# chapters

path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122
author_id: collider
title: Compass Directions
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're still hesitant about using your sigils. There's too many things that can - and invariably do - go wrong. "Can we get out of this another way?" you ask, almost pleadingly. <br/>
<br/>
Hal's response is to hit the accelerator. You jolt hard back into your seat, Miko's elegant neck bouncing hard against the headrest. The London streets begin to blur as he picks up speed, one hand on the wheel, the other on the stick shift. Every car you've seen in the UK is stick shift... obviously the concept of automatics hasn't reached here.<br/>
<br/>
"Hold on to your pants, Will," Hal says, the police siren bursting into life behind him. "This is going to be interesting." A look of mad concentration bursts across his face. "So, what's the problem?"<br/>
<br/>
He takes a hard left, swinging the wheel round, his car twisting across the tarmac of the night's roads. You hit the side of the door, wincing. "With what?"<br/>
<br/>
"With taking<i> imagos</i>, knocking people out with your little magic hands. You didn't have such qualms with Grace back in Cambs?" He glances back into the mirror; the police car is still hot on your tail.<br/>
<br/>
"Isn't he..."<br/>
<br/>
"Going to call for backup? Good luck with that." He nods to his glove box, as if something was inside. "Good luck using your mobile - uh, your cell - unless I want you to." Hal takes a turn down a tight alleyway, the police car twisting after you. You can't help but brace yourself as garbage bins bounce over Hal's bonnet, trash spilling out. "Ew. Still, fun right? Like Top Gear. Now, what's the problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"I... I took someone's<i> imago</i> to get here. And then her flatmate. I ended up ruining both of their lives."<br/>
<br/>
Hal revs his engine as he bursts onto a main road. Ahead the lights are green. He narrows his eyes, tongue poking out, as he judges the traffic and weaves the car through just as the lights change. The police car is seconds behind, but the light shift buys a few seconds.<br/>
<br/>
"So you're worried about collateral damage? That's good, Will. Precision is what you want. Even the tiniest details are important in the fight against oppression. And you have to watch you don't end up mad with power. Right now, I'd say you're one of the most powerful people in the world."<br/>
<br/>
You frown. "I'm not." You've turned down a street that looks almost residential, cars parked in neat rows on either side. Hal's grin widens. "I mean, how am I?"<br/>
<br/>
Without warning or answering, Hal swerves a little too close to a parked car, clipping its wing mirror. The car's alarm bursts into life, setting off the car next to it. And the next...and the next. As you drive past at increased speed, the alarms begin to trigger in sequence.<br/>
<br/>
"Think about what your ability means, Will," Hal shouts, raising his voice above the car horns as you drive past. The police car has sped up, and is right behind you. "You can be anyone. And impersonate them perfectly. That's a scary ability. If you didn't have scruples, you could take over someone's life. Become your favorite movie star, musician, idol; just kill them off and live their life. Nobody would know. And when you got bored, you could just swap, couldn't you? That's why I'm relieved we found you. To preserve that moral compass before it's corrupted absolutely by the trappings of imperialism."<br/>
<br/>
You reach the end of the row. The cascade of car horns continues, each triggering like a domino. At the end of the row, an expensive looking saloon car is parked up. Hal accelerates past it. <br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't ever do..." You manage to get half a sentence out before Hal's trap triggers. The car horns finally trigger the saloon car - which sets off its full alarm. Suddenly its headlights blare on full beam, the flash of light dazzling the police car, which immediately swerves out of control. You twist to watch, amazed as your pursuit loses its way with the blinding flash and careens into a wall. Hal just drives away.<br/>
<br/>
"You wouldn't kill? Will, you're going to have to kill eventually. Oh... I don't mean that I killed<i> those </i>tools of the one per cent. They're fine - police cars have air bags. I just mean that, eventually, if you work in the<i> Stellae</i> you're going to have to kill someone."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know if I could," you whine. "And aren't