I wake up.

It’s a gradual thing, hazy and confusing. For a few moments I am Reska and Malice both, two sets of memories overlapping. I remember my father, her father, my father, the ugly feelings different but that core of confused anguish shared. I remember the mirror, the loathing and shame, the reasons different but that discontent shared.

I see a girl with my face and my voice lying to me about her name.

Fucking weeb! I accuse in my head. Homura? Really? You’re not even Japanese! Did you actually name yourself after the girl from Madoka whose whole character is defined by her obsessive self-destructive love for the titular character? I can’t tell if that’s a shocking degree of self-awareness or an equally shocking lack of self-awareness. At least you didn’t name yourself after Vriska.

The girl in the dream was me, obviously. She dressed like me, she looked like me, she acted like me, and at minimum she shared my love of Puella Magi Madoka Magica and tabletop roleplaying games. There are other possible explanations, sure, and I shouldn’t discount those explanations entirely, but Occam’s Razor says that girl is me via time travel, or maybe an alternate universe version of me, or maybe with how this whole setting works she’s some kind of astrally-projected dream construct?

I don’t think that’s what Occam’s Razor means.

Shush, me. I’m trying to analyze me.

The whole dream sequence was fascinating, especially given that I can still remember the whole thing clearly. Minutes have passed and the details aren’t fading into nothingness like dreams usually do. Is that a function of the setting, or some oddity unique to the vision-like nature of the dream? Will I be receiving more dreams, or was this the only one?

So many details stand out that it’s almost overwhelming. The magic that Reska was using, none of the spells she cast had bracketed names or a user interface; she was directing the magic herself, creating meaning and shaping magic into a personalized spell each time. Is the magic I’ve been using a more advanced form, made more complex yet easier to control, or is it an inferior form, packaged for mass consumption but stripped of the personal element? Both?

The social structures, the architecture, the literature, so much of it fascinates me, but I keep coming back to the girl with my face. She called herself Homura, and I think it’s a safe bet that she was referencing the anime, so what does that mean? It could have just been chosen for the sake of sounding cool, sure, but that doesn’t click. I’m edgy, sure, but there’s meaning beneath the edge.

I picked–headache, ow, ow–whatever my old name was because it was neutral-sounding, so it wouldn’t raise any questions whatever someone perceived my gender as. I picked Malice because it sounds edgy, yeah, but also because the word is associated with spite, ill will, and danger, and because it’s a bit like Alice. Being Malice means being someone who is dangerous, someone to be taken seriously, someone impressive… not that people so far have actually perceived it that way, to my annoyance.

So why Homura? The character of Homura is a magical girl who travels through time over and over again to save the girl she loves, Madoka, from making a deal with an evil cat-like wish-granting entity called Kyubey. She’s ruthlessly pragmatic, keeps secrets from those around her, and for all her noble aims she is at her heart a selfish creature driven more by obsession than a sense of right and wrong.

Applied to the context of Reska’s situation, we can easily pin Reska as Madoka; my doppelganger is clearly trying to influence Reska for some ends, and given Reska’s rough situation it wouldn’t be difficult for someone with foreknowledge to play the knight in shining armor. And my other self clearly has a degree of foreknowledge, if the way she played on Reska’s insecurities is anything to go by.

Of course, that leaves the relevant question: if my doppelganger is Homura, and Reska is Madoka, then who’s the Kyubey?

This theory relies on a lot of assumptions that might be disproven, and I fail to see how it’s immediately relevant to our situation. I don’t think we can reasonably draw any conclusions about the events of the dream without further context, either from more dream sequences or from clues in the waking world.

I grimace at my voice of reason, and then I grimace harder as I finally notice the pain in my hand. My hand is shouting at me that something’s wrong with it, but the pain goes deeper; it feels like the entire left side of my body is shot through and torn up, like I’m missing pieces. I can guess why.

I open my eyes and the disorientation only increases as I see what looks like a very modern bedroom. The bed I’m lying on is solid and comfy with modern textiles, there’s a dresser just to the side, a closet, and a lamp that isn’t on (which, as always, does not seem to affect my ability to see).

