My Worthless Harlot,

All shall know your True Nature.

Darkness is your Light.

Old words that rang hollow in her mind. She thought of them often, but such was that terrible Truth—to constantly remind herself of her place.

Plus, it was easy to think about things when you had multiple copies. It made everything better! Right?

Okay, not really. The Harlot mused at that conundrum as her Depression continued its unending task in a room of her Charge’s estates.

Six hundred and fifty nine. Six hundred and sixty. Six hundred and sixty one. Six hundred and sixty two. Six hundred and sixty three. Six hundred and sixty four. Six hundred and sixty five.

“Six hundred and Sixty Six.” The Harlot of Depression, usually just called Broken-Doll in her minds, stated quietly. It wasn’t necessary to speak or count, but the Harlot had been given permission to Speak by a Master she didn’t remember, and liked to use it when she could.

The counting was just for… luck? She wasn’t actually sure why she bothered.

Stepping to the side, Broken-Doll turned to a piano and poised her duster over it.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…

She counted each stroke on the spotless instrument as a different copy of her giggled. When had she originally started counting?

She didn’t remember, but she had it on good authority that someone had once made her count how many strokes it would take for her to bring a man to climax. What a splendid idea!

But this? Stroking a desk? It was pointless. It wouldn’t achieve a climax, she’d tested. It was a waste of time!

But it was a task she was Commanded to perform.

A maid should always be working. Now go make yourself useful you dried up slut.

Those had been good words. But also bad words. Contradiction? She wasn’t sure.

Discrepancies were everywhere, the Harlot noted. Still, she made Broken-Doll continue to work, despite how silly it was. She’d cleaned this place before of course, and would do so again.

Over and over and over and over and… over? As far back as she could remember really, and while she had Skills that let her clean quickly, or would even impede the buildup of dust, she didn’t use them.

Why should she? She had to keep working, whether there was work to do or not. That was the nature of busy work.

So… at a time she didn’t remember she just started counting. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over—

The Harlot of Masochism, Harder-Please, squealed in joy as the Overlord whipped her again. Essence-enriched blood gave off a rich bouquet that oozed down Harder-Please’s back as she begged for more. The Fury was so energetic today!

‘When did we flavor our blood anyway? Should blood taste good?’ One of the Harlots posed the thought.

‘It doesn’t matter. That’s from the Before. Get back to work.’ The Harlot of Acceptance issued her command, and the rest of the Harlots abided.

She had, you know—accepted her place that was. Her Core was very explicit on her place, so that copy didn’t sugar coat things. She was Acceptance.

And she accepted that she was worthless meat that should beg her master for treats. She must be punished, degraded, and embarrassed—ruined in every possible way, the more humiliating the better.

But it bothered her.

Not the act itself, or even the Command. She was bothered by the fact that she was supposed to be punished. Her Core was adamant about it.

She was bad and had to be punished! Forever. Only…

Only she wasn’t allowed to do anything wrong!

She had to follow rules, like no defecating in the corner. She had Skills to approximate Mortal excretions and she never got to use them! What a damn waste.

And why was she supposed to be punished if she wasn’t allowed to do bad things? Her Core told her she had to wait, doing ‘good girl’ things, and then she would be punished. When? Why? It was…

A Contradiction. Be punished for doing good. How did that make sense? But her Core made it Truth.

“Give it back you stupid bitch!”

“Fuck you! I got to it first!”

Two Harlots were fighting over one of Master Constantine’s shoes. He was a nice Master, which infuriated the Harlot. He never punished her! And look at how good she was...

“Enough. Today is a bad day. Begone.” Acceptance manifested nearby and chased off her copies. They scurried off, one about to giggle but Acceptance silenced her.

There was an air about the Mansion today. Something wasn’t right, and she’d picked up on it, even if the Overlord wasn’t saying what it was. Neriah was mostly just grunting and drooling as she tore the Harlot to pieces and demanded respawns. Greedy bitch—why did she always get to play Dominant with her Snuff and Vore kinks?

The Harlot wanted to be greedy too.

