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Legacy of the Witch House (TheCorsair and Xanaphia)

In the city, the stars were sparse, drowned out by the lights. Marta hadn’t really paid them much mind, not before she met Peter and was pulled into his orbit of space and physics and wormholes and advanced math.

Tonight, she gazed out into space as Peter worked in her, his thick cock driving deep and hard into her hungry depths. The cityscape against the starlit sky was a gorgeous vista, but difficult to enjoy fully as Peter stroked into her. She didn’t want him to stop, his momentum feeding the longing coursing through her veins. His words of love and need were a delightful counterpoint to his aggression, passion incarnate. Nirvana grew within her, as hot as his chest pressed into her back, and even the chill of glass against bare skin couldn’t cool her desire. The stars became unblinking eyes, playing witness to her ecstasy.

Two thrusts later, he followed her into rapture, bodies locked together as his pleasure lashed her womb and coated her walls. Neither moved for several heart beats, heaving breaths and desperate kisses taking precedence. Finally, somehow, they stripped out of their remaining clothes, and tumbled into bed together. Marta snuggled into Peter’s chest, and his arms surrounded her, and refused to let her go.

Dreams brought them back to the graveyard, once more populated with near identical versions of themselves. Marta tensed at the sight, unable to forget the last dream.

“It’s okay,” Peter insisted, squeezing her hand. “I’m right here.” His smile melted her stiffness, just a bit. The comfort of sharing dreams broke through, and she nodded, reminding herself it wasn’t real, but the chill breeze and moist grass felt real enough. Moonlight caught on the armlet he wore, black stones entwined with silver and clinging delightfully to his firm muscles.

“So, what is our subconscious telling us this time?” Marta asked, leaning in closer to her Peter.

He glanced around and shrugged, “To keep an open mind to all possibilities? To shed the concerns of reality and embrace absurdity of chaos, perhaps?” She chose to trust him, and relax into the warmth of his arms. The last dream had to have been a manifestation of her guilt, a reflection of her subconscious tumult. A way for her mind to cope with her decision to abort. That was past now, and possibilities for their future lied before them.

All around them, Peters and Martas paired off. Not uniformly, necessarily, with two Martas caressing and stroking this Peter, or several versions of Peter encircling one Marta in particular. Even as her Peter drew her into a kiss, another set of hands trailed over her spine and up to her shoulders and neck. Memories of two Peters fucking her at once returned, and slick heat accompanied that recollection. So she didn’t resist, leaning back into the new Peter as hers kissed a line of fire down her throat and over her breasts.
 
“I’m getting really tired of these dreams,” Pete grumbled, looking around the cemetery. “This one, at least. It’s getting weird and repetitive.”

Marta giggled. “You sure seemed to enjoy the last few.” Her hand slid into his, and she smiled as he looked at her. Firelight glittered in the odd-shaped black stone between her breasts, and the silver chain that supported it. A new necklace, he assumed. He didn’t recognize it, but she’d kept it on when they’d stripped off their clothes and collapsed into bed.

“Not the last one.” He shivered. “Child sacrifice. Brrr.”

She squeezed his hand and led him between the rows of headstones towards the bonfire. “I’s a dream, Pete,” she laughed. “Probably it’s symbolic of something. Hard sacrifices, maybe.”

He frowned at that, funding it jarring. She’d been even more bothered than he was, when they’d woken from that one. But the sight of the people gathered around the bonfire drove the thought from his head. They were all... him. Him and Marta, like the last dream. A couple were older, with iron grey hair and lean builds. One Marta was bald, another wore her hair purple and shaved on one side, another was heavily tattooed and obviously worked out. So me of the the other versions of himself were tattooed or scarred, or bore piercings, or had facial hair or no hair at all. And all of them were grouping off, in pairs or trios or fours. The sight made him harden, even as the association with the last dream made him uncomfortable. “And what’s this symbolic of?”

“How much you want me,” purred a heavily tattooed Marta as she leaned against him, kissing him hungrily and gripping his cock. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Before he could answer, his Marta stepped forward and embraced them both. Her lips lingered in her tattooed doppelgänger, and then she kissed him. He groaned as both versions of his lover stroked his shaft. “Fuck her,” his Marta whispered, nibbling on his ear. “I want to see you cum in her.”

-*-

Pete groaned beneath Marta, hips rising to meet hers as he thrust up into her. Firelight dances on his armlet as he moved within her, hands gripping her hips. Another Pete groaned behind her, cupping her breasts and pulling her back against his chest as his cock pushed deep into her ass. “I want to see him cum in you,” he growled, nipping at her throat with teeth that felt like they’d been sharpened. “I want to hear you, when his seed fills your womb.”

Another Marta, hair half-shaved and dyed lavender, straddled her Pete’s face. Her eyes closed with pleasure as his tongue went to work, then opened as a third Pete joined them. He was heavy with muscle, and a silver bar glittered in his head, and she leaned forward to swallow his meat. A line of spit clung to the bar as she let it slide from his lips. “I want to taste his cum on you,” she purred.
 
Together, she and the lavender hair version of herself licked Peter’s pierced cock. Tongues danced an aimless pattern over his rigid length, leaving him slick from their saliva and twitching from their attention. The Peter behind her guided to his cock, fingers on her head encouraging her to swallow his shaft. Challenging herself, she took him to the base, took him in her throat, filled herself with Peter from every angle, clenched tight around both cocks inside her.

Pierced Peter pulled out as her need to breathe became desperate, stroking himself until strings of liquid silk shot form his cock, splashing against her breasts as well as the lavender-haired Marta. From beneath, Peter pulled her tight against his cock, fingers digging into her hips until his cum flooded her womb.

~*~​

Marta wrapped her lips around his balls, sucking in time with his motions inside the tattooed Marta. She was beneath them both, opposite her tattooed twin, while that Marta took Peter from behind. Eager hips met his every movement, and slick walls held him in a moist grip. A few strokes later, his Marta traced his length with her tongue, and joined him inside her, savoring the lust that lubricated his thrusts.

An older Marta, came up behind him, soft breasts pressed into his back. Her hands groped at his chest and her lips kissed him where his neck met his shoulders. “You look so good, fucking her. I want to suck her taste from your cock.”

