Chapter 2: Epitaph
I woke up again. This was notable, because I’d been in truly terrible shape last I remembered, leaving my fate an open question despite the mascot’s intervention. I’d never gotten its name, I realised, as I fumbled blindly in the dark in search of its paw. No luck; there was a distinct lack of fluff in my immediate vicinity, though my flailing did tell me a decent amount about my surroundings. I was lying in bed, a major upgrade from the cold concrete; not my bed, mind you, because I could never have afforded something so big and soft, nor could my rented room hold it even if I somehow came into the money. Mattress aside, I found a pair of soft velvety pillows, and a thick heated blanket, perfect for the freezing British Winters that had become the norm ever since the destruction of the Gulf Stream.
I wanted nothing more than to tuck myself in, seek deep into this moment of unearned luxury and forget all of my worries, at least for a time. It didn’t work. Now that I was somewhat awake, old anxieties took full advantage to stage an intervention, warning me that this wasn’t my home, it wasn’t safe, and I’d be murdered in my sleep at any moment now. This was sadly familiar; I’d always struggled to rest in new and unfamiliar places, staring enviously at the carefree folk who could power nap on a park bench or an airplane seat, whereas I stayed awake, subsisting on coffee and spite. It went away after a day or two, but I didn’t have that long. I still tried, oh I tried, but after a fruitless few minutes of trying to quiet the stubborn voices in my head, I could only give up and begrudgingly climb out of bed; all in all, it felt very much like a Monday morning, the end of rest and return to the endless grind.
“Rise and shine, little bird.”
As mentioned above, I was an anxious individual who took slowly to new situations. Hearing a voice close behind me, I came to two quick realisations; I wasn’t wearing anything, and I was not alone. Naturally, my fight or flight response took over; I yelped, grabbed the nearest pillow, and threw it as hard as I could in its general direction. It hit the plump cat watching me from a nearby armchair, bouncing off his face with a satisfying thud.
“How rude. Is that how you thank me for saving your life?”
I was halfway through throwing a second pillow before his words registered, aborting the motion with a sheepish shrug. It would be one thing if another person was behind me, but I refused to become self-conscious in front of a cat; my self-esteem wasn’t great, but neither was I that far gone.
“Never mind,” he continued after a moment of awkward staring. “Gather your bearings, take advantage of the five-star amenities, then we can talk.”
He didn’t sound angry, just mildly disappointed, which any embarrassed child would tell you was worse, bringing colour to my cheeks. On the bright side, he wasn’t lying about the amenities. From the silken blackout curtains that blotted out the Sun, to the crystal chandelier overhead providing a modicum of vision, it was clear that no expense had been spared on decor. His chair was likewise proper oakwood, matched to the adjoining desk laden with trays boasting complimentary wine, coffee and chocolate, the real stuff even, not any of the synthetic analogues that had come to dominate the market.
Moving to the bathroom, white marble was the order of the day, alongside a separate shower and bathtub, the latter with a jacuzzi function that was oh so tempting in the moment. Sadly, I doubted my mysterious benefactor would appreciate an hour-long soak, so I compromised with a thorough but not unreasonable shower. When I emerged back into the main room, wearing a cashmere bathrobe and slippers that cost at least two weeks wages, I found that I’d made the right choice; in my absence, the mascot had made coffee for two, and it was at just the right temperature to drink.
“I thought coffee was bad for cats?” I remarked, even as I grabbed my cup and downed half of it in a single gulp.
I made myself comfortable on the side of the bed, facing the mascot this time as I waited for the caffeine hit; I had a feeling I’d need it for the conversation ahead.
“It’s absolutely terrible.” He agreed wholeheartedly. “Wreaks havoc on the heart, liver, kidney and nerves, and that’s just from a few sips. Delicious though, and well worth the healing magic to keep unfortunate side effects at bay.”
That seemed like an awfully cavalier use of magic to me, but given that same magic was used to save my life, I couldn’t really complain; besides, he was right, the coffee was delicious. Neither of us wanted to interrupt until both cups sat empty, looking for all the world like an ordinary rich girl and her pedigree pet, having a good time. Like all good things, it didn’t last.
“So, what should I call you?” I eventually asked, engaging in the most abominable of corporate pastimes: small talk.
“That depends entirely on how you view yourself. Branding is a critical part of the magical girl experience, it is how you define yourself to friends and foes alike. My name is only one note in a performance with global repercussions; I don’t mind your choice, so long as it is well-considered. Until you make up your mind, I’ll stay out of the public eye. Mascot will be a sufficient form of address until then.”
That was an insightful answer, I reckoned, one that said a lot about how things worked despite mostly dodging my actual question.
“So I’m a magical girl,” I pivoted, deciding to take the opening to cut to the most important point. “I don’t feel very magical.”
Well rested, relaxed and human again for the first time in weeks, sure, but that was the extent of it.