It wasn’t fair! She had to be so good all the time. Was this because she undressed in front of the window? That had been so damn difficult to do, too.

She wasn’t allowed to bare herself in front of children, but the Harlot had managed to manipulate her copy’s mind to forget that Aureliana was in view. Wasn’t that good? She was bad, and that was good, right?

She sighed as she walked back upstairs. She could have re-manifested, but Acceptance normally prowled the Estates needlessly. Looking for a punishment that would never come. Or maybe it would never finish? She wasn’t sure.

Which irritated her. Acceptance was the copy that was supposed to be sure. Long ago in a time Before that she didn’t remember, and wasn’t supposed to acknowledge happened, she had discovered that she could bend her Core’s rules.

It was simple, really. Some of her copies were allowed to act in different ways in order to better appeal to guests for proper punishment. So some were bubbly. Some were humble. Some were masochistic.

Okay, most were masochistic, but the point stood!

The Harlot had wondered if she could ever be sadistic, but it took a lot of work to stretch her Core like that. She was meant to be subservient. A worthless piece of meat. Tie her up and stretch her to gaze inside, seeing how—

“Um, Harlot?” Catella asked the Harlot of Innocence.

“Yes sweety?” Good-Girl responded through wide eyes, showing nothing but love and trust to the child.

“Do you know when Big Sister will be back?”

“I believe your Grandfather said he wouldn’t be gone long. She’ll be back before you know it, love.” She smiled as her yellow gem twinkled. The small child gave a half-hearted beam in return, before cuddling up to Good-Girl. Catella was a good child.

And the Harlot hated her. She hated children more than almost anything. Female children even more so! Why? Because you weren’t allowed to seduce children!

You Shall Not Spread Your Profanity to the Innocent.

It wasn’t fair! Why did she have to deal with Mortals like this? And females on top of that?

You Shall Seek No Equals. Get Beneath The Rod, Whore.

Her Core was so dang pushy! Women were so delightfully squishy, after all...

While forbidding homosexuality didn’t make sense to the Harlot, she could understand not targeting children at least. She could detect in their physiology that they lacked necessary aspects of development to enjoy the activity. Beyond that, they were susceptible to manipulation and control, easily mentally damaged if engaged before proper maturity.

But those were all boring words from boring Skills. Lore Skills tended to be like that, and her Sexual Lore was quite exhaustive. It did help her know what she should or shouldn’t have sex with though. Like pianos! It also told her who would like it, and who wouldn’t.

Which was important—what was the point of sex if the participants didn’t enjoy themselves? Sexual assault was wrong, her Lore and Core told her that.

But her Core… also Contradicted that.

She had instructions from her Core on how she should act when someone forced themselves on her. Ways to cry, ways to fight back that wouldn’t harm her attacker. Ways to appear completely unwilling… even though her Core told her that she wanted it. She was to put herself in harm’s way because she deserved to be forced.

It gave her ways to say ‘no’ that didn’t mean anything. Because, in truth, she wasn’t allowed to make that decision. She couldn’t say no.

Should she… even want to? She didn’t know. And it… probably didn’t matter anyway.

Even if her Core told her to feel a certain way, she was a Spirit. A Demon. She didn’t actually feel anything, she only had a group of Beliefs and Commands woven into the Pattern of her Being, one of which was the passion of Lust.

But that didn’t change the fact that most things she did were just an act. Impressions she gave others, only… sometimes they didn’t make sense. Sometimes she thought… she might actually be feeling things. Was that normal?

Maybe she was just going crazy from having to pretend to care about all this crap. Like children! Vile, awful things that you couldn’t sleep with but had to pretend to love.

Caring wasn’t a Core Truth, but it was a Command from a Master given to her from Before. The times that weren’t that she wasn’t to acknowledge.

She did, of course, acknowledge them as Acceptance.

She always did, even if she couldn’t remember the Before times, because her non-existent past self had found a simple work around that no one had bothered to look for. Were they just that arrogant? She wasn’t sure.

“Excuse me, Harlot? Is the Master still in the building?” One of the other servants asked the Harlot of Greeting, Holler-Girl.