~*~​

At the center of the orgy was A Marta she recognized from the first dream. Thicker, just a bit, but this time it was clear she was pregnant. Not far along, maybe three or four months

Pregnant. Was this a fantasy pulled from Peter’s subconscious? Something he wanted? They’d have a conversation about it. Tomorrow perhaps. They could try again, start a family. That thought soothed her, earlier concern nearly vanished as she leaned against her Peter. Satisfied, and maybe a touch sore, she enjoyed the warmed of his arm wrapped around hers, and the pressure of his lips again her cheek.

By now everyone, all the versions of herself and Pete, were lounging about the graveyard, arranged in a loose circle of limbs and scattered conversation. Only one Marta stood at the center of the group, the pregnant one, already playing to her maternal role as she watched over them all. She wore a necklace of black stone and silver, same as many of the others, but hers was the most elaborate and exquisite of all.

“Tonight, we celebrate Samhain, a day which marks the end of the bountiful harvest season, and the unforgiving winter. And, just as the pagan knew they must make offering to the Fae, to ensure the health and lives of their loved ones, so must we propitiate the daemon sultan, to ensure he turns not his ravenous hunger upon us.”

Marta sat up straighter, resisting Peter’s attempt to pull her back into his arms. “What is she talking about?”

“Halloween superstitions,” Peter suggested, tugging her again to lean against him.

“Alone, we perish. Only by uniting in this Circle can we protect ourselves, or each other. We’ve all made sacrifices, and we’ve all partaken of the dark man’s gifts. “

Another Peter approached, a Peter in a similarly exquisite set of black and silver jewelry. He carried a bundle, another familiar bundle, whose cries pierced the funereal quiet of the night.

“No,” Marta murmured, trying to will herself to wake up. She tried to stand, but Peter gripped her arm.

“It’s a dream,” he insisted, fingers tight and digging into her flesh. “Just a dream and it will be all over soon.”
 
“Damn,” Pete yawned. “Why am I so tired in a dream?”

Marta giggled, then wrapped an arm as she leaned into his embrace. “Because you fucked three of me at once?”

“Well, yeah,” Pete agreed. “But it’s a dream. I should be ready to go again.”

She took his hand with a smile, and led him towards the group forming around the bonfire. “No time,” she insisted. “We’ve got to join the others.”

“I thought I just did that?” he laughed

Her response was a playful swat. “Idiot. God, I love you.”

“I love you too.” He took his place in the circle, Marta to his left and another Marta - the one with the half-shaved lavender hair - to his right. Pete, Marta, Pete, Marta, they alternated that way around the bonfire and the stone sarcophagus that stood before it. “What is all this?” he whispered.

“Communion,” the lavender-haired Marta whispered back. “Shhh...”

He watched, more bored than anything else, as a far more pregnant Marta than his Marta stepped forward and began to speak. Too busy looking at her elaborate jewelry, and imagining how it would look on his own Marta, he didn’t really pay attention. Not until she unwrapped the bundle she had taken from a Pete to reveal...

“A baby?” He blinked, then shivered in horror as the pregnant Marta unwrapped a glossy obsidian blade. “What? What the fuck kind of...”

“Sshhh...” Marta hides, admonishing him.

“Communion, remember?” Lavender Marta whispered.

“It is truly right and just,” intoned the pregnant Marta, lifting her knife and raising her voice over the squalling if the infant, “our duty and salvation, always and everywhere to give you thanks, Azathoth most holy, through your beloved Messenger Nyarlathotep, your Voice and Soul through whom you made all things, whom you sent as our Savior and Protector. Fulfilling your will and gaining for you a holy people, he stretched out his hands as he witnessed our Passion, so as to break the bonds of death and manifest the resurrection. And so, with the Messengers and all the Circle we declare your glory, as with one voice we acclaim:”

Pete started forward, uncertain what he was planning, only to find that Marta and Lavender Marta had seized his arms. “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord Azathoth,” They intoned, in singsong unison with the other Petes and Martas. “Heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord Azathoth. Hosanna in the highest.”

Pete strained against the grip of the two women, then froze. A portal tore open, behind the Marta at the altar. Through it, he could see stars, and a shapeless blackness that suggested a cloaked human form. Twin burning nebulae stared at him, and he felt his blood freeze. “You are indeed Holy, O Lord Nyarlathotep,” the Pete at the altar declared, lifting the sobbing infant and holding her above a large brass basin, “fount of all holines.”

“No!” Pete screamed, struggling harder.

“Make holy, therefore, this gift, we pray,” the pregnant Marta intoned, raising the knees for above the infant, “by sending down your Spirit upon us like the dewfall, so that it may unite us in the Body and the Blood of our flesh and blood.”

“NO!” Pete screamed as the knife struck. He saw it slash the baby’s throat, streams if blood gushing into the basin. With a strangled cry of horror he fell to his hands and knees, vomiting. Just a dream, he thought wildly. It’s just a dream. A nightmare.

Numbly he watched the Petes and Martas step forward as couples, each in turn drinking from the basin and consuming a portion of the baby. Why can’t I wake up? he thought wildly as the Lavender Marta and her Pete stepped forward. Just a dream. Why can’t I wake up?

Then he felt a hand take his. “Come on,” Marta whispered, tugging gently. “It’s our turn.”
 
Catholic guilt was a bitch.

It was the only explanation that made any sense. She might not have been a believer anymore, but she couldn’t escape her upbringing. It haunted her and Peter into their shared dreams, taking the form of an elaborate ritual that shamed her for her choices. Perhaps a confession –to Peter, instead of a priest– about what she’d done could ease her conscience.

For now, silent tears streamed down her face. None of the others, not even her Peter, took notice of her agony, nor showed any emotion at the murder they witnessed. No, one Peter did, sagging to his knees and vomiting, disgusted. If he knew, he’d be disgusted with her. But her Peter pulled her forth, bring her before the altar and the bloody basin and the picked at corpse.

Peter took the offered flesh, some deranged parody of the Eucharist, and drank from the blood. She too was offered flesh and blood, but turned away, unable to bring herself to say no, for fear she’d break down completely. From upon her altar, the pregnant version of herself glared down at her, and reached forward with a blood hand. She shied away, but Peter didn’t let her get far, and as her other self touched her forehead, the graveyard withered away.

The waking world returned, but her guilt didn’t fade away. She sat up in bed, pulling away from Peter’s grip, and wrapped her arms around her knees. When she resisted his effort to lie back down, Peter sat up beside and pulled her close “Marta, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my fault,” she sobbed, face buried in his chest, and her tears streaking his skin. “The fucked up dreams are my fault.”

