As Mark slumped back in his chair, the darkness behind his eyelids seemed to deepen, spreading outwards like ink in water. It was an all-encompassing blackness, absorbing every thought and sensation, pulling him further and further away from the sterile light of his office. The hum of computers and the distant murmurs of his colleagues faded into nothingness, replaced by a silence so profound it was almost suffocating.
For a moment, he felt weightless, suspended in a void that stretched infinitely in all directions. Panic bubbled up within him, but before he could grasp it fully, a sudden, disorienting sensation washed over him. It was as if an invisible hand had reached into his chest, gripping his very essence, and yanked it out with a force that left him gasping. His breath hitched, caught between reality and the unknown, as he felt himself being pulled away from everything familiar.
The transition was not smooth. It was violent, chaotic. Colors and shapes swirled around him, a kaleidoscope of disjointed images flashing by in rapid succession. He caught glimpses of other lives, other versions of himself—each one a fleeting snapshot of what could have been. There he was as a writer, hunched over a typewriter in a dimly lit room. There he was as a teacher, standing before a classroom of eager students. The visions got increasingly stranger as the variations of his "selves" diverged. Each vision was accompanied by a jolt of emotion—regret, joy, anger, longing—each exponentially more intense than the last.
Mark's senses overloaded, and he felt as if he was being torn apart and reassembled at the same time. The void seemed to throb with a rhythm all its own, a pulsating energy that resonated deep within him. He could hear the faint echoes of a distant voice, chanting in an ancient, forgotten language, the words laced with power and intent. The not-space around him crackled with magic, the very fabric of reality bending and twisting in response to the arcane forces at play.
Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, the darkness began to coalesce, forming a tunnel of light that stretched out before him. The pull grew stronger, more insistent, dragging him towards his destination -- a blinding brightness at the end. He felt himself hurtling forward, faster and faster, the light growing ever more intense until it consumed him completely.
The sensation of being yanked out of his body reached its peak, a crescendo of pain and disorientation that left him breathless. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over, and reality reasserted itself. The light receded, and Mark found himself standing in a new place, the familiar sights and sounds of his old life replaced by something entirely different.
He was in an opulent room, far removed from the sterile confines of his office. The walls were lined with rich, dark wood paneling, and the floor was covered in an intricately woven Persian rug. Heavy, velvet drapes framed the windows, through which the faint glow of moonlight filtered in, casting long shadows across the room. The air was thick with the scent of leather and old books, mingling with a faint metallic tang that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Disoriented, Mark looked down at himself and was taken aback by the sight that greeted him. Gone were his rumpled dress shirt and ink-stained cuffs. In their place was an ornate ritual robe, the demonic spider-silk fabric smooth and luxurious against his skin. His hands were different, too—stronger, more defined, with an unsettling sense of power emanating from them.
A sharp, burning pain suddenly flared in Mark's chest, a searing intensity that forced him to stagger forward. He gripped the edge of a nearby mahogany table for support, the cool, solid wood grounding him amidst the chaos. The pain spread, traveling up into his head, where it exploded into a cacophony of foreign memories and sensations. He felt as though his skull was being split open and filled with molten Platinum, a relentless pounding that made him squeeze his eyes shut.
As the agony slowly ebbed, Mark's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. He opened his eyes, drawn to a large, ornate mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection that stared back at him was a stranger’s. The man in the mirror was tall and imposing, with cold, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through him. His dark hair was perfectly styled, framing a face that was both handsome and chilling. Seemingly by default, cruel, confident smile played on his lips, a stark contrast to the panic surging through Mark's mind.
It took but a moment for the reality to sink in—Mark was no longer in his own body. He was in the body of Marcus Vane, a new associate lawyer at Wolfram & Hart, LLP -- the notorious "evil" law firm from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Universe.
The pain in his head flared dully, as fragments of Marcus’s life began to play in his mind. He saw flashes of a privileged upbringing. The Vanes, while wealthy aristocrats with Old World roots, were a mere third-rate sorcerer family, their influence stemming from their more modern political connections and (rather questionable) stories of a glorious sorcerous past rather than genuine magical prowess.
As the middle child of three sons, Marcus grew up with a chip on his shoulder. He was never particularly talented, nor particularly smart by any standard -- especially not by the standards of the cutthroat world of high-stakes law, where even the worst candidates could boast top grades at Ivy League colleges. His grades, while good, were never at the top of the class. His athletic abilities -- mediocre at best. He could boast no talent for music, poetry, or the arts. His magical abilities, if they could even be called such, were rather laughable - a pathetic spark compared to the veritable bonfires wielded by true sorcerers. But what Marcus lacked in natural talent or skill, he more than made up for in sheer ruthlessness and determination.