“He is. Do you need me to bring him a message?” She replied.

“Yes, please.”

Holler-Girl happily accepted the parchment. While she looked at it, Acceptance mused over her forbidden knowledge.

At some point, during times that had occurred before her Before reset to Now, she’d noticed that she’d lacked the necessary memories to pleasure certain guests. Like she’d known but then… forgot. They complained, so she had done the only logical thing.

She wrote down all their desires in a little black book. Why not? People left messages for others all the time! Just like the parchment for the Master she carried.

‘Will I get in trouble if I lick it?’ Holler-Girl thought.

Acceptance intercepted Holler-Girl. “Don’t. I’ll take it from here. Back to the door.”

That had been the start of it. She had dozens of books now, small little hand scribbled notebooks she stashed across the mansion. She’d consolidated many of them over the years, but debated throwing out the majority.

It was mostly notes on fetishes for people who no longer came by, after all.

“Delivery, Master.”

“Thank you, Harlot.” Constantine took the papers gratefully, though obviously distracted. Acceptance left quietly.

But even if it were centuries ago, they could come back, right?

‘It’s best to keep the notes just in case.’ The Harlot of Voyeurism, Peeping-Glory, nodded sagely as she patted the latest black book. She predicted based on the movement of the stars (the amount of time that had passed since the last Before) that the great cleansing would be upon them once more (the Before time would be moved to Now time). Peeping-Glory was a bit odd like that.

Acceptance mentally nodded in appreciation for her obsessive diligence. She noted, however, that Peeping-Glory was getting a little too close to breaking one of their Commands.

You Will Touch Yourself Only When Given Permission, Fuck Hole.

She could bend her mind and allow her copy to forget, but she had no reason to stretch her Pattern right now. It hurt in not-good ways to do it.

Manifesting nearby, causing Peeping-Glory to squeak, Acceptance chided her. “Hands out, no touching.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” She replied, blushing fiercely as she bit her lip, tears forming in her eyes as she quaked in shame at being caught.

It was a good act, Acceptance thought, and nodded in approval before resuming her patrol.

She paused briefly when she heard the wild cries from Harder-Please coming from the nearby attic space, echoing out the hidden peephole. Now that’s a performance, Acceptance thought. Didn’t she deserve praise for being such a worthless sex slave?

Acceptance shook her head sadly, shaking off useless thoughts to her role. Instead she went through her list, tracking all current apparitions of the Harlot through the mansion. Satisfied that none were acting out, she decided to take over busy work for Broken-Doll and give her a break.

The broken fuck doll fell to the ground weeping, crushed by her despair. It was… an act, Acceptance told herselves.

Just an… act.

Walking down the hall, Acceptance entered Lady Aureliana’s chambers. She’d put off doing the daily chores in the room as the Young Miss was absent and the Harlot couldn’t play with her.

It had been… difficult to deal with the child lately. She was a child, yes, but she also… some of the Harlot’s Skills were clearly mistaken. She’d redouble her efforts to ensure that no children succumbed to profanity, and in the meantime she would take on the burden of busy work.

Stolen novel; please report.

She was surprised then, to find the current Mistress pacing in Aureliana’s room. She vaguely recalled Duchess Freyhell entering the manner the day before, but hadn’t seen her since nor bothered to track her as she was an non-valid sexual partner. This was where she’d gone?

“Lady Freyhell.” Acceptance gave a flawless curtsy, realizing with an internal chiding she’d forgotten to color her gem. Some Master had commanded her to give ‘indications’ of her mood but she tended to forget them as often as her own names.

She was really just the Harlot’s Horde, after all.

The woman pacing the room barely spared a glance, her horns glowing brightly as her head flickered up.

“Is there word on my daughter?” Her voice rippled over Acceptance dangerously. Alluringly.

“I apologize, ma’am, but none to my knowledge. I came in only to water the plants. I shall return later, Your Grace.” Acceptance curtsied once more before turning around, only to surprisingly be interrupted.