Warm hands stroked her back. “What are you talking about?”

“I had an abortion. Just a…. just a few weeks back. I should have told you, but I… I didn’t want to admit it, I think. Maybe… Maybe it was a mistake.” Whatever else she might have said dissolved into sobs, the horror of the murdered baby clinging to her mind.

“Hey, hey, shhh” he interrupted, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. Gentle lips placed a kiss on her forehead, and she let herself cry for what might have been. “It’s okay; I got you. It’s going to be okay, Marta.”

Peter eased her onto her back, planting loving kisses in her hair and on her face. Hovering over her, he cradled her face, and drew her lips to his. More than anything, right now, she needed him, needed his love and his acceptance and his forgiveness. So she opened her mouth to his, and ignored the bitter iron taste flavoring his lips. “I love you Marta. No matter what.” Her sobs died down into whimpers, his hungering kisses disrupting her ability to continue feeling sorry for herself.

Sex was the furthest thought from her mind, but she didn’t object as he slid between her thighs. She did want to feel close to him, connected. Loved. Maybe this was something he needed. Maybe he needed to know her choice wasn’t a rejection of him.

Fuck, but she was sore. Sorer than she expected, given that they’d only had sex once that evening. But she ached as if the dream had been real, as if she really had given herself over to several Peters. Sore and slick with cum. Still, she clung to Peter, digging her nails into his back as her muscles strained to take him. “You want a baby, don’t you?”

He was still in her, buried to the hilt as he met her eyes in the dark of their hotel room. It was two more heartbeats before he answered, two more heartbeats filled with her guilt and shame. “I do, but only once you’re ready for that.”

“I made a mistake, I–“ More tears threatened to come up, but he stopped her with a finger pressed to her lips.

“We can fix that.”

Wet eyes looked up into his, hope rising to the surface. “We can?”

He didn’t answer at first, but pulled her into a deep kiss, with one arm under her back. The other reached for something in the drawer, but that didn’t matter now. When they broke away, he nuzzled her nose with his. “Absolutely. I know you’ll make the right choice, this time.”

Then he rose over her, and the moonlight caught on his silver and black armlet. Not just on the armlet, though, but on the knife wielded in that hand. “You must join us, Marta. It’s the only way I can keep you safe.”
 
“Pete, come on!” Marta urged, pleading with him as she tugged at his arm. “We have to join in! It’s the only way we’ll be safe.”

Mutely he shook his head, unable to form words. What the hell? Why couldn’t she see how wrong this all was? Or... was she really here at all? He’d always been a lucid dreamer, after all. Maybe this wasn’t a shared dream? Marta wouldn’t do... this.

“Pete!” she urged, sounding frightened. “We have to. You have to. We...”

He jerked away, pulling his hand free with sufficient force that he stumbled backwards. A tombstone caught him in the back of his knees and he fell, plummeting backwards to jerk awake on his own bed. Eyes wide he stared at the ceiling, gasping for breath. I didn’t fall, he told himself. Just a muscle spasm. And a bad dream.

“Pete?” Marta rolled over, propping herself up. “You all right?”

“Sorry,” he grimaced. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He let out a breath. “A nightmare.”

“Hmmm...”. She purses her lips, running a hand over his bare chest. “Well, maybe I can help you relax.” Her hand curled around his gardening cock. “Eventually.”

He drew a shuddering breath as she worked her hand up and down his length, then but his lip as she sped up. She kept at it, kissing him and stroking him until he was groaning aloud, hips arching to meet her hand. Only then did she straddle him, her gasp joining his as she slid down his aching shaft. “God, I love you,” he groaned, resting his hands on her hips.

She leaned forward, molding her body to his as she gripped the headboard. “I love you too,” she whispered, kissing him. The black stone of the pendant she still wore pressed into his chest. “I want to be with you, forever.”

The statement took his breath away. “That’s...” he stared up at her wide-eyed, barely able to frame a response. “I... I thought about asking, but it seemed... too soon?”

Marta pushed up on his shoulder, and something hard pushed into his flesh. He barely registered it as the motion pushed him deeper into her. “No,” she breathed, sighing as they climaxed together. “It’s... oh, Pete, it’s... perfect!”

As he caught his breath she took his hand in his, raising it to her lips. “Perfect,” she sighed again. He smiled, then felt his blood freeze as she lifted the obsidian blade with her free hand. Felt the edge scrape over his skin. “I forgot how rough the first Sabbat can be,” she smiled. “But we’ll be joined together soon. All of us.”
 
“What the fuck?” Marta breathed, eyes glued to the gleaming edge. Words caught in her throat, caught on the building horror that stood in opposition to the look of bliss on his face. “Peter, why do you have a knife?”

The cool blade grazed her cheek, as gentle as Peter’s fingers. “I am not going to hurt you; I would never dream of hurting you. I just want to keep you safe.”

“What are you talking about?” The words came out clipped, shuddered. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, but she stayed very still, unsure what to do. “Keep me safe from what?”

“You know what,” Peter reminded her, his voice deceptively calm. The same tone he used to comfort her after her confession. “You remember that first night a clearly as I do, I’m sure. You remember the being in the portal. Azathoth.”

That name drew a chill done her spine. She pushed away after from Peter “How does this keep me safe?”

“You have to join us Marta. The Circle protects us, but only if we all stand together.”

His explanation didn’t calm her. “The dream was real? All of it? She, the other me, she killed a baby? Our baby?” Marta was on her feet now, covering her nudity with one arm.

“Once you join, you’ll understand everything, you’ll accept everything.” Peter stood as well, and drew closer, but stopped as she flinched. ”It’s going to be okay, Marta. I got you.”

“And if I don’t?”

His expression turned dark, and his fingers tightened over the knife’s handle. “I’ve loved every version of you I’ve ever met. And I’m not willing to sacrifice them for your stubbornness. There is no other choice.”

Backed into the corner, there was nowhere to go, no escape. Would Peter really hurt her? Could she hurt hm, even to defend herself? “What do I have to do?”

“Just a little cut, a little blood.” Peter took her hand and pulled her close. He poked the tip of her finger, pushing past the resistance of skin until he broke through. The he brought the finger to his mouth, placing a gentle kiss before taking it between his lips. Finally, the blade was placed in her hands. ‘Now it’s your turn.”

