This Magical Girl is Mine 6.1 This Magical Girl is Mine

Agatha is, it must be said, a pretty good kisser. Inferior to Sophie, obviously, but that’s true of everyone. Certainly better at it than my high school flings. Her lips are soft, yet hungry, and her tongue—

Ah, she’s still kissing . I should really make her stop. It’s just, her form is quite nice on top of mine, the weight of her pressing down, and I’m still feeling the rush from that wafer of worship, and the hum in the air is so lovely and rhythmic—

No, this should certainly stop. Her enticing mouth needs to be parted from mine, at least long enough for to breathe. Then again, do I really need to breathe? A goddess would have no such limitations, so perhaps if I reach for my fla—

No, no! It’s my fla that caused this! Corrupting Agatha was never part of the plan! Just because she's attractive, cute, nerdy in just the way I like, and that chest—

ENOUGH! I roar inside my head, parting the hazy cloud of lust that had seeped in. I pour strength into my limbs and force Agatha off of . We both gasp for air, though the wild look in her eyes tells she doesn't really care about breathing right now. She's shivering with raw, naked desire.

It’s the air in here, and the incense, and the drugs in everyone’s food and the music pounding in their ears and the spell that those priestesses have woven over the whole chamber. A ritual ceremony giving praise to their goddess. Love. Beauty. Sex. Desire.

I see two worlds overlapping. In one, mortals and magical girls laugh and dance and drink, carefree in their muted revelry. They play gas of networking and dia manipulation, streaming their interactions to the outside world for more fa and more profit. Sanitized, curated, artificial.

The second world is the world of dreams and hearts and glittering glass. In the sanctum of Venus, in the highest hall of her temple, the revelers rut and glut and bleed for her amusent. They drink until they are sick and twine their bodies with one another in worship of their goddess, making sex with their teeth and loving on the altar.

Smartphones record the kiss and share it on social dia. Naked, insensate petitioners crawl toward us to join in. Two worlds revolve.

I stumble to my feet and away from Agatha, who lurches toward and clings to my side, eyes wide and bright and lost. “Love,” she whispers. “Love, love, love. Love . Love you.”

This… has turned into a difficult situation. Fuck. What do I do now?

There’s one obvious answer: remove the fla and take away the spell that must have brought Agatha to this point. I have no idea how my spark was able to make Agatha fall in love with , but I can feel it singing in her chest in ti with the rhythm of the haze. My brief surge of divine mania only exacerbated the problem; sohow, my magic is what made her vulnerable in the first place. My spell is what’s making her obsessed with .

So I should remove it, because this is wrong and Agatha’s useless like this and mind control is probably not a great way to start a relationship and I have a girlfriend and we’re on a mission and—it’s bad! This is bad! But also… I still need to be a claimant, and Agatha was my first petitioner. Can I cut her loose without weakening my claim?

My hesitation gives Agatha another opportunity to pursue . She paws at feebly, thirsting, desperate. Her eyes are bloodshot and dilated, her glasses missing. She bites her lip and whines, pressing herself to .

“Please,” she begs . “I give myself to you. I give you all of . Take . Take !”

Glamour laughs from right behind , her voice like sweet poison in my ear. “You heard the girl. Won’t you honor your worshiper? Induct your priestess as Venus inducted us.”

Well, now it’s definitely the wrong idea. “Sorry, Aggie, but you’ll thank later.”

I hold Agatha at bay and reach for the magic I placed in her, calling the erald spark back to . Co ho, little spark. Your work is done. The fla in roars, singing to its castoff. The spark nudges and stirs, one fla responding to another… but it doesn’t leave its host. It recoils from , clinging to Agatha.

Sothing has gone terribly wrong. Agatha cries out and her nails dig into my flesh, breaking skin, her eyes wild and frenzied. “Please, please, please!”