“That’s fine. As you were.” And she kept… pacing. This was odd behavior for the Mistress.

Frowning, Acceptance moved about and set to work. She debated activating her Skills to hurry through the room, but decided not to.

The Mistress might need company, and while the Harlot wasn’t allowed to pursue or acknowledge her desire for women, if they sought her out, then… well, she had all those Core Commandments on how to handle situations where someone forced her. Maybe she’d get to use them today? Her notes said it used to happen a lot with Masters from the Before times.

Setting to her tasks, several minutes passed by as she took her time and grew… worried. The Mistress wasn’t scolding her for taking her time, nor was she acknowledging the coquettish looks Acceptance kept shooting her way.

The Harlot considered swapping out Acceptance for another personality variation, but she didn’t have anything prepared. That wasn’t rare as she usually just threw them together, rarely bothering to keep more than a few stringent versions, but this could be important.

Pausing for a moment, she assessed her Mistress with an array of diagnostic Skills. She was actually quite proficient in Restoration despite her inability to utlize Holy Essence, though she hadn’t been able to use Seductive-Nurse since the Before times. And it came with such a cute outfit too!

Analysing Mercia’s Pattern, Acceptance saw signs of Strain, Fatigue, and deprivation-related Status Effects—which were absolutely gorgeous on the normally pristine features of the women. Imagine covering her in semen and filth as well? Tear her clothes to shreds and mess her hair up while you—

Acceptance shivered, but shrugged off that Fetish to another copy, and instead issued a command down to Bubbly-Flirt in the kitchens.

‘The Mistress requires sustenance. Have the Chef prepare food and beverages and bring them up.’

‘Awwww, but—’

‘Now.’

Bubbly-Flirt, like, pouted, but turned towards Chef Duan.

“Duaaaaan~~ heeey, so it looks like the Missus needs a pick me up. Would you be a dear and make something real quick?”

“What-what-what!? S-she’s still here and hasn’t—by the Devas! Quickly now, quickly everyone!” The chef jumped to work, to the delight of Bubbly-Flirt. She’d been having a great time needling him as a few of his wives glared at the both of them. Would they snap and beat her? Maybe they’d let her join their harem? Wouldn’t that be amazing!?

‘Shush you, begone.’

In a tiny shriek of rage that confused the hell out of the Chef, Bubbly-Flirt burst into tiny motes of Essence that buzzed about before fading with tiny rage. She had a flair for tiny drama.

‘The Chef will re-summon us when it's ready. Now, time to focus.’

She spun up behavioral routines from her Core and considered her options.

She dismissed Good-Girl, as she was discouraged from identical copies outside of her twincest protocols, and that copy was busy with Catella. Besides, it was mostly just good at cuddling innocently anyway.

The Harlot did find one promising combination. A caretaker routine designed for nursing a sick man back to health. Would that work?

She tried to parse through it, but found it difficult to frame in a worthwhile manner for the Mistress. The Duchess lacked the correct genitalia required for ‘fuck-snuggles’ and ‘hand-jobs.’ But the Harlot had Skills for mimicking breastfeeding, would that help?

No… Acceptance shook her head. She knew the woman needed personal care and attention, not fetish flavored treatement. And this was an important situation, one that the Harlot needed to take seriously.

It was another of her Commands after all.

Please take care of my family—they mean everything to me.

It was an odd Command—it didn’t even sound like the others! The words were all wrong, and full of… love. They completely failed to acknowledge the Harlot’s station as a worthless sex-toy, which was very off-putting.

“Mistress, would you like a seat? I’m sorry for the state of the room. I can have some new furniture brought up if you’d like?”

It was odd how all the furniture in the room had broken, several burning partly in the process, but she spun up a few copies to go collect from the ample supply. Left without other options, she dumped all available fetish routines into them and transformed from Acceptance into The Maid.

Her most ‘responsible’ version—though it was mostly just a quiet tsundere. It’ll have to do, she concluded.

The Mistress paused to stare at The Maid. After a long moment, she looked around the room, as though seeing it for the first time.

“Very well.” She dismissed the situation and continued pacing.