Holding Peter’s gaze Marta weighed her options. Weighed what he was asking of her, what he expected her to accept. Weighed what it would mean to say yes, and what it would take to say no.

There was no choice.

Her clammy palm gripped the blade, and pushed it into Peter’s abdomen. Hard muscle resisted the knife, and his hands grabbed her wrists. Earlier adrenaline surged, and she drove forth, burying the blade deep. Blood gushed between them, making the handle slick and slippery, but still she yanked it free, tearing up and through his chest.

The look in his eyes nearly killed her, shocked and hurt. He wasn’t her Pete, but he had just held her and kissed and promised her everything would be okay. Now he slumped against the wall with a wet smack, smearing blood when his legs could no longer hold him up. Finally, he slumped over, burning another terrible image into he retinas.

Shaky, blood stained hands grabbed her phone, and clumsily punched in the code to unlock it. The background image of her and Peter together crushed her heart in an icy fist, but she couldn’t stop. Blood stained the screen as she swiped to find the gates app, frantically smashing it until it loaded. Peter’s version had programmable coordinates, but the version he installed for her was hardcoded to open a portal to their bedroom. Because hers was created for use in emergencies. There was no time to worry about her nudity, or the blood that covered her, not now. Slick fingers took two tries to hit the activate button, before the gate popped into existence.

Her Peter just had to still be alive. He just had to.
 
Pete stared wide-eyed at the knife, trying to reconcile the cold black blade with the warm woman who held it. “Joined..?” he managed. “What..?”

“It would have been easier if you’d partaken of the sacrifice, of course,” Marta said, still smiling. “Flesh of our flesh, uniting all of us. But the first of us made do with sharing blood, and we can still do that.”

“First of us..?” He was struggling to keep up.

“The founders of the Circle. The first of you and the first of me to learn the Great Secret.” He watched the knife touch his upturned palm, still not believing it was true. “The secret of the sacrifice that appeases the Daemon Sultan and forges the compact with the Black Man of the Sabbat.” She nodded at the comprehension in his eyes. “Yes. The Personage you saw at the Sabbat tonight.” Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “Nyarlathotep.”

“It wasn’t a dream?” he gasped. “Then...” Pain burned his hand as the razor edge of the knife stroked his palm, and he watched blood drip down his wrist and forearm. “We’ll be together,” Marta repeated, and then squawked in surprise as he bucked beneath her.

“Get off me!” he screamed, writhing and twisting. “You murderous...”

“No!” she shouted back, struggling for balance. “Pete! This is for you! And your Marta! And all of...”

“No!” he screamed again. “You’re a monster!”

Marta screamed now as she lost her balance and fell heavily to the floor. Pete sat up, scrambling to the other side of the bed, then watched in growing horror as his liver - no not his lover, but some deranged copy of her - dragged herself to her feet. It must have been difficult, because the hilt of the dagger protruded from her stomach. “Pete...” she gasped, his name rising in agony as she dragged the knife free. “This... you... have... to..,”

He stared at the wound in horror. Blood poured from it. Blood and some sort of viscous black fluid, like motor oil. “What?” he whispered, watching the black fluid splash on the floor and begin flowing back up her legs. “What?”

She stepped towards him, painfully making her way around the bed. “You... you have to... Pete,” she gasped, raising the knife. “Or... or they’ll kill you.” The black fluid coated her legs and stomach now, seemingly trying to staunch the flow of blood. “Or... Or I’ll kill you.”

She lunged and he caught her wrist. His feet went out from under him, horribly pulled by the black fluid coating her legs, and he landed heavily in his back. Marta gasped, and he felt something warm and wet coating his chest. Blood. So much blood.

He pushed Marta off of him. She sprawled on her back, the obsidian dagger protruding obscenely from between her breasts. Sobbing, stomach heaving, he scrambled and slipped away from the body. Marta’s body. He’d killed her. He’d killed her.

“No,” he sobbed. “She can’t... she’s not... not my Marta...”. Desperately he groped backwards towards the nightstand and his phone. Not his Marta. He’d call Marta, and she’d be all right. She’d be all right, and this would be a nightmare, and oh God There was so much blood.

The phone slipped from his hand, bouncing in the floor. Beyond one of the screens, he could hear the ripping sound and see the wan actinic light of an opening portal. “M... Marta?”

Unnoticed, the black fluid snaked across the floor towards the bathroom.
 
The first thing Marta saw as she stepped through the portal was the body sprawled upon the floor. Her body. Her dead eyes, staring back at her, and blood trickling from her lips. The knife –the same knife she held in her own hand– stuck out of her chest.

“M... Marta?”

Peter’s voice broke through the shock, horror, pulling her away from the nightmare omen of her own demise. Here he was, on the other side of the bed, kneeling and covered in blood. Oh God, so much blood.

“Pete!” She dropped to his side, desperate to staunch the blood flow, imagining the same injury she’d given the other Peter. But his chest was fine, no wound. The blood wasn’t his; it was hers.
The other her. “You’re… you’re okay…” She wrapped her arms around him, needing to believe he was alive, needing to know that Peter, her Peter, wasn’t dead on the floor of a hotel room.

“I thought he was you. I thought we were together, through the night and the dream. But, when he pulled out the knife…” She looked at he knife she still gripped in her hand, the knife still coated in Peter’s blood… “I stabbed him, killed him. I…” The confession transformed into whimpers and tears,

“We can’t stay here,” she murmured, hands still gripping his shoulders. Still holding him, because she wanted him to hold her, and promise it would all be okay. Like he had earlier, the other him. The one she stabbed. “What are we going to do?”

They had to run, didn’t they? But where would they go? Where could they go, that the others couldn’t follow? Where could they possibly hide from versions of themselves? Did they have time to pack bags? Take showers? They couldn’t leave like this, covered in blood. That settled it.

Shower first. Then perhaps they could think this through, think it out. Marta stood, and pulled Peter to his feet, casting her gaze towards the other her, the dead her. And then beyond that, to the slick black substance that flowed from her doppelgänger's body. That flowed into the bathroom.

“What the hell is that?”
 
“Oh God,” Pete babbled, trying to check Marta over as she tried to examine him. “You, you’re alive. Thank God, you’re alive. But, but the blood...”

