From Across the Multiverse

Parsley Somerset (nee Scarborough), Marchioness of Worchester

Parsley struggles to figure out if any of her other friends have been kidnapped by the Hotel. Anything to figure out why she got the courtesy letter. She doesn’t know how much time she has left before they come for her. Interacting with Añil definitely didn’t help. She’s a little hurt as she comes to the conclusion that the young VStreemer lied to her. Añil is the only connection that makes sense.

She sighs, and stares at her Grandfather’s khukuri, framed and hanging above her computer station. She is tempted to break the knife out, but she knows that it cannot stop what would be coming for her, no matter how many Japanese soldiers it was used to slay. She grips the armrests of her gamer chair, then stands up. She at least needs to warn John.

The middle aged woman of Nepali ancestry walks through the halls of the manor. Her straight black hair is arranged in a loose braid. Her silk blouse and pencil skirt are modestly cut but chic. Her flats are sensible.

Gripping the courtesy letter, Parsley exits her streaming room and heads towards the dining room. She hopes that John’s date hasn’t moved on to his bedroom. That would be much more awkward. The good news is that John is still in the dessert course. The bad news is that his date for the night is Henry. Parsley is not a big fan of Henry. She knocks on the dining room door, waits for a few moments to let John remove his hand from between Henry’s legs, then enters.

“Parsley, dear, aren’t you supposed to be streaming right now? Is something the matter?”

“Outside of the obvious,” Henry snipes. Again, Henry is a catty bitch.

“Husband, sorry for interrupting your ‘business meeting,’ but something urgent came up. If I may speak with you in private?” She positions herself to be able to reveal the letter to John without Henry seeing it.

John’s eyes widen at the distinctive HH logo and barks, “Henry. Upstairs. Now. This is important.” Henry grumbles as he walks up the stairs. Parsley avoids looking at Henry as he leaves. Wearing ass-less chaps and nothing else under the waist at the dinner table? How gauche.

A whirl of emotion washes across John's face, looking terrified, determined, infuriated. “They made no announcement that the Hotel is starting a new nobility season. I’ve heard nothing about one of our mutual friends being suddenly plucked from our reality. You have any idea why they would be coming for you?”

“Only thing I determined is that Añil was livestreaming on Harem Hotel Hereafter about 10 minutes after she suddenly lost Internet connection. She said she was on for about a week, desperately begging the audience for VP. The way she denied having any idea why the Hotel would be interested in me is disconcerting.”

John shakes his head, “That girl. I don’t know what you see in her.”

“She just needs to spread her wings. She’ll never grow if she stays at home. But, we need to focus on what will happen if I’m grabbed.”

“We have contingencies, Parsley,” he notes, “But, hey, we could look at the bright side. Plenty of women in a harem for you to potentially enjoy their company.”

Parsley shakes her head, “Of course you would go straight to that. Such a man, you are.” But she can’t stop the slight smile creep across her face. She adds, “I’m still going to miss you, husband. If only you were born a woman.”

Like clockwork, he replies, “If only you were born a man.” He checks his phone. Henry must be getting bored. John turns his phone off. He turns to his wife, “I’m here for you until the end. Until either the letter disappears or you do. Least I could do.” He wraps his arm around her shoulder and she platonically rests her head on his chest. There they wait, Parsley mulling how this admittedly strange relationship has always been so important for her. How her best friend, an extremely gay man, needed to hide his sexuality from his parents so he wouldn’t be disowned. How she, an extremely gay woman, needed to do the same with her parents. A match of convenience, but certainly fulfilling, when John wasn’t clandestinely banging any of the half dozen twinks he has around him. Maybe John is right; maybe being **** onto an inter-dimensional porn show would do me some good.

Captain Matilda McMatterson

Matilda is sitting on the edge of a rice paddy. The past few months have been an utter shitshow. Being kidnapped. Being **** to compete with a dozen other versions of herself (most of them men, all of them straight) to rule the “largest selfcest harem in Harem Hotel history”. Being magically ripped apart and put back together in increasingly perverse and depraved ways. Being **** to run and hide when the Host suddenly died. Watching her other selves, too lazy, stupid, or changed to escape, dragged away.