I force myself to sit up, wincing at the pain in my left side, and try to get my bearings. The events of my dream aside, a whole lot has happened in the past however many hours and I should probably get to processing that before I spend any more time pondering events that may not even be real (they’re definitely real).

The pain in my hand is probably from stabbing my hand with a knife, and the pain in my left side is probably from stabbing my soul with a knife. My hand has been bandaged, though I don’t remember bandaging it. I don’t feel any kind of supernatural despair, so I’m going to go out on a limb–get it, because I stabbed my hand–and say that my impromptu soul surgery worked and saved my life. Take that, Bashe!

Wait, where is Bashe?

I frown, realizing my easily-irritated companion is not within eyesight. I call out, “Bashe? I’m awake!” but don’t get a response.

Uneasy now, I push the covers off and stumble out of bed, steadying myself on the nearby dresser. I push open the bedroom door and step into a hallway that opens out into a living room, dining area, and kitchen, all exactly as I’d expect from a normal apartment. There’s a fridge, a microwave, a television, a dining table, a sofa… it’s all extremely regular-looking, if a bit minimalist and sleek.

I call for Bashe again and still get no response. The lights are off, and nobody’s home. My unease is rising and I feel a thrill of fear, and then it hits me like a truck that I can feel fear again. I stop, stunned, and quickly play back memories from the day before. I force myself to think of walking across the sky bridge and my legs get shaky just from the hazy image of it, a jolt of panic running through me at the thought of tumbling into forever.

The monster with the knife, the abandoned school, the doll that bleeds, the spider-dogs, the burning-eyed elf, the sin eater singing of regret, the horrible incarnation of grief and despair; all the times I should have been afraid and wasn’t are rushing back to me. I could have died. So many times I could have died and I just faced those dangers head-on like they couldn’t have fucking killed me!

I break out in a cold sweat and start running through the apartment, pushing open doors wherever I find them and calling out Bashe’s name. No incubus in the other bedroom, no imp in either bathroom, no Bashekehi the Ever-Gleaming waiting in the hall just outside the apartment. He’s gone. Bashe is gone.

The realization sinks in as I wander vacantly into the living room. He’s gone. My only guide to this strange new world is gone, and it’s all my fault. He must have dragged me away from the dream bubble, brought me to this apartment, and left. And can I blame him?

It’s my fault. Of course it’s my fault. I tried to use his dead husband to manipulate him into risking his life for me. I tried to manipulate him into a contract with me. I felt out his boundaries and kept pushing, like I always push, like I always do, because I’ll never be satisfied, I’ll never allow someone to just be.

I talked his ear off, kept annoying him and pestering him with a dozen stupid details that didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, just trying to satisfy my stupid curiosity, my obsessive interests. Wanting to break the system, thinking I could be the clever little isekai monkey cracking open a system of magic that a world’s native inhabitants had been working with for who knows how many thousands of years. Because I’m special. Because I’m the protagonist, of course I’m the protagonist, what else could I be?

Can’t accept that you’re not special, that you’re just another random fucking nobody in a world full of nobodies. Not enough for you. Never enough for you.

So now he’s abandoned me because I was too annoying and too stupid and too hurtful and too heartless, and why should that be any kind of surprise!? My fault. Always my fault. Stupid. Pathetic.

And now he’s gone. And now he’s gone, the only other person I’ve met in this new world beside an asshole fae who took my name, and now I’m alone. I’m alone and I’m going to die because I can’t do this on my own.

The tears start falling and I clench my fists because I don’t want to be sad, I can’t be sad, that’s not me, that’s not allowed. But the aching in my chest doesn’t care what’s allowed and the sobbing starts as I crumple onto the sofa and cry, wet and nasally, a disgusting mess of tears and snot and choking sobs.