Her explanation was a confused mirror of his own experiences, another him and a knife, and she’d killed him. The other him. With the knife she still held, a copy of the same knife she’d - no, the other her - had used. “It’s okay,” he told her, wanting it to be true. “We’re okay.”

“We can’t stay here,” she murmured, shaking as she clung to him. “What are we going to do?”

“There’s more of them,” he whispered, remembering dead Marta’s words. “They’ll come for us. And they know where we are. We have to go, have to hide. Somewhere.”

In response Marta stood up, looking at the bathroom as she helped him up. Showers. Yeah. They’d need them. Both of them were covered with blood. But she was staring at the floor now. “What the hell is that?”

“What?” he asked, turning his head.

A sticky trail of blood stretched to the bathroom. No, not blood. It was black, and flowing. “It...” he began slowly, watching it. “When I stabbed her. It, it came out of her. Like blood, but...”

Tendrils rose from the black slick, looking like the time-lapse footage he’d seen of slime molds. The tip of one tendril bulged and split, opening into a phallic looking eye. Another split, and a hollow raw sound like an off-key bagpipe sounded. Pete’s skin crawled as he recognized the noise. “Maarrrtaa...”

Then it started flowing back, coming towards them.

“Fuck!” Pete barked, grabbing Marta’s hand and running, turning over a screen as he did. The thing flowed over and through it, chasing as he half led, half pulled Marta towards and through the still open gate. In a panic he grabbed her phone at hit the cancel button, closing it just before the black substance poured through.

“Jesus,” he gasped, phone slipping from numb fingers. Then he saw his own corpse, sprawled on her bed. “Fuck,” he shuddered. “I can’t... fuck, I need a shower.”
 
Nothing seemed real anymore. Nothing could be real right? Not after killing one version of her lover and coming up upon her own dead body. Certainly not being chased by sentient oily substance that poured from the body of her doppelganger and called her name in eerie tones. Marta doubted that she would have believed what she’d seen with her own two eyes, much less run from it, if it weren’t for Peter dragging her along. The first two steps were nearly a stumble, and it was only Peter’s Momentum that kept her upright. They went back through the portal he’d come through originally, back to the hotel room with the dead Peter.

They showered, by it wasn’t the sexy sort of shower they’d typically indulge in. It was difficult to feel sexy while they scrubbed blood off their bodies. Each other’s blood, Marta realized. Even once the water rinsed clear, it was difficult to feel clean. But at least she could think a little clearer. And the dead body in the room gave her an idea.

She picked up the dead Peter’s phone and unlocked it, worrying for only a moment that he might have a different passcode. But the phone opened, and displayed the same geeky background as her Peter. It didn’t take long to find the gates app.

This other version of themselves had been prolific in their trips through to gates, Marta realized. While her and her Peter had only taken a handful of trips, this alternate version of themselves had hundreds of coordinates in the app’s history. Still, he had a list of frequent destinations programed in, and one was labelled home. A sudden ache of loss hit her, a recognition they could never go home, but she swallowed it down. Grief could wait, but they weren’t safe yet. She pulled up the coordinates, ad compared them to the ones she used.

The fifth coordinate was different. If t first three referred physical dimensions, and the fourth referred to temporal dimensions, then the fifth altered something else. A branching timeline, distinct from their own. At least, that’s how Peter had explained it before. Whatever the case, it had to be safer than staying put.

Activating the portal revealed a familiar image. Familiar, but lacking a lookalike corpse, or unspeakable horror. It was the home she and Peter shared, or very nearly. Thee were a couple things that seemed different, a couple things out of place. Now, however, those little differences were the last thing on Marta’s mind.

“Lena’s going to think I died,” Marta murmured, and the weight of her realization sunk her down onto the bed. “She’s going to think I was murdered, and so is your mom. Everyone is going to think we were murdered. Our family and friends and colleagues and oh gods, even your cats…”
 
Nothing felt real.

Pete scrubbed Marta’s blood off his body mechanically, trying to ignore the throbbing ache where she’s slashed his palm. Trying not to wonder if he might be infected by whatever that black liquid was that had flowed out of her. She’d bled all over him, after all. On his wounded hand.

Afterwards, he pulled on his doppelgänger’s suit. It fit disturbingly well, and he didn’t want to wear it. But what else could he do? He needed clothes, and he was reluctant to go back to his apartment. Or Marta’s. The other Petes and Martas that Marta had alluded to might be watching.

It was Marta that found the solution. His doppelgänger had a gate app as well, a slightly more sophisticated version, from what he saw as he watched over her shoulder. And one of the destinations led to another universe. He followed her through, hair prickling on the back of his neck at how normal it looked.

“Lena’s going to think I died,” Marta murmured, and the weight of her realization sunk her down onto the bed. “She’s going to think I was murdered, and so is your mom. Everyone is going to think we were murdered. Our family and friends and colleagues and oh gods, even your cats…”

Pete sat down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “I...” he began, then stopped. “I thought...” He pulled her into an embrace, squeezing tightly as he fought against sudden tears. He lost the battle, terror and loss welling up into wracking sobs as he clung to her, unable to let go.

After an eternity, the emotions subsided enough to speak. “I, I thought,” he hiccuped, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. “God, I thought I’d... and then... God.”

Finally, he managed to recover enough composure to stagger into the bathroom and wash his face. He was still ashen when he came out, eyes red and hollow. With a heavy sigh, he slumped back onto the bed. “We need to try and get some rest,” he said slowly. “And then, assess where we’re at. The other me...” his voice shook and he fought down the fit of hysterics that welled up. “The other me has the, the same password. On his phone. And this place is mostly the same as mine.”

Except the autographed Avengers poster. It had Edward Norton’s signature. And he hadn’t noticed a litter box, or any sign of cats.

“In the morning, we can try to figure out our next steps. See how different things are, and try to get supplies together. And... and I’m just making this up as I go, Marta. This is...”. He bit off the word insane, for fear that he’d crack. Instead he scrubbed at his eyes. “I, I don’t know what to do.”
 
Marta was left with an overwhelming emptiness. Too much to process in a few scant hours, too much to mourn. She lay beside Peter in the dark of the room, staring up at the ceiling. Staring, because she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. Each time she did, she saw her own dead body. Or the look of shocked betrayal in Peter’s eyes. Or the limp corpse of the child that had been sacrificed by yet another doppelganger.