“That’s what we’re here to talk about today. Normally, this conversation would happen at home, leveraging your personal belongings, but that wasn’t possible given your circumstances. Your near demise was altogether too public, so I’ve had to make alternative arrangements.”
Mascot’s thick, tapered tail thumped against the back of his chair, and the temperature of the room began to plummet. By the time a small black box appeared in my lap, less than ten seconds later, goosebumps were writ large across my skin despite the bathrobe staving off the worst of it.
“Apologies for the cold, our warehouse is further north of here, a lot further.”
I’d had worse while out camping as a kid, so I paid it no mind, instead focusing on the box, one that I recognised much to my surprise. It was hard not to, given how many ads I’d seen it in, plastered across screens and billboards in every home, office and public space in the city. I ripped the lid clean off the box in my excitement, and sure enough, there it was; a brand new, top of the line GrailPhone 3, barely a month since launch day. It was the best smartphone on the market, the only serious contender in an age where endless demonic hordes made international supply chains unviable. With American tech titans unable to service the market, Gawain PLC stepped in to fill the gap, and that’s all she wrote.
“I’d have considered signing up just for the phone,” I quipped, switching it on and starting the familiar setup process.
The hardware was new, but GrailOS hadn’t changed that much since its introduction, so my muscle memory from two prior iterations served me well. Most of it was identical, with the few changes being minor in the grand scheme of things. Language selection was gone, unnecessary in a market where English was the only game in town. The mandatory health and safety information had better production, the number of opt-in and opt-out ads and trackers grew longer by the day, but all of that was expected in the new corporate landscape. Typically, it was at the final hurdle that I encountered my first true surprise: trying to enter my login details.
[Error: Account has been deactivated in compliance with Data Sanitisation Regulation 07/404.]
My first reaction was to try again, slowly and more carefully this time, the occasional typo being inevitable in the touchscreen era.Stolen story; please report.
[Error: Account has been deactivated in compliance with Data Sanitisation Regulation 07/404.]
When it bounced a second time, and I’d confirmed every field was correct, that was when I started to worry.
“Oh my, it appears we have a problem.”
I raised an eyebrow at the mascot, who definitely knew what was going on, given his grin and overly dramatic delivery.
“Alright, spill,” I demanded, in no mood for games when my browser history and bank account were both at stake. “What’s going on? A second database outage for Gaiwan this month, or did another infohazard shut down the internet?”
I gave it fifty-fifty odds either way, yet another casualty in the perennial arms race between humanity and the demons at the gate. At least, I hoped that was the problem, because it would mean the suffering was shared among many, while the alternative…
“Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I’d hoped we could front-run the situation, but I needed you awake to make the attempt, and well, it’s better if you see for yourself.”
Mascot had a phone too, the same model as mine except for the colour; he preferred a shade of blue that matched his fur, whereas I’d been given the standard model in black. He also used telekinesis to manipulate the touchscreen, a necessity given the lack of opposable thumbs. His profile picture was a silly selfie, complete with sticking his tongue out; I laughed, which lasted all of five seconds until he opened the browser and showed me the news. It was a local online news site, the kind that were a dime a dozen anywhere even mildly populated. The name was unfamiliar and irrelevant; what mattered was the obituary, framed with white flowers and set against the picture of a very familiar street, one I’d have preferred never to recall again.
“Every week, The Britannian Bugle publishes notices of death, alongside any funeral announcements from the families of those who have passed away. We are sad to announce the publication of 31 death notices this week, a significant uptick on the week prior, largely due to an unexpected and rapid incursion near Elm Street.Anyone who wishes to send their own message of condolence can do so by visiting the deceased's death notice page. The most recent notices recorded by the coroner are as follows.”
I trailed off as I got to the names, already seeing what was coming from a mile away. Mascot wouldn’t show me an obituary for no reason. That didn’t make it any easier when I finally made it near the bottom of the list, and sure enough, there was my name.
“Lily Elspeth Young, declared dead at the age of twenty-two. No remains were recovered save for a few blood samples used to identify the deceased, something attributed to a verified demonic presence as she left work for the night. With no registered next of kin, and nobody stepping forward to administrate outstanding debts against her person, all remaining assets were declared bona vacantia, to be disposed of at the pleasure of the State.”
There were further details in the small print, and even a link to an online book of condolence that had been opened in my name, but I was far too numb to read any further. I wasn’t actually dead, of course, which made the entire experience incredibly surreal. I couldn’t even muster any anger at the reporter in question; absent a body and with only a few bloodstains left at an incursion site? Yeah, I’d have assumed my own death too, barring a literal miracle, it nearly played out that way after all. Indeed my concerns were less with the abstract and the philosophical, and more to do with the practical concerns of being a dead woman walking, first and foremost.
“I’m not going on that holiday, am I?”
That got a surprised guffaw out of Mascot, his phone wobbling in the air for a brief moment before his mind reasserted full control of his telekinesis.
