. More to the point, you're so excitable, it'd be a miracle if anyone could keep up. You aren't even speaking, you're just narrating." Oh, I hadn't even noticed.

"Is this better?" I ask. My voice is a little shaky-- sometimes I forget what it's supposed to sound. Most of my time is spent talking to the wall, you know? I can just spill out my thoughts. Nobody has to see them.

"...just, go back to narration. Your throat is so... neglected, I can tell it hurts. But keep the story more coherent. You're telling the rookie over there, not me." The slime shifts in her jar, a light orange. She's either plotting something, or she's  hungry. Possibly both-- it's important to know the difference. Taking care of your mascot is very important, Olivia.

My student raises her hand. It was so slim and slender, I couldn't help but get lost in thought. Olivia seemed a little malnourished... not every Divinity is gifted in the physical department, but maybe we could still fix that? Go out for sushi, or... "I'm also confused, Madeline? What does any of this have to do with today's lesson? You said you were going to teach me about wands."

I'm getting there. I'm getting there. I give Olivia my most pleasant look... she squirms and sinks into her chair.

"Um. Please don't glare at me, Madeline. I'm barely keeping up with your lessons. They're... a little spacey." Bah. What does she know about lessons? She hasn't learned jack shit. All of that college training is worthless in the face of real danger! Where was I?

"You were about to tell us about your Contract." The twig-like girl leans in with all of the excitement of a toddler getting her hands on little gooey toys. Jelly toy things. She'd like one of those. I'll get my precious Olivia a jelly toy...

"Do you not know what she likes...?" The slime gives me a disgusted look. What, like you're any better? Keep looking at me that way. We'll see what fits into that jelly toy. "Whatever! Continue your story."

=-⏱️-=

Okay. Back on track. "And what would I get if I agreed to be a magical gal?" I narrowed my eyes at the toaster. Even then, I knew she wasn't being honest. I've watched Madoka Magica. I knew how these things went down. You make a deal with a sentient toaster, then they're trying to hatch you like a malformed monster egg. I wasn't buying it.

"You'll be able to harness that psychic power of yours." The toaster poked me with her plug. I noticed that the cord of the plug was actually filled with slime, a tube of plastic. "I can't tell you exactly how your power looks, but you'll be able to... probably, you'll be able to deal with that Malice."

"Malice? You mean that monster that just chased me down." Images of the Bronx Beater ran through my mind. I couldn't possibly-- he was terror himself. I wanted so badly, so badly to be afraid of him. But an unsettling feeling was bubbling forth, taken straight from my gut. A desire to put an end to this. To stop him and his rampage.

"Yeees. That's the feeling, Madeline. Hold onto that." The slime on the bread started to shift to a shade of orange. "You can stop them; not just this Malice, but all Malice. That Malice in particular... it's a lot more bluster than bite. Your species just isn't used to fighting creatures like it."

"So what do you get out of it? You're some sort of alien, right?" Maybe I was asking the wrong questions, but that's all I could think of at the time. 'Are you an alien?' Such a dumb question, in retrospect-- asking a worm if it was a rhinoceros, or a tea kettle which kind of coffee it could brew. The wrong type of question for a creature like her.

"I'm not an alien, not exactly. I'm a Neverlander. You imagined me! Not just you. Your whole species put in the work; they're responsible for my existence," the toaster continued, as if the explanation wasn't a load of bat-guano. "I just want to give back to my creators. Save them."

"...I'll buy that. For now," I said, having bought her explanation then and there. She was just a friendly toaster... not a menace to society in the least. Although... Maybe society needs a menace now and then. It wasn't exactly in the best shape before the Mascots came along. It definitely isn't in good shape now.

"Great!!! Then you'll just need to sign this contract, kid..." Like a printer, paper began spilling out from the gap in her toaster. A sheet of paper, not toast. You ever signed away your soul to a shitty company before, my dear Olivia? What am I saying, of course you did! Welcome to Magimaid. But the public-use contracts... the ones that other companies have access to, they're based on the Prime Contract. Malty's own bread and butter. 