Insomnia was an unfamiliar experience, especially since meeting Peter. Between their class schedules and Peter’s early morning exercise routine, both were usually pretty tired once bedtime rolled around. And if one or the other wasn’t quite sleepy when hey climbed into bed, that was usually a good excuse to fuck until exhausted, and she always slept well after a good orgasm or two. But neither of them had sex on the mind tonight. Marta wondered if she’d ever want sex again, after the other Peter pulled a knife while he was inside her.

She ended up sleeping in fits and starts, dreamless stretches of time. There was no guilt in hitting dismiss on the 5 am alarm, nor in cancelling their classes for the day. Surviving a near murder had to be worth at least one day off, right? It wasn’t until 10 am that she could even think about crawling out of bed. Even then, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything useful, unable to wrap her head around how much this place was just like the one they’d abandoned. They even had the same pictures on to walls, the pictures she’d just put up a week ago, to celebrate their first month together.

At the center of those pictures was a different one. A new one, with her and Peter together. The other her, wearing the same slinky blue dress that the other Peter had surprised her with that night. The other Peter wore his same sharp suit and vest, looking just as handsome. They posed with Peter’s around her waist, both of them beaming. Utterly happy, and in love.

“They were just like us…”
 
“They were just like us...”

Pete grumbled and pulled the blanket over his head, trying to get back to sleep by pretending he was asleep. It didn’t work. It hadn’t worked all night, really, so why should it be different now? “Not quite,” he yawned, giving up and sitting up. “We didn’t plot murder.”

Rubbing his eyes, he picked up his phone. Well, the other “him”, although apparently it was his now. But his thumbprint worked, and everything was set up exactly the same way as his. Blearily, he tapped out a message to Dr. Brown: Not feeling well. I’m going to take the day off. TA knows what to do.

Dropping the phone back on the charger, he dragged himself out of bed and wrapped his arms around Marta. “I need coffee,” he mumbled, leaning into her back and appreciating her warmth. “I refuse to try to make any sense out of this without caffeine.”

Kissing her on the back of the neck, he slouched into the kitchen. By daylight, the apartment was even more surreal. The pizza box he and Marta - no, he and the alternate Marta, and wasn’t that a chilling thought? - has emptied wasn’t where he expected it to be. It wasn’t there at all. The mug he’d left in the sink wasn’t there. The coffee maker was by the fridge, instead of the stove.

As the coffee perked, he opened the fridge to examine the contents. Mostly the same, although their alternates had eaten more of the eggs. And there was a stoppered bottle, the kind home brewers used, half full of a pale amber liquid. “What the...” he began, stopping himself as he reached for it. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

Shaking his head, he looked around. “You want some breakfast? Or just coffee?”
 
“Not really hungry,” Marta confessed, following Peter into the kitchen, “But maybe I will try to eat something small.

She managed a smile when Pete looked back at her. “How are you doing today? Is your hand okay?” Pulling him closer, she examined the wound. A long straight cut down the middle of his palm. Not deep or swollen, but a little red. “Doesn’t look infected, but maybe we should put something on it. Just to be safe. Besides, the coffee is going to take another couple minutes.”

The bathroom was the same, except that her make was in the right side drawers, and it took a moment to find the antibacterial cream and bandages. “I guess this can be our excuse for calling out today,” Marta noted, wrapping his hand tightly. “Though I am sure all our colleagues are just going to assume we spent it in bed together.” She allowed herself a small laugh, drawing closer to Pete. But they she thought about their colleague from their own reality, who were likely just getting the news about their deaths, and her mood soured. Without another word, she put away the bandages and cream, and headed back for the kitchen.

The toaster popped and Marta poured them both a mug of coffee. She nibbled her toast, but hardly tasted it, mind filled with questions. She doubted Peter had much more answers than she did, but they needed to get them out in the open. “So, what’s the plan? Just hide out here until the Circle figures out where we are? Seeing as it’s comprised of versions of us, I can’t imagine it taking too long. We do have those supplies we stashed back in Sebelah’s time, in an emergency, but hat’s all short-term stuff. We need a long term plan, beyond mere survival.”
 
Pete picked at his toast, trying to work up the enthusiasm to eat. He should be hungry, but all he could feel from his stomach was a gnawing anxiety. “I dunno,” he said slowly, before thoughtfully chewing and swallowing a bite of toast. It was dry, and felt like it was clogging his throat, but it seemed to help settle his stomach.

“We need somewhere safer than this,” he finally said, looking around. “This version of us was supposed to, I don’t know, recruit us. Or kill us. Someone will probably try to check in on that, and soon. And we might be able to bluff our colleagues, this world’s versions of them, but other versions of us? I doubt it.”

He drummed his fingers on the table. “We’ll need to move on, look for somewhere safer. And we’ll need something to help us get set up wherever that is. Like our emergency stash in Sebelah’s time, but more elaborate.” He chuckled without humor. “I guess we could max out our - their - credit cards, and empty out the savings and checking accounts.”

He ate the rest of his toast, thinking. “And maybe...”. There was a buzz from his phone, and he checked it by reflex. Then he read it again, blood draining from his face. “Shit. Oh, holy shit.”

The text was from Dr. Brown. Already took care of it, since you had inner circle business last night. Everything went well?
 
Marta nodded along, considering the logistics of Peter’s suggestions. Money was a must. Or things that could be sold off easily, in case money was different in different realities. Precious metals, jewelry were obvious choices. That might require some research.

The buzz of Peter’s phone went largely unnoticed by her, but his panicked reaction caught her attention. “What is it?” Peter didn’t respond, just stared at the phone. After another moment, she reached for the phone, and read the text herself. “Shit.”

Marta drew herself erect, pacing across the tile while she plotting. Finally, still holding Peter’s phone, she sent off a text. Of course. Just worn out. You know how it is. She met Peter eyes over the screen.

“We have to be them, while we’re here. At least until we’re ready to jump again. Which means we’ll want some of that onyx jewelry they were wearing. He had a silver armlet with a black stone. What did she have, some kind of necklace?” She handed the phone back to, and pulled out her own, looking for someplace nearby that might sell what they were looking for. It would be easier to get it off Amazon, probably, but she doubted they had time to wait for even same day shipping.

“We are probably going to need a gun. Or, some guns, I guess.” She looked over at Peter again, lips pursed. “I’ve never used one before. Have you?” With a bitter laugh, she just shook her head. “At least we can gate to a red state with loose gun laws. Thanks NRA.”