“Did you really think that would work?” Glamour mocks , circling so she’s visible. She’s taken the shape of , jeering at with my own face like that damned deimovore. “Silly mortal playing goddess. You wove blasphemy, little girl, and now you’re paying the price.”

I conjure a gun in my free hand and shoot Glamour between the eyes. It doesn’t fucking do anything, of course—you’d think putting a bullet in soone would be effective one of these days, but no. That Glamour shatters like glass, a re illusion, and two more laugh at from among the gathering throng of maddened mortals and glassy-eyed magical girls. The whole room is watching now, laughing and clapping and shambling. The world of phones and clothing and decorum is fading, taken in by the red haze of the ritual.

I reach for the spark again. The divinity I consud is still fresh to my system, circulating through veins no longer tied to a heart. The emptiness in my chest burns like acid, threatening to steal what’s rightfully an. You won’t have this, Venus! I hiss and grit my teeth, feeding my prize into the fla of Protheus and once more calling the erald spark to leave Agatha and return to .

“Be undone!” I command. “This spell has served its purpose. Agatha, cast it off!”

I can feel the spark more deeply now, my senses straining and expanding with an injection of divine fla. The green fire of transformation has spread through her like a mycelium network, like an infection traveling along her nervous system, like threads stitched through her brain. Chains of fire surround her soul.

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I did this? My power did this? Is this what I’ve been capable of all this ti?

Maenad was right; I’ve only scratched the surface of my magic’s potential.

Now probably isn’t the ti for galomaniacal cackling, so I stow my rush of euphoria and try to channel a more productive emotion: anger. This is my spell, and it dares to disobey ? This errant spark thinks it can cling to another when I’ve demanded its return? Clearly, this mote of fla has forgotten who owns it. I seize hold of the connection between us and yank.

Agatha crumples away from and falls to the floor to cry and scream and writhe. Her body lights up with incandescent green, fla flickering in arcs and loops as it struggles to resist my call. I raise both hands and clench my fists.

“You will obey ,” I hiss. “You will return to !”

Another image of Glamour flickers between us. The priestess leans in, now wearing Agatha’s shape. “Does the false idol show its face? Are you a cruel and wicked thing?”

“Your goddess is base! I’ll be more loving than she could conceive. I am saving my first follower, you wretch!” I scatter the illusion with fla and wrath.

Agatha cries out again, shudders, and rises on trembling legs. She raises her face to stare into mine with pleading eyes and an expression of absolute despair. “Please, Archon. Don’t do this! I’ll do anything, I’ll be anything, just let keep it! Let be yours!”

My head is hurting from the strain of trying to control this damnable spark. I grit my teeth and shout back at her, “If you’re mine, Agatha, then do as I say! If you love , then obey ! If you wish to worship , then fall to your knees and return my gift! Complete the circle! Acknowledge as your Venus and surrender!”

Glamour is by my side again, leaning against my shoulder in the image of Striga. “We could keep her as a pet,” the pretender says lightly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—she might be grateful, even. Don’t you think our ho could use a puppy? We could train her to bark, beg, and butcher for us. A tool in our arsenal and a bit of spice in our bedroom, wouldn’t that be nice? What goddess has ever kept to only one lover?”

I burn her away, but her words stick in my mind like daggers. That is the mindset of a goddess, isn’t it? To be loved by many—by all—and to take and command as she pleases?

Agatha, wracked with pain and fighting herself, pleads with . “I’ll be yours, I’ll be your pet, I’ll be whatever you want, just let be with you. I love you, I love you, I love you!”

For an awful mont, I see myself. This is , on my knees for Sophia and willing to accept any degradation, any inconvenience, any injustice if it keeps close to her. Burning and wretched with love. It’s a trap. It’s not right.

“That’s not the deal I made with you, Agatha. Rember what we promised to each other. Give back the spark.” I flare my divinity for a final ti, letting my wonderful prize flood the room and wash over the churning, crawling, orgiastic masses. “Surrender.”