=-⏱️-=

"Wait. People really sell their souls to other companies?" Olivia seems startled. My head tilts; it's the natural response to hearing something so intuitive it sounds like a tautology. "Holy frick."

You can say 'shit', you know. This isn't some family friendly novel. More to the point, the slave contracts she spits out-- my eyes drift to the jar, which shakes with red slime-- she's probably getting off to the idea of enslaving more idiots in time. Me, for example.

"Heh. Amateur. I've already enslaved Olivia. That's why you're in charge of teaching her." The slime tries to look smug, which just gets her jar a good shaking. "Wahwahwahwah!" I shake until she's a nice shade of black, and set her down to the side. I shift my eyes back to Olivia...

Kneeling down to be eye level with her, I give her all the pity and pets she requires. There, there... "I-I don't need pity, Madeline. I really became a magical warrior to work with you. You're the strongest magical warrior in the whole wide world!"

...What the hell have you been feeding her, spunk jar? You know better than anyone what I'm like.

"Hey, don't give me that look... It's true. You're the strongest* Magical Warrior in the world. Not only that, this girl wanted nothing less than to study under you... so I granted her wish, kehehe. And you owe me, so..."

One, that asterisk was unnecessary. Two, I owe you jack, freak. You and your whole Neverlands can go shove it in your tiny little--

"Um... Madeline? Can we stop threatening our mascot and get back to the story?" Olivia tugs at my sleeve. Ugh. One of these days I'll have to actually ask why she's doing this. Right, where were we... Olivia was saying words, I lost my place.

=-⏱️-=

"As long as I sign here, I'll be a magical girl." My fingers trembled, the blue feather held in my hand quite... fresh. I saw the toaster snatch the bluebird, using its toast as a lure. It was gruesome. No different than a cat hunting, for sure, but... maybe it was just the intentionality of it that distressed me, a propensity for murder that cats seldom displayed except in the wild.

"That's right! And that's nyat all!" The slime chirped in her usual birdsong; a mixture of cursed speech and gooey phlegm. "You'll also get your magical wand and a whole new suite of powers, designed just for you," Malty spoke with a cheshire grin. I could have asked her about the row of bone sprouting from her bread in the shape of teeth, but I decided to deal with the situation logically.

"Jesus fucking Christ. You have teeth... okay, okay, I'll sign it, just don't bite me!" Absolutely flawless logic. I do not want to get bitten by toaster-teeth. You're supposed to take a bite out of toast, not the other way around.

The feather sunk into my finger, drawing a line of blood, and then I smeared it against the parchment, still dripping with slime... the paper glowed softly, and lines darted across my vision. I could see a progress bar now. [Uploading], it read. Something about the whole process was comfortingly familiar. The feeling of downloading a new game, waiting for it to install on your slow-ass computer.

The download was painless.

The installation was... suffering. I could feel the 'code' coursing through my body. Whatever foul magicks made it up, they were designed to extract the maximum potential from their victims. Black slime began to leak out every pore in my skin. My very sweat was attacking me, my stomach emptying itself onto the rooftop. I coughed up hunks of metal, plastic, wood, hair and blood.

I'm sure you know this by now, but a magical girl doesn't need blood. Blood is... inefficient, compared to mana. It moves slowly. It needs to be pumped through the heart. It takes time to move your nutrients from one part of your body to another. Today's magical girls don't go to extremes. Not like the old days. You replace your blood, bit by bit, slowly increasing your mana concentration until blood is unnecessary.

Back then, mascots made us do everything, all at once. I could feel the blood pounding as it leaked out from my sweat glands, alongside the black filth and impurity that had built up in my body. I felt weak and helpless, while the toaster just... smugly laughed at me. "Did you think magic was easy? That it would be a cakewalk? This is just the beginning of your journey, Madeline! Don't give up on me so quickly... because if you don't fight the Malice, it will never be stopped."

FernGilly

v2: Fixed a number of grammar and pacing issues with the original chapter. 2% more yuri. Grounded the scene.

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