The magic in this place is draining away. The color of the world is gone, except for a blood red moon hovering menacingly above her. The world feels colder, darker, emptier. The air thinner, mustier. She shivers. The olive T-shirt (with her Reaper Division patch sewn onto a sleeve) and field uniform pants she wears are not sufficient to keep her warm. Doesn’t help that, between her mom being a native Hawaiian and spending most of her life at Redstone Arsenal in ‘Bama, she isn’t exactly built for cold. At least the combat boots are keeping her feet dry.

So, she is startled when she hears a meow.

Pulling out a make-shift shiv, she spins around to a squat, searching for danger. She sees a tabby cat, silver fur with little blueish stripes. The only thing she has seen not in gray scale since the villainous fox man died. “Alright, mister cat, friend or foe?”

The cat meows again, sounding annoyed. It struts towards her and rubs her leg. Matilda falls on her butt and the cat hops into her lap, demanding pets. The woman gives the cat a good belly rub and notices that lack of certain naughty bits.

“Sorry. Miss cat, friend or foe?”

The cat gives a contented purr. It’s fur is so soft. She feels calm for possibly the first time since being dragged here. So, she is startled again when the cat starts to speak, “So, Ms. McMatterson, are you ready to talk?”

Never thought I’d be threatening a talking cat, Matilda muses as she draws her shiv to the cat’s neck.

“My, my, Ms. McMatterson, you certainly have some trust issues. Understandable, considering where and how we met. If we must scuffle, I promise only to use a single claw. Still massively unfair for you, but that’s the best handicap I can offer. I would prefer pets.”

Wow, this house cat thinks it can take me.

The cat then teleports on top of her head and leans over to stare Matilda in the eye, “Oh, Ms. McMatterson, I could crush you into dust if I was so inclined. At the risk of having to turn your brain into goo, I am of equivalent power to those entities your government sent you to prevent arising. Think a single mortal with a make-shift pokey stick could do much against me?”

Is the cat...

“...Reading your thoughts? Yes. Using your words aloud would make me less inclined to snoop in there.”

“Say your piece, cat, then leave me be.”

“You are at another crossroads, Ms. McMatterson. One of three paths are before you. The one you seem to be picking by default is to die. As you know, the magic of this place is draining away. This set is being put on ice until a new host can be found for it. From what I’m told, it usually takes several decades. Within a few minutes of my exit, the last of the light will dissipate. I don’t know if you will exactly die of starvation, dehydration, or hypothermia, but you will die if you remain here, alone, unloved. Or do you think you could survive without food or water at absolute zero for up to a few human lifespans?”

“The second option is to join your fellow McMattersons. They live, but they are experiencing a fate worse than ****. Your producer would want you to go in blind, but I am not so cruel. You will be passed from set to set, **** to act as an extra until your joints stop working and your body collapses in on itself. But, if fading away like that is how you want to go, to just give up your freedom and agency, I must allow you to.”

“The third option is the interesting one. The Mistress for my season is someone very important to you. Someone that has changed you life. You won’t recognize her, but she will definitely be happy to see you. If you come with me to my set, I will guarantee your safety. If my audience wills it, you will be folded into my Mistress’ harem. If my audience doesn’t, I could always use a Production Assistant. I cannot save the others, but I can save you. What do you say?”

It has definitely gotten colder and darker. The cat likely speaks truth, as far as this being a glorified grave. The other two options may be true, may be false. Given all that has happened, how can I trust what anyone says here ever again?

“Well, I am naturally honest to a fault. But, it’s also against my contract to lie to a contestant. So long as you are here, you are a contestant on this set.”

“Contract? So, you work for these monsters.”

“Producer. Call me Ms. E, if you feel the urge to use a name.”

A producer? A fucking producer is offering to scoop me away to another set? And I should just trust it?

“Producers are not so all powerful that we can just ignore the rules. Ask me for a sign to earn your trust.”

“Fine. From what little I know about producers, there is one thing that they definitely never reveal. Tell me your true name, then I’ll believe you.”

At that, the cat hopped off of Matilda’s head. “Well, if my season’s Mistress figured out who I am, I suppose I will allow it. But, if I’m going to break that rule, I’m not going to do so here. Follow me.” The cat then lets out a pure, single note, sounding nothing like a meow. It resonates the entire set. A rift tears, forming into a portal. On the other side looks to be a dark forest inside of a glowing cave? The cat struts most of the way through, then turns it’s head, “Remember, once I’m gone, this set will become a **** trap. You might wish to hurry.”