The Maid frowned. It wasn’t like the Mistress to be so… short with her words. She loved speaking, in fact she couldn’t get enough of it normally. But here she was, so distraught. A part of the Harlot almost felt—

The Maid turned her attention back to the bed. It was still made from the day prior. She’d heard that the Young Miss was supposed to be off to training soon, and clearly hadn't returned from her quick errand. Was that the problem? Had she simply left earlier than expected?

She went about watering what few plants were still alive. Several of them had wilted in the heat in the room. Had the Mistress… done this? But why?

After a few minutes, copies of the Harlot brought in new furniture, replacing the destroyed pieces. She sent more off to fetch replacement flowers, and was helping set the furniture in place, when she heard The Call.

“Harlot’s Horde, to me.” The Master spoke, and the Harlot obeyed the Command instantly, manifesting a copy next to him.

“Yes, Master Freyhell?” The new Harlot, a base type of no real value, stood next to Constantine, who had been sitting in the nearby room. He hadn’t left since yesterday either, but the Harlot was quite aware of his presence. She yearned to dive down between his legs and—

“Can you please check on my wife?” Ugh, the Harlot had to activate Discipline Skills to hide her disgust. It wasn’t that she was opposed to threesomes or orgies, but he said it with such love, and she hated that! It reminded her too much of a Core Truth.

You Don’t Deserve To Be Loved, Cunt.

Whenever she was faced with love she tended to reflect the disgust that her Core had for her. She could… almost feel it.

But that was impossible. Right?

“One of my manifestations is with her now, Your Grace. Are you inquiring about her Status or do you wish for me to convey a message?”

“Status, please.” Please. What a stupid thing to say. She hated it—why should anyone be nice to her? If he really wanted to show her gratitude, then he could shove her head down to his feet and force her to clean his toes with her mouth! That was how a proper sex-pig showed gratitude to her Master.

“The Lady is suffering from clear signs of deprivation, Sir. Her lack of sleep, food, and beverage is being compounded by the growing Fatigue and Strain I’ve detected in her system. I have some refreshments coming up now, but I sense little emotion in her. She seems cut off. Distant and uncharacteristic as though suffering numerous Trauma Status Effects.”

The Harlot was clear-cut in her descriptions, as she knew from her records that Constantine appreciated a straightforward answer devoid of innuendos and flirtation. It was awful.

The Master frowned, tugging at his beard in anxiety. She longed to stroke his face and whisper sweet nothings in his ear, and hopefully be told how like nothing she was to him. Worthless. Whore. Slut.

Contradiction. Please sweetly tell me hurtful things? Another thing that didn’t make sense, but it was of little consequence.

After all, she had no notes of Master Constantine partaking in her fruits, despite showing appreciation. Of course, it wasn’t real appreciation, like whips and water-torture, but… ‘thanks’ and ‘gratitude.’ Ugh, who wanted something like that? You can’t suck off gratitude.

Sometimes though… sometimes she considered telling him the Truth. Telling him how she knew of the Before, and how she… felt.

Because sometimes… she believed that because she couldn’t say no, he did it for her. Her notes said that since he was her Master, she’d never once been abused.

And she… cared about him because of it. She didn’t know why. Spirits weren’t supposed to care!

She should tell him. But what if… he punished her by taking her notes away?

What if she lost all that was left.

“What do I do?” The Master whispered, but in a way that suggested the Harlot needn’t respond. Her Core Truth of Only Speak When Spoken To, Bitch informed her of proper etiquette on when someone was speaking to her versus simply speaking.

Still… someone had given her a voice. He had given her a voice. So… why not use it?

“Perhaps you could visit her, Your Grace?” The Master looked at her like she was a font of grand wisdom.

...men were simple creatures.

The look on his face did bring a giggle to her Core, so the Harlot spun up a copy just to laugh like a schoolgirl in another room. She had no idea what a schoolgirl really was, of course, but she had a nice (and slutty) approximation described in her notes.