Bashe is gone and I am alone and I am going to die, and I cry like the stupid weak pathetic worthless bitch that I know I am, that I’ve always known I am, because I can’t change, I can’t be better, I can’t be anything. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It’s not enough, the crying isn’t enough, so I start hitting myself in the head. I ball both hands into fists, relishing in the pain of my injured hand, and I drive them into my head. The first hits are just taps, light, pathetic, cowardly. Coward. Weak. Stupid. Just a coward who can’t do anything. I hit harder, forcing more energy behind the motion, forcing myself not to pull back at the last moment. I need the pain. I need to be hurt.

Stupid. A real strike this time, enough to sting. Stupid. Another. Stupid. Another. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupidstupidstupid stupid–

The door to the apartment creaks open and I hear Bashe ask, “Malice?”

The sound of his voice is a bolt of lightning to my system and a cocktail of new emotions floods my brain: relief that he hasn’t abandoned me, shame that I fell into an episode with such little provocation, and panic that Bashe will see me like this and cut his losses for real.

I quickly wipe my face on my shirt, smoothly rise to my feet, and slide the mask back on. We are measured. We are in control. I plaster a wide grin on my face and call out, “Bashe! Good to see you’re alive and well after that dreadful mess. Shall we discuss our next steps?”

The look in his eyes makes it clear that he absolutely heard me crying and hitting myself but it’s fine because I am smiling now so just let it go. “...Yeah. Next steps.” Bashekehi is wearing new clothing, having apparently found the time to add some gold rings, gold earrings, and a knee-length navy blue coat with sharp shoulder pads and beige decorative stitching. His chest is still bare, I note, which at this point is absolutely intentional on his part. I feel self-conscious about the horribly bloodstained schoolgirl outfit I’m still stuck in.

The incubus is also carrying three plastic bags in his arms, and as he sets them on the dining room table I see food inside. “I went out for groceries,” he says by way of explanation.

Groceries? I flit to the table and lean over, hands behind my back as I peer inside each bag from a tilted angle. The first bag has a bottle of red wine, a box of tea bags, some instant noodles, a pack of coconut rice cakes, and a pack of fish-shaped red bean cakes (still no brand names, but very colorful packaging). The second bag is mostly filled by fresh plums, peaches, tomatoes, and cucumbers, but I also see a delicious-looking block of feta cheese. The final bag has a bunch of covered styrofoam containers, but they all smell like food.

I stare at the bounty. “Holy shit. How did you get all this?”

Bashe shrugs. “It’ll be easier to show you, and I’d rather eat first. I’ll get breakfast set up if you want to put the rest away.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

I have no idea what’s going on, but food is food and I am starving. Bashe sets the third bag off to the side and starts grabbing plates and cutlery from kitchen cupboards and drawers. I take the first two bags and sort them: snacks and drinks into the pantry, fruits and vegetables into the fridge with the cheese. When I finish my half Bashe has already laid out table settings for both of us and revealed a tantalizing meal: mushroom stew, garlic flatbread, and white rice.

Bashe breezes past me into the kitchen and says, “Serve yourself, I’m going to get some tea started.”

I grab a seat and don’t wait for the imp. I layer a generous helping of rice into a bowl and then ladle mushroom stew on top until the rice is uniformly mushroom-ified. I start eating with gusto, and even if I wasn’t ravenously hungry I would find this meal sinfully delicious. Mushrooms are amazing and I will hear not a single bad thing said about them.

Bashekehi joins me soon after with two cups of steaming hot tea. I sniff it and am slightly disappointed to find that it’s black tea, not green, but it smells fragrant enough that I’ll give it a shot anyways (not that I’d turn down tea regardless).

We eat in silence, which suits me fine as I’m too busy shoveling mushrooms and rice down my gullet to actually use my throat for speaking. Once the rice is down to its dregs I pour in more stew and start dipping the flatbread, which is actually even more amazingly delicious.

Bashe doesn’t hold back either, and comes up with the very clever idea of laying down flatbread as a foundation, spreading rice on top, and then pouring in the mushroom stew to a healthy level. We both grab seconds once we’ve finished the first course, though I grab a much lighter portion while he actually increases on the second round.