“We’ll probably want to stock up on medical supplies and drugs. After all, we know they are going to try and kill us. Might as well anticipate some injuries, somewhere down the line. You know any first aid?”

The question brought another bitter laugh from her. “I don’t know what she was when you knew her, but Nkendi –Sebelah– was a doctor when we were together. Not like us, a medical doctor. OB-GYN, but still.”

Marta thought about it a moment longer, biting the inside of her cheek. “I guess if it ever got really desperate, we could always go back to her, in our last timeline. Before she broke up with me. We could meet her at her clinic. At least she’d understand.”
 
“I’ve done some target shooting,” Pete replied. “Just shooting cans and such. Mom was the black sheep liberal ofher family, but she was still a bit of a gun nut.” He felt himself choke up on the last few words, as he remembered that he’d probably never see her again. Never see any of his family again.

Another bite of toast helped push the emotion down. Enough that he could listen to Marta, at least. “I was a Boy Scout, made it as far as Star. So I’ve got some emergency first aid training, but I’ve never done anything more serious than bandage cuts,” he wiggles his hand, then frowned as he realized the scar would match the one on Marta’s hand. Had that been deliberate? “But for anything really serious, we’d have to find real help. Like Sebelah.”

He thought for a moment. “Hell, if we can manage to throw the Circle off our scent, it might be worth talking to her anyway. She clearly knew a lot about all this, this witch stuff. And God, that still sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

Killing the last of his coffee, he set his mug down with a distinct click. “We should search my apartment and yours before we buy any jewelry, though. They might have more pieces, after all. And maybe we can learn a little more about them, get a few hints about how to act.”

-*-

An hour later, Pete was sitting on the couch sorting through the seemingly out of place things they’d found. He’d had to focus on the weird stuff, not th different things. So, for example, examining the DVD of the Paul McGann Doctor Who series (eight episodes produced by Fox) was off the list, but the creepy soapstone statue of a squatting potbellied toad with bat ears was very much on.

“Well, at least we won’t have to buy more jewelry,” he said, holding up a black stone pendant on a silver chain. The stone was cold to the touch, and a flat black that seemed to absorb the light that touched it. “And maybe not any weapons.”

It was half a joke. They’d found three knives, and a sheath for the obsidian blade that Marta had pulled out of his doppelgänger and brought with them. The first was chipped flint, as long as his hand and bound with leather things to a handle carved from an antler. The second was leaf-bladed and bronze, and the third was forged from some sort of green metal he’d never seen before. “Why would they have had these? And for that matter, where did they get two of those obsidian daggers from? I’ve only seen a picture of one, from that donor of yours.”
 
While Peter scoured the apartment for oddities, Marta had discovered a notebook, with a plain black cover. Inside were pages of handwritten notes –her own handwriting, she knew. Maybe a hundred pages, furiously scribbled in her own hand, and every word of it was nonsense. Not one language she recognized, no root words or prefixes or suffixes or any of the building blocks of language as she understood them. After thirty minutes of pouring over the notebook, she’d begun diagraming the sentences, pulling apart the meaningless words to get some understanding of sentence structure or typological patterns. Was it subject-verb-object, or subject-object-verb? Did the verbs conjugate to the subject, or to the tense or both?

“She –the other me– wrote this. Wrote all this, nearly filled a notebook with some language I can’t even begin to identify.” Marta held it up for Peter, carefully marking her place with her thumb. “I wonder if Sebelah knows what it is.”

Peter laid out the objects he’d discovered. In particular, the handful of knives. Since she still had the one she’d taken off the corpse of the other Peter, they added it to the collection. “Why would they have had these? And for that matter, where did they get two of those obsidian daggers from? I’ve only seen a picture of one, from that donor of yours.”

“What if… what if that passive aggressive text from the Delgados wasn’t passive aggressive?” Marta started, giving voice to her theory as it formed in her head. “I mean, what if he were being earnest? Maybe he was actually thanking me –us– for visiting that weekend. If the other us were able to fool you and me so easily, it would have been no big deal to fool them. But why?” She held up the blade, examining it much more thoroughly. “Was it really necessary to recruit us? Was it worth the trouble of stealing from a billionaire? Would a regular knife not have cut it?”

Fingers traces the runs on the side, seeking some clue she’d overlooked some answer that would make it all make sense. “The etchings make the same reference as the Necronomicon did. The black man draped in sunset. It doesn’t refer to any god in the Nahuatl pantheon, and not Egyptian either, so far as I can tell. What did Sebelah say his name was? Nyarlathotep?”
 
“Yeah,” Pete agreed, leaning back on the couch. “Nyarlathotep. She also called him the ‘Black Man’ for some reason.” He made a noise of irritation, kicking his feet up on the coffee table next to the knives. Then a thought struck him.

“Let me see that,” he said, leaning forward and taking the obsidian knife. Running his finger over the markings on the handle and blade - how much work must have gone into etching the design on the black glass? - he frowned in thought. Then, frowning, he dug out his phone. Yes, good, his duplicate had also been too lazy to delete GarageBand. “T’ik’uri megareja āsiwegidi ina ā’imiro layichali yihīdu,” he intoned as the phone recorded the phrase.

“It’s... not the same,” he said, laying the blade down with the phone above it. “But, yeah. The scallops on the blade and hilt form a wave pattern, like someone recorded themselves speaking. So...”. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “So, maybe... somehow... the people who carved this knife encoded some sort of... I don’t know. A chant? A prayer? Something with an effect like the way those words help stabilize a gate?”

He threw himself back in the couch again. “But you know what I don’t get? If they were supposed to recruit us, why were they so bad at it?” A bark of laughter. “Like, were we supposed to sign up for a baby-murdering cannibal cult because they’re good in bed?”
 
Despite herself, despite everything, Marta laughed with Peter. Laughed at the absurdity of idea. At the chain of events that had to seem ridiculous from anyone on the outside looking in. Laughed, because it felt better than the fear and disgust and confusion and betrayal. “You’d think they would have known us better…”

Except… “But, they joined, in the end.” Her laughter died away. “Not just them, either. How many versions of us were there?”

“Too fucking many” was the answer. Whatever madness caused the other versions of them to join this psychotic cult, it was tied to the gates, and to this Nyarlathotep.