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From a young age, Marcus learned that power was not something to be earned through merit, but something to be seized by any means necessary. He decided from a young age that there was no ethical line he wouldn't cross to achieve his ends. No act was too vile if it meant advancing his position. He had lied, cheated, and betrayed anyone who stood in his way, climbing the social ranks and, at times, literally burying the competition to get ahead. In time, his efforts got him an internship at Wolfram & Hart through a trail of ruined lives and shattered dreams. That internship, in turn, turned into an offer of employment -- the proudest achievement to date.
The memories were vivid and brutal. Mark saw himself—as Marcus—engaging in dark rituals, sacrificing innocents, and manipulating classmates, "friends," and colleagues alike with a cold, calculating precision. The office politics at Wolfram & Hart were a deadly game, and Marcus played it with a vicious glee. He reveled in the fear and respect he slowly came to command, becoming something of a puppet master pulling the strings of those around him.
The most recent memories were the darkest of all. Marcus never ceased his magical ambitions, and never gave up on obtaining what he thought of as power in a real sense -- the arcane, sorcerous might his family was supposedly known for in the past. Unsurprisingly, one of the first rituals he looked into after gaining W&H's resources was the "classic" soul sacrifice variant -- the act of bartering away the practitioner's soul to gain earthly boons, increase natural talent, or boost arcane might.
Unfortunately, the ritual had major drawbacks -- not the least of which being the fact that he had but one soul to sacrifice. This was not nearly enough for a world-class piece of shit of Marcus' caliber; not nearly enough for the depths of his ambitions. Marcus had no desire to sacrifice his valuable eternal soul to become a world-class talent in merely one field. Nor did he want to turn his arcane "spark" of power merely into an equivalent of a candle or torch. Not when there were people out there walking around with veritable bonfires of power. No, if others had "bonfires," then Marcus wouldn't stop until he was the Sun.
But how could he get there?
The obvious solution was to sacrifice the souls of others -- but he quickly discovered that this tactic wasn't viable. The ritual called for the practitioner's soul because it could be perfectly attuned to the sacrifice. Kidnapping and murdering unwilling victims would only bring a fraction of the benefits and was also documented to lead to quickly progressing psychosis.
No, Marcus quickly discovered that the sacrificed soul had to be his -- and he only had the one soul he could sacrifice.
Or did he?
In the end, modern physics and the multiverse theory provided a solution. After a bit of research, Marcus had pioneered a brilliant way to have his cake and eat it too -- he devised a way to sacrifice the souls of his own parallel selves across the infinite timelines and dimensions, aiming to absorb their power and amplify his own. It was a rather convoluted and dangerous ritual, one that required the, at least nominally, willing sacrifice of his alternate selves. It was an idea that was twisted and evil beyond all comprehension. And Marcus had relished it, seeing it as the ultimate expression of his ruthless ambitions. He had successfully sacrificed 12 of his alternative selves, each soul more powerful than the last, each providing ever greater returns. He had dramatically increased his body's raw intellect and natural talents. Giving himself the strength and speed to leave top olympic athletes in the dust. Providing for flawless memory and an unearthly talent in anything from poetry, to music, painting, chess, and dozens of equally useless but eye-catching past-times of high society socialites. Five full souls were spent on removing the natural limiters from the body's arcane talents, and gaining mystical blessings in half a dozen arcane disciplines. Telekinesis. Pyro and keranomancy. Awakened telepathy and psychic might. Control over Life-force. Decemancy and soul manipulation. While not a top genius in any of said arcane fields, thanks to numerous and literal Faustian bargains, Marcus could, at the very least, now call himself "a" genius in each of them. And he was just getting started! After unlocking the limits of his talent, Marcus was finally ready to turn the dial up on giving himself more power.
Except, something went wrong with the newest sacrifice. And now Mark was stuck in Marcus' body.
Mark staggered back from the mirror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in on him, the opulent surroundings now feeling like a gilded cage. Desperation clawed at him as he tried to process the enormity of what had happened. He was in a nightmare, far from everything he knew, in a body that was not his own. Why, or why, did he have to wish to be "anywhere" but his office?
The memories continued to assault him, a relentless reminder of the monster Marcus Vane had been. He saw Marcus’s smug interactions with his colleagues, his contempt for those he deemed weaker, and his unyielding pursuit of power at any cost. Mark felt a shiver of revulsion at the thought of being associated with such a vile person, but he knew he had to keep his wits about him. In this world, any sign of weakness could be fatal. As the initial shock began to fade, a grim determination took its place. For better or worse, he had to navigate this twisted and dangerous world, survive, and -- in time -- find a way back to his own reality. For better or worse, he was Marcus now. And he would make this work.
With a final glance at the mirror, Mark steeled himself. He might be trapped in the body of a (now literally) soulless, ruthless lawyer, but he was determined to find a way out. And if he had to play Marcus' game to do it, then so be it.