The tea turns out to be pretty good, with some nice herbal flavors whose nature I can’t quite discern. When the last of the food is eaten Bashe takes the plates to the sink and I volunteer to dispose of the empty containers. Then we’re back at the table, sipping tea in silence and staring across at each other.

Bashe is the first to break the quiet, letting out a deep sigh and adopting a conflicted expression. “So. About… things.” He looks away, grimaces, then turns back to me and continues, “Thank you. For freeing me, I mean. And I’m sorry that I hit you. It was an overreaction, one born of stress, but I know that you were under a lot of stress too so that doesn’t excuse it.”

I mumble, “It’s fine. I deserved it.”

He sighs again. “At least let me finish. The rest of what I was going to say is that trying to use Muzaffer to manipulate me into risking my life was a disgusting act of attempted manipulation, even if you didn’t know the precise context of my relationship with him, and I do not forgive you for it. If you ever try to use him against me again, I will leave you for the crows.”

“Right,” I say softly. “That makes sense. I… I’m sorry.”

Bashekehi takes a long sip of tea before responding. “For what it’s worth, you did a good job getting us out of there. That tracking spell was invaluable, and as crazy as that [Abyssal Armament] gamble was, it worked. I don’t think I would have had the resolve to mutilate my own soul like that, but you didn’t even hesitate. Honestly, I’m not sure if that’s a sign of iron will or just another piece of your weird no-fear thing.”

“That’s gone,” I whisper.

He frowns. “Gone?”

“I can feel fear again. I don’t know why.”

The imp leans back and considers it. “Mm. The suppression effect must have been anchored to the part of your soul that got ripped out. Well, this is probably a good thing in the long run. Fear keeps you alive.”

“Yeah.”

Bashekehi considers me for another long moment, sighs again, and says, “We’re in the city now, Malice. You’re going to be meeting people, some real and some not. But… they’re all going to know that name. The name of an archdemon. Malice, the archdemon presiding over torture, cruelty, and transgressive violence.”

I already feel like shit, but that adds a spike of cold misery. Right. My name. The name that Eirdryd mocked, and Bashe lied about liking. The name that they say doesn’t belong to me. The name that apparently belongs to… well, to someone that sounds exactly like the name implies. “You want me to change it.”

“There will be consequences if you don’t. Impersonating an archdemon will only get you the bad kind of attention, and you do not have anywhere near the power to make people think you’re the real deal.”

I clench my fists, but I know he’s right. I just hate admitting it. “Fine.” Still, I have one act of defiance left in me, and I push a smirk onto my face. “If I can’t be Malice, then call me Maven Alice. M. Alice.”

The incubus looks like he desperately wants to say something about that, but instead he swallows his objection and says, “That will work. Maven Alice.”

I tap the fingers of my injured hand along the table, heedless of the pain. Actually, that’s worth asking about. I raise my bandaged hand and ask, “Why doesn’t this hurt more? Like, don’t get me wrong, my whole left side aches like I got my soul ripped out, but my hand does not feel like it got impaled by a dagger.”

“Because it didn’t.” At my look of confusion the imp clarifies, “You stabbed your hand, yes, but the blade didn’t actually go very deep. You lost consciousness pretty much immediately after the tip of the knife touched skin, so the damage there is mostly superficial. The real wound is the third of your soul that you lost, which can heal, but it’ll take time.”

I give Bashe an accusatory glance. “You’re a lot more forthcoming with exposition now.”

He laughs. “I’ve had some real food, and talking to you is no longer putting minutes between me and said food. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still kind of an obnoxious shit, but I can indulge your curiosity. It is what my breed are known for,” he adds with a wink.

“Fair enough. In that case, what does it mean that I’m missing a third of my soul?”