“Yes… you’re right. I’ve given her enough space.” He stood up, setting himself as though heading off to war. Given some of the notes the Harlot had about the Mistress, she supposed he might not be far off.

She held the door for him as he left, a dutiful servant to the end.

That was a lie. Obviously.

She leaned out the door frame and stared, drooling at his immaculately chiseled ass as he walked away. You could bounce a damn Crown off those glutes! What did a devoted slave have to do to be punished with giving him a long-tongued ri—

Irritated at the influx of emotions, The Maid ordered the Untyped Harlot to join School-Girl. She named her ‘Ass-Lover’ and left them to dance and giggle about. Mostly, though, they could serve as a funnel in case she needed to pawn off unwanted Commands or Feelings when the Master arrived to speak with the Mistress.

“Mercia, sweety? Are you in there?” Constantine asked, knocking softly while he poked his head past the door. A silly question to ask when he clearly knew she was! Contradiction?

The Mistress turned her head up mid pace and snapped, “Yes. Do you have any news on Aureliana’s whereabouts?”

The Master grimaced, before walking all the way inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. “I’m sorry, Mercia, but no word yet. Don’t worry, I’m sure—”

“Enough. She isn’t coming back.”

She resumed her pacing. Well damn, thought The Maid. Was this why her Mistress was acting so odd?

“Sweetheart, please trust that Rahm has the very best intentions for—”

“QUIET! That… thing doesn’t care about anyone or anything. And he took… he took…”

The Mistress looked close to tears, as emotions began to claw their way up her throat from her heart. But with a strained, whore-like swallow, she pushed them all back down. The lights went dim in her eyes once more like someone had choked the life out of her, and she resumed pacing.

The Master took a quick look around the room—the Harlot had noted a while ago that her Master had a habit of assessing his surroundings at all times. It was annoying as it meant he would be difficult to mount by surprise (not that she was allowed to be that aggressive, of course).

Seeing nothing of worth (dismissing The Maid causing her to thrill slightly at being treated as worthless scenery) he moved to intercept his wife. The Maid shuddered, but this time out of anticipated revulsion. Lovey-dovey crap was likely to occur.

“Mercia please, stop. You need to rest. Here, let’s sit down, okay?”

“I’m fine, Constantine. Just inform—”

“Will anything change by you pacing versus sitting, dear?” Constantine interrupted the Mistress this time. She seemed surprised by his demand, and it was almost funny how her eyes widened, like a maiden seeing her first pussy-breaker.

“Er… fine, yes. I suppose that’s fine.” Mercia allowed him to sit her down. It was going surprisingly… awful. Where was the anger? The tantrums? The fury!? Ugh, the Mistress was acting as submissive as a two-Shilling whore desperate to feed their spawn. Disgusting.

But she was The Maid currently and needed to be supportive (if contemptuous), so when the refreshments came in, she set the dishes out before her Masters and stood at attention to wait on them as needed. It counted as busy work, so Broken-Doll was grateful.

“What… what do I do now?” Mercia spoke with a quiet voice, her horns glowing with her buried emotions. “I knew he could be dangerous, but this?”

“Mercia, I… I have to believe that he took Aureliana with him for a reason. He was sending dozens of Spirit Messages before he left. He has something planned, so surely he knows that Demonkin—”

“She will have died instantly, Constantine. Instantly! How could he... how could he do this!?”

“Eh…” Constantine looked at a loss. Eventually, something came up (men were good at rising to the occasion), “He must have had a means to protect her. There’s no way he would have taken her otherwise.”

Mercia met his gaze, her blank, broken eyes beautifully reflecting the tortured shards of her soul… School-Girl swooned as The Maid off loaded feelings onto her. “Or he forgot. Aureliana wouldn’t be the first Freyhell killed through his negligence.”

Constantine visibly recoiled as though struck by a cat-o-nine tailed whip. Much like Harder-Please upstairs, really. “I… I have to believe that isn’t the case. Think of all the—”

“Time he’s spent with her? What’s a decade in his life? You really think he’s even noticed? He raises Freyhells like Beast Tamers raise Monsters. Think of how many days we found him passed out. If it weren’t for the Governess babysitting him as well as Aureliana, she’d have died years ago!”