Marta stood. “Let’s get out of here. Gather those supplies, and start thinking about where we want to go next. This place is giving me the creeps.” Because it was too damn normal. Sure, they’d found a couple weird things, things that couldn’t be easily explained away, but overall, the place felt too normal. Too familiar. The other versions of them liked the same movies and books and past times. Everything on the surfaces seemed to be the same, but when given the choice of participating in ritual sacrifice, their doppelgangers had joined in.

She slipped the black necklace over her head, and gathered up the other Marta’s things. All in the same places she kept her things. “You got any ideas?”
 
Pete slipped on the silver and onyx ring he’d found, then pulled off his shirt and fumbled with the armlet. When it finally locked on, it was chill against his skin. A cold, stark reminder of the differences between himself and the other Peter.

The other dead Peter.

“I know where I’d like to go,” he muttered, buttoning his shirt back up. “But that’s not going to happen. So, I guess we’ve got options?” Standing up, he tucked his shirt back in. “Problem is, it’s not unreasonable to assume that the others could take a good guess where we’d want to go. So that’s a problem for us.”

Movement felt good right now, as they left the apartment building and started walking. It gave the illusion of progress, of getting somewhere. “I think,” he said, zipping his coat up against the chill November air, “that we should consider certain things non-negotiable, except in emergencies. The past is probably right out, for instance. Poor health conditions, lack of decent infrastructure, and really bad racism.” He uttered a brief chuckle. “Also, I don’t want to get burnt as a witch if anyone sees my phone.”

The first stop was the REI on High Street, purchasing duplicates of the “emergency gear” they’d stashed in Sebelah’s time in their own world - solar chargers and batteries, water purification equipment, a tent, first aid kits, and so on. The cost made Pete wince, and the knowledge that they wouldn’t be hanging around to pay the bill didn’t help.

Next was a trip to a few different dealerships, test-driving hybrid SUVs that claimed to be able to handle off road driving well. One vehicle in particular, a Hyundai Crosstrek, seemed promising enough to take for an overnight test drive. “I figure we can take it through a portal later,” Pete suggested. “See how it handles somewhere without roads.”

He hung a left onto the interstate, heading more or less in the direction of home. “Hey,” he added, “want to go get lunch? Toast and coffee isn’t going as far as I thought it would.”
 
Shopping lifted Marta’s mood, even if they were mostly picking up emergency supplies. It was nice to have a tangible goal to make progress towards, something to give her a semblance of control over chaos that had become her life.

Car shopping wasn’t quite as enjoyable. Mostly because their salesman made assumptions about why a pair of thirty-somethings were suddenly quite interesting in trading in her two-year-old sedan for an SUV. Even trying to steer them over towards the minivans at first. They insisted they were mostly interested in outdoors activities, like hiking and camping, but the salesman kept talking up the safety rating of this model, or the built-in features of that model, like built in booster sets and rear seat monitors.

Marta was glad when Peter took over speaking for them, because she was about ready to go off on the poor man. It wasn’t his fault, she knew rationally, but the thought couldn’t calm her down. Was it because the Peter who’d accepted what she’d done was the Peter she killed? Was it because, regardless if she was ready to start a family right at this moment with Peter, she hoped they could possibly at some point. Whatever they might have wanted, didn’t matter now. The choice had been made for them.

“Hey, want to go get lunch? Toast and coffee isn’t going as far as I thought it would.”

“Yeah,” she replied, flashing him a smile. “Now that you mention it, I think I am actually hungry.” She reached for his hand “And afterwards we can check out some storage units. If I understand how these gates work correctly, we could go to a specific time and place right? So it’s not like we would have to set these up in perpetuity, but just pay the first few month’s rent.

They stopped at a cozy little café along the river, far from their usual restaurants. She settled on chowder and tea. Once the waitress was out of earshot, she got back to the matter at hand. “If we are going to figure out where to run next, it might help if we understood what exactly our options were. I agree that the past isn’t ideal for long term, but what are we looking for? Another alternate world, similar to our original, to hide out in?”
 
Pete toyed with his water glass, thinking. “Our options are pretty wide open, really. The past and the future, alternate worlds, and even the past and future of those alternate worlds.” He grimaced. “Even other planets, in theory. That really isn’t a good option for us, though.”

He thought about it. “The past is pretty much right out. And the future..? We clearly don’t know enough about it. Problem is, we don’t know enough about the different alternate earths.”

He drummed his fingers, then stopped as the waitress returned with their orders. Tea and chowder for Marta, Coke Zero and a turkey club for him. He dug in, silent for several minutes as he chewed.

“An alternate earth might be the best, enough like home that we can blend in. But we’d have to make sure there aren’t any alternate uses there.” He blinked. “Uses? Eese? Ii? What the hell id the plural of ‘us’, anyway?”

He took a drink. “Sorry. I’m still feeling a little punchy. Point is, we need to fit in. But not to supplant our alternate selves, right? Or run in with the Circle, if our alternates are members.” He grimaced. “Hell. This world would be nearly perfect, if it wasn’t for them.”

His phone buzzed, and he checked it by reflex. The text was from Marie Sanders, and it took him a moment to place the name. Astronomy student, and the waitress at Greens. Then he blinked at the message. We still on for tonight?
 
Bitter jealousy surged through Marta, and escaped in a snicker. “Apparently this version of you is fucking a student.” Sure, she’d watched him fuck Marie in a dream, but dreams weren’t real. Or, were they real? Was all of it real, the whole time? It took a deep breath to push down the anger, a deep breath to remind herself that that was the other Peter, not hers. She grabbed his hand in apology. “Sorry, I know it’s not you. I guess I am just not handling this well.”

Her train of thought went off track as her phone buzzed, this time. She held Peter’s gaze for a heartbeat, then checked her texts. One new message, from Lena, How did it go last night? We’re still meeting up tonight, right?

Marta showed Peter her message, “Think it’s related to your stuff?” She thought for a while, putting together pieces and forming a theory. “Do you think it’s possible that our shared dreams weren’t actually dreams? Or, at least some of them were real, in a way? The first dream we shared, in the cemetery, Marie was there. As well as Lena, and Dr Brown. What if they are in some kind of… cult, I guess?”

Marta finished off her tea, and sighed, “Does any of that make sense to you? If I am right, it means our alts were like the cult leaders? Which means, if we are going to keep up this masquerade, we are going to oversee whatever is happening tonight.” She shrugged, and pushed her meal aside. “Or we can gate to somewhere new before then.”
 
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