Finally, rcifully, she gives up. The spark slips from her grasp with a terrible sense of scraping and tearing and she drops like a puppet whose strings have been cut. A chord of panic cuts through . In trying to reverse the damage, have I just made things worse? If it was that deeply embedded, what damage have I just done to Agatha’s twisted, altered psyche?

The erald spark and all its writhing tendrils return to my font of fla. The spark is reabsorbed without further resistance, its singular mote rejoining the vast well. It feels… greater, sohow, than when I portioned it. Like its growth, too, has been added to my sum.

I don’t have ti to consider that further.

Agatha shivers on the floor in a heap, sobbing quietly. I want to comfort her, but I don’t get the opportunity; as I take a single step forward, the clock strikes midnight and a terrible booming sound reverberates through the chamber.

“Let it begin,” Glamour laughs, and then she’s standing beside Pearl Princess on the balcony overlooking the chamber, with Maenad on the other side.

In the shimring doubled vision of two worlds colliding, Pearl Princess is magical girl and goddess both, dressed in the robes of Venus and carrying the ghost of her image. I raise a fresh gun to shoot at her, but the priestess waves her hand and a terrible presence fills the room and slams to the ground.

“This is a demonstration,” Pearl intones in an echoing, supernatural voice. “Behold the grandeur and glory of one who sups at the teat of divinity. Behold how easy it is for true divinity to put her back in her place. Behold, all of you, and give worship to your true goddess. Praise to Venus, the rising goddess of love. Praise to Venus, the rising goddess of beauty. Praise to Venus, the goddess ascendant who shall rule over all the masses and take of their adoration to forge for them a paradise without equal.”

“Praise!” the masses shout. “Praise to Venus! Praise to the goddess!”

I could have sworn there were only dozens, but now I see hundreds of naked forms on their knees or on the ground, writhing and shouting and staring up at the priestesses in awe. Mortals drenched in wine and blood, many still tangled in each other and shouting the na of Venus even as they grope each other and mash their genitals together in crude displays.

The witches and magical girls gathered here all stand as they give their praise, glassy-eyed, adorned in haloes of velvet light. Bombshell and Mako, Kira Kira and Sweet Tooth, Green Thumb and Riddlemaster, Narcissa and Sonata, Dusk and Dawn, nto and Radiance—only Agatha and I are spared.

Maenad raises her hands. “We invoke the goddess in our food and smoke and wine, drinking her in so she may drive us to ecstasy and frenzy!”

Reality shudders. The looming presence gets stronger, brighter, more intense. The revelers tear into each other with clawed limbs and bared teeth. I struggle against the force holding down, pouring strength into my limbs and lashing out with fla, but it’s futile.

Where are you, Sophie? Where is your team?

Glamour raises her hands. “We invoke the goddess in altered perception, parting the veil of the real and unreal!”

Again, the presence of the goddess approaches and the very fabric of existence trembles in her wake. The images of the two crowds blend together until only the second remains. The witches and magical girls lt free of their costus and join the revelry, all laid bare in the throes of the ritual, all glassy-eyed and caught in rapture.

Pearl Princess raises her hands. “We invoke the goddess in the idol of her image, in and in all of us, reflecting her beauty and receiving her love!”

I can feel in my bones the surge of energy that flows into the room from the Spire below. All that energy—all that worship—gathered in one place, in one chamber, for one purpose. They should have stopped it. The others should have stopped it! What happened?

I struggle one final ti against the weight of a god’s attention, pouring every last ounce of fla into resisting the power of Venus and rising to stop the ritual. It’s in vain. If I hadn’t exhausted myself fighting Agatha—if Agatha hadn’t beco a problem I had to solve—if the others had arrived as they were supposed to—

In unison, all three priestesses chant the words: “Let the two worlds beco one. Let Venus step forth… and let all be remade.”

And then the goddess laughs, my vision flashes white, and all is remade.