Captain Matilda McMatterson (Behind the Scenes)

Matilda curses and runs through the portal. The cave is warm, resonant. She turns around to see a very tall, very naked lilac skinned lady. Daaaaaaaamn! I am so pent up right now and the seductive siren isn’t helping.

The lady has the nerve to giggle. “Now, now, no lusting after me. Quite a bit of work has been put in to better my season’s Mistress. Perhaps you should be saving those longings for her?”

Matilda gives the goddess a look, then replies, “I am going to be so pissed if you lied to me about this so-called Mistress. And she better be hot. So, where are we?”

“A much nicer place to wait for the vote to end, but I will need to return you to the realm of mortals soon. Welcome to what I believe some of your people would call Svartalfheim, the realm for my devoted dead. In my tongue it has a different name, but what those humans call it works for now. Eilistraee, drow goddess of music, beauty, freedom, moonlight, the surface, and half a dozen other things. At your service.” She bends down, her silver hair cascading to keep her breasts covered, and pinches Matilda’s cheek.

Prudence

As a junior executive for Hotel Concierge, Inc, Prudence spends her work shifts toiling away at representing clients whose souls have yet to be claimed by the company. And, given her reputation, she is given the difficult ones. Like a certain blonde bunny girl magician who Prudence is struggling to find more gigs for. She’s already gotten a reputation for causing more mischief than coin she attracts. Her only reason for continuing to breathe is a lascivious one. Prudence doesn’t know whether she wants to strangle the bunny or snuggle her more.

One of her personal assistants (a warlock she lent power to in exchange for eternal service after ****) hops in, wrapped up in leather so tight that he can't move his legs, as Prudence likes them, “<Mistress, so you know, one of the upcoming transformations on that one’s set will involve you picking up another one of that Mistress’s slut on your list of clients.>”

“<Which one, ****?>”

“<Does it matter?>”

“<Fine. Monitor the situation. If that transformation wins, prep me a file. I’ll add it to my schedule.>”

“<Very good, ma’am.>” The assistant hops back to it’s cage.

Prudence needs to stretch her legs. She has a dozen pitch meetings to attend later on her work shift, trying to get enough work for Tina to justify her contract. For now, she really wants a three martini lunch. She struts out of her office and down the hallway to the junior executive canteen. Her high heels click on the tiles, lovingly embedded with the skulls of sound engineers. Several of her fellow agents have already begun their booze lunch. Prudence orders a martini and sits at her usual table. Her “friends” are, of course, gossiping.

“<Hey, Prudie, did you see the news? Thetacorp HQ just got raided by the forces of the abyss. Everyone’s dead and all those soul coins captured. Weren’t you invested heavily in that particular company?>”

<Shit.>

Prudence downs her martini and checks her soul coin stock portfolio. She’s ruined, bankrupt. She’ll likely have to sell off most of her living mortal stock just to maintain her position in the devil hierarchy.

An imp runs up to her and she scowls. The imp speaks anyways, “<Bob wants to see you.>”

<Shit.>

Prudence outright runs to her boss’s office, stopping only to appropriately preen before walking into his reception area. Her boss is both a pig and a pit fiend, so, yes, appearances matter. She walks in and barely acknowledges the secretary. The secretary, a big tittied bimbo that was once a powerful warlord on some Earth in some part of the multiverse, clacks her way to open the door. Prudence struts her way through and curtsies in her pencil skirt.

“<You wanted to see me, sir?>”

“<Sit.>”

Seeing her options are either sitting on the pommel horse or risking offending the boss, see chooses the later, “<Rather stand, sir. I have several meetings lined up after this.>”

“<That’s the thing. You do not. An executive producer called. Saw your value dip well below acceptable levels for an erinyes, even if you completely liquidated, which you already have been. So, he came with an offer. Join a show as a contestant, enjoy a semi-retirement as a mortal, then maybe your job here will still be ready for you once you’re free of those obligations, with your current rank restored. You’re already been pitched to the audiences of several seasons as a replacement. We just have to wait and see which one bites first. Or would you rather return to being a bearded devil?>”

Prudence is so angry that she wants to spit. She grits her teeth to ask, “<Semi-retirement?>”

“<You will, of course, still work for us. You’ll only have to represent potential clients in your Master’s or Mistress’s harem. A lot less work, perfect for you given how much of your time you will spend on your back.>”