“No, I’m afraid not. In this age of digital media, identities are nearly completely interwoven with your digital profile; as soon as the coroner’s report came out with your name on it, termination procedures were triggered at your bank, your workplace, and every major consumer or social media site you frequented. You were asleep for nearly three days, Lily. A good thing, because magical healing is strenuous and you need to rest after it, but I’d be sincerely surprised if even a single account still remains accessible.”
So I missed the entire weekend, I thought to myself; talk about adding insult to injury.
“So I’m dead,” I repeated, feeling it gradually sink in. “Nothing to my name except this phone and the bathrobe I’m wearing. What now?”
“Now, you have a choice to make.”
Mascot looked deadly serious now, any sign of his earlier mirth gone with the wind as his amber eyes locked me in place.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by claiming your situation is a good thing. There are many benefits to having a legal identity; if that wasn’t the case, there wouldn’t be so many fakes of various quality floating around in cyberspace. With that in mind, you need to decide how to approach the world going forward, and take one of two options.
Option one: I leverage my resources to supply you with a top of the line fake identity. It’ll be good enough to fool everyone except a focused effort from a three-letter agency, or the attention of my peers: namely, enemy mascots or magical girls. A full backstory matched to your appearance, a sinecure at a workplace nobody ever heard of to explain away your salary, and an initial deposit on an apartment. You’ll have all the resources needed to reclaim an ordinary life, albeit one removed from any prior relations, and anything we do on the magical side is kept at arm's-length from your personal life, maintaining the masquerade.
This is the preferred method of operation for a majority of magical girls; minus the forgery of course. It allows for a respite, a place to step back into the mundane world, somewhere to relax without being recognised as a celebrity or hounded by paparazzi. On the downside, you’ll inevitably have to spend a substantial amount of time maintaining your cover, because government surveillance has grown by leaps and bounds with every demonic infiltration, and there have been a lot of those. Furthermore, no matter how well you sell it, it’s still a fake at the end of the day, nowhere near airtight, not if you’re careless or draw the wrong kind of attention.”
It says something about the indoctrination every human experiences from birth, that I almost immediately took Mascot up on that offer. People are conditioned to yearn for normality, even if those normal circumstances aren't good or beneficial in any way, shape or form. Almost.
“What’s the other option?” I asked instead, before I spent too long contemplating the human condition.
“Option two: you dive into the rabbit hole full time. Abandon the masquerade, become the mask, and pursue the opportunities that come with magic with everything you have. You’ll have all the time in the world to pursue your ambitions, and no worries about maintaining separate identities; you will have only one name, for all the world to hear. This is the path taken by a minority of magical girls, often the veterans, the oldest and the strongest, who have long since become something more than human. It is a path of power and isolation in equal measure; one that will accelerate your growth towards that inevitable point where ordinary humans simply can’t relate to you any longer, the disparity in personal capabilities and viewpoint being too wide to overcome. Also, as a ghost in the system, most avenues of legal employment and state assistance will be out of the question.”
Two options, both with their own benefits and drawbacks, at least at first glance. Mascot leaned towards option two, I judged, given his obvious enthusiasm for magic as a whole, but he at least tried to remain somewhat neutral by warning of potential consequences to my social life. The problem? I didn’t have a social life. Eighty hour weeks as a junior analyst didn’t leave much time for anything else, not after commuting, sleep, and taking care of essential chores, nor could I afford anything even if I somehow found the time.
The occasional business event or drinks with colleagues were the only break in the monotony, that and the holiday that was promised, a mirage on the horizon that would never be realised. Looking at it like that, I reached a moment of sudden clarity; why bother? A year of such a monochrome existence was already enough for a lifetime; I had magic now, supposedly, so why was I even contemplating a return to the drudgery of the nine-to-five routine? I had magic now, so there was only one real answer here.
“Let’s go all in,” I declared, before a bout of nerves came to sabotage me.
“Wonderful.”
There was that big old cheshire grin again, confirming what I’d already guessed; as a being of magic, Mascot had a clear preference for his daily routine, and it didn’t include minding the office.
“Use these credentials to log in, the actual owner doesn’t need them any more.”
Mascot tapped something on his phone, and a username and password appeared. I entered them, half-expecting the same error as before, but whatever digital magic they held bypassed the government blocker like it wasn’t even there; something that should have been impossible without an active identity tied to myself. I had a working phone again, a true milestone in the information age, and all it took was accepting a likely stolen account from someone who was in no position to argue. I almost asked where it came from, before balking at the last second, deciding that it was best not to ask questions to which I wouldn’t like the answer.
“Most of the apps installed by default will be familiar to you. Ignore them for the time being, they aren’t what’s important here. Instead, find the odd one out, and we can get this journey of yours started.”
I scrolled through several pages of popular apps, deleting the obvious bloatware as I went, but otherwise leaving them alone. Part of my algorithm-addicted brain wanted me to open social media accounts as a first priority, but I fought that urge down, knowing that doing so with borrowed credentials would be unwise for many reasons. Finally, on the last page, I found the one app that was completely new to me, even in passing.
MAGIActivate