The Trials of Sorcerer George and Friendly Compatriot and Alternative Universe Twin, Georgia

(Phew, what a title. Is this a Panic at the Disco Song?)

"You're a what?" Georgia asked, severely confused. She was BARELY holding onto the idea of weird demons with personality and alternate universes, let alone that her "twin" was a... Magician?

"I'm a mage! Magician! Sorcerer! Powerful Cultivator of the World's Heavenly Arts! A Warlock! A Cleric! A- Wait these are all horrible terms." He realized he was ecstatic and his neuroticism was kicking in, which caused pause.

+System, I thought you were withholding my... Mental factulties.+

-Answer: 'At the end of the day', host's body is host's until/unless Host's Possessor "Levi" obtains a majority of the host's soul. Host is ultimately in-control of host's mentality and thusby mental faculties unless otherwise authorized to host's possessor, or the Demonic Possession System VRes as a mediator.-

+Gotcha.+ He said in his head to the monotone voice that has NEVER given a shit about his personal thoughts. It's a weird day, what can I say?

"Effectively, I can reorganize the energy in reality in-order to formulate complex equations in the form of ethereal spells that also reorganize reality. An example would be-"

He snaps his fingers, causing his shadow to begin dancing briefly, before returning to it's static position and form.

Georgia blinked and rubbed her eyes for a moment, severely lacking any understanding of the world around her. "Woah."

George checked the time, realizing they had only 21 hours left. Although this was a lot in the course of a day, this was extremely short given the gravity of the situation.

+System, where do I have to go to find the basement again?+

It took a while for the system to answer, as it had to calculate and corroborate facts and statistical data in-order to answer.

-Answer: 5541 West Saint Street.-

"Hey, Georgia, we've gotta go." George spoke up, melancholy at the results of today's soon ending.

"Uh, okay; but, where to?" Georgia asked, confused.

"West Saint Street."

"The Ice Cream Parlor?"

"No, not even close. It's just barren here."

"Huh. Lame." She replied one last time, as she donned her jacket (which was actually the Jacket that George's sadistic Uncle Jeffrey had gifted him a while ago, and happened to mimic one that Georgia wore every day...) and head for the door.

Meanwhile, George got dressed in a fine tanktop that showed off his musculature as absurdly as possible, but it's cartoon-esque zombie design melded to create a unique gangster aesthetic that normally George would never be seen walking around with.

And like that, they head out.

...

"Sir, the parlor is ready for your activities." A basic runner, donned in a white long-sleeves shirt and a gray-beanie told Gregori, getting ready to exercise after having meticulously setup the Don's room for over five hours since 6AM that morning. (It was excruciating work, I tell you!)

Gregori waved the Runner off nonchalantly, barely giving a word of "Dismissed", as he stared out the window to the headquarter's million-dollar mansion, worth every penny with it's 27 secret rooms and four-storied-floors.

+Where the hell is that boy? Why can't I track him, Belzye?+

-"Tch, how the fuck should I know. Besides, it's not my problem. YOU'RE the glutton here."-