In my dream I am a clone of the Slayer, summoned by old magic in the midst of an occult shop. We look the same, sound the same, move the same. We have the same cells, the same blood, the same bones. The same memories, the same dreams, the same hopes and fears. But I’m not her. I’m me. They don’t understand. They don’t see an autonomous person when they look at me; they just see a copy, a backup, a spare. I’m pleading for Faith to understand (“I’m Buffy, but I’m not Buffy”) when we’re attacked by a demon in the body of a young woman. It’s strong, too strong even for all of us together, but somehow I know its weakness while the true other Buffy does not. I rush to the section of the store which holds statues, shrines, and other tools dedicated to ancient Kemet’s gods. Something has been calling to me here, and this must be why. I grab first a staff of black polished wood, its tip carved into an image of Aset with wings outstretched. Frantically, I search among the statues for another item, but can’t decide what would work best; a cat, a jackal, a hippo? I finally choose a serpent figurine carved as if poised to strike. Staff and carving in hand, I run back into the fray and point both at the demon. The voice that comes from my mouth isn’t mine. It’s like thunder, deep and rumbling, so loud it fills the building and makes the shelves shake. At first the demon resists, mocking my little human body, but when the voice reveals its identity and threatens to strike the demon down for its disrespect, the demon cowers and finally vanishes. Whatever entity possessed me disappears as well, leaving me exhausted and empty – but at least the others are looking at me now with new wonder.

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