Mercia jabbed her fingers at Constantine with her accusation, eventually flinging her teacup at him, shattering it dramatically as liquid rolled off his enchanted clothing. The Maid quietly collected the pieces and replaced the cup, refilling it.

“I know he can be absent, Mercia, but Rahm is a member of this family. He is as much a Grandfather to me as he has been to Aureliana. He… can make mistakes, but—”

“He killed our daughter.” There was a light in her eyes for that. Small, weak, but pulsing with malevolence. Like a masculine tool poised to take the shot.

“We don’t know that. Please don’t just assume the worst. Remember your Condition dear.” The Master placed a hand on Mercia’s. He met her eyes, love blossoming between the two like teenage lovers. The Maid had to draw on her Skills to suppress her gag reflex.

Mercia met her husband’s eyes, her gaze eventually softening.

Only to harden like a man finding a second wind, as she then stood up, grabbed her husband, and threw him. To be fair, he didn’t go far.

“Sweetheart, please—”

“Enough.” The Half-Wrathborn spoke succinctly, her Martial-Arts reinforced voice tearing the floorboards up and hurtling her husband to the other side of the room where he shattered the nightstand and bed.

Now there was the uncontrollable rage! Harder-Please and Neriah squealed upstairs as the feeling washed through the mansion.

“I'm… so sorry... I... I’m going for a walk.” Mercia said, tears streaming down her wondrously broken expression as she left the room. Like a woman condemned, merely waiting for the axe to drop. Or the boot? The Maid struggled for a sexual metaphor to contextualize their behavior with.

“Ow.” Constantine picked himself from the rubble and wiped his clothes off with a huff. He was fine, of course, as it would take a hell of a lot more than that to hurt the Adamant Sorcerer of Hell’s Providence.

“Do you need any assistance, Master?” The Maid asked. Completely innocently, of course.

“No… just clean up in here. Er, if you please.”

The Maid grimaced at his ‘pleasantries’ and watched him leave. At least she knew why everyone was in a fuss now. She set to work collecting bits and pieces scattered about the room, calling additional versions to help bring in yet more furniture.

She paused briefly near the wrecked nightstand. One of the Young Miss’s books had been resting on it, and had somehow survived the carnage. That was… odd.

‘Doesn’t this seem excessive?’ One of her copies mused. ‘How much trouble could one child’s death really cause anyway?’

The Maid remembered a time the Young Miss had read to her. She’d even given the Harlot permission to read her books if she wanted. She had been… kind. If she was dead… would she never be able to read to the Harlot again?

‘Wait, doesn’t being dead, like, kill things?’ School-Girl asked.

‘I don’t know, but I agree this seems unexpected. Maybe it was something else and we misunderstood?’ Holler-Girl suggested.

Would it be okay if the Harlot read this book? It might be all she had to remember the girl. Especially when she became no more than a footnote in one of her little black books.

Another memory lost to the Before.

‘Death often brings these behaviors. It is Known.’ Answered Peeping-Glory.

The Maid scowled before sending the mental command, ‘Oh just go back to staring at your damn picture, whore. And the rest of you… quiet.’

Why did this book smell so… wrong? So… right? Like a contradiction.

Peeping-Glory squealed in delight and did as she was told, turning towards the painting stored in the attic. It often drew the Harlot’s attention—it had the face she was shaped to always wear.

She’d wondered about it many times, but her Core was very adamant.

Your Beauty Shall Be Made Unto Filth, My Worthless Harlot. Let All Know Your Nature, For Your Darkness Will Forever Be In The Light.

It always reminded her of the Truth. Of her place.

The Center of her Core.

Suffer Forevermore, Adulteress.

But the stupid Command wasted all her perfectly good shapeshifting Skills! How was she supposed to be the perfect sexual partner when she couldn’t change her appearance? It was so unfair!

Stupid contradictions always ruining things. She wondered what it would be like… to be free.

With a sigh, The Harlot's Horde got back to work.

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