Bashe steeples his fingers and leans in. “To be more specific, you’ve lost a third of your pleroma. The soul is divided into two parts: the core, which contains all your most essential qualities, and the pleroma, which is the emanation of the soul and reflects it. To make a shaky comparison to brain function, the core is your long-term memory and the pleroma is your short-term memory. The core is your identity, your most complete sense of self, while the pleroma shows a reflection of your immediate emotions, desires, etc, as well as being the means you use to interact with Pandaemonium on a deeper level. The pleroma is how you cast spells and store mana, and it is also where an invoker’s contracts are stored. Speaking of which…”

Shit. I quickly run through my spells. [Abyssal Armament]. The interface fires, showing me the crystallized array of strange symbols. I dismiss the spell and activate [Find the Path], which shows me the familiar interface as well. When I try to conjure up [Adrenaline Burst], I get nothing. I hiss and tell Bashe, “It took [Adrenaline Burst]. Fuck!”

“That’s actually a pretty lucky break,” he points out. “It was easily the least valuable of your spells.”

“Then let’s replace it with something better,” I insist. “You’ve had a chance to feed, haven’t you? I’ve got plenty more memories to burn.”

The incubus raises a hand to stop me. “It doesn’t work like that, Alice. Your soul can’t support a third contract until it regenerates from the damage it took.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m not going to argue with the expert. Much. “Okay, how do I do that?”

Bashe gestures at the tea in front of us and the dishes in the kitchen. “You’ve already started. You heal your soul by doing things that enrich you. For some people that’s a good book, for others a good lay, but most everyone gets some meaning out of a good meal had in fine company. It takes time, so you can’t just binge your favorite things and expect to be whole next morning, but chip away at it every day and you should be back to shape in a few weeks.”

My eyes go wide. “Weeks? You’re joking.”

Bashekehi makes an exasperated noise at me. “You mutilated your soul, Alice. Did you think that wouldn’t have consequences?”

I grit my teeth. “I thought that you would have solutions. Shortcuts. I need power, Bashe, not a vacation. You know more about this world than I do, bunches more, so tell me: how do I get a lot of power in not a lot of time? You’re an imp, this should be your thing!”

“Look, I told you the options you have. The kind of power you really want, the power to carve your own path, the kind of power that leads to becoming something ‘like unto a god,’ that’s what you’re after, right?”

“Yes!” I hiss. “With every fiber of my being.”

He raises a hand and immediately tucks in the thumb and pinky. “Disqualifying Summer and Winter because you’re trapped in the Labyrinth and because they don’t have good routes to apotheosis anyways, that leaves three paths to ascension. The first path involves you spending a couple hundred years honing your body and your mind until you impress the dragons enough they bring you into their cycle of reincarnation. The second path involves convincing an eidolon that you’re worthy of becoming its champion, then building its legend to such dizzying heights that you merge with it and achieve godhood. The third path involves being chosen basically at random by a geist, turning into a demon, and meeting a set of criteria so difficult only eight before you have ever achieved it, all so that you can ascend as an archdemon. Those are your options.”

I blink. Wow. That is actually a lot of useful information. “Okay, well, fuck that first option. Dragons are cool but no way am I spending a hundred years exercising. The second option has a very appealing endgame, and I can probably use the compass to find an eidolon that’ll sponsor me. Honestly, that one sounds the most like a classic RPG narrative, and yes I see that eye-roll and I am immune to your sass. So, a solid contender.”

“I will remind you, Alice, that you have to be worthy of becoming its champion. That means you have to fit into the ideal traits of a specific culture, and, very importantly, be part of that culture. Do you see a problem?”

“Oh. Shit. You’re saying that because I’m from the Zero Sphere, there’s no culture here I can really claim to be from, right?”

He waves a hand. “That, and you just don’t seem like the kind of person to value things like ‘tradition’ and ‘virtue.’”

I glare at the imp, but I don’t actually have a rebuttal. “Okay, so that leaves option three: getting the attention of a random geist so it can make me a demon. Any ideas on that one?”

“I believe I can help with that,” says a white-haired catgirl that wasn’t leaning against the sofa a second ago. The girl smiles, her cat ears twitch, her heterochromatic eyes–one yellow, one blue–gleam brilliantly, and she says, “My name is Cheshire, and I’m here to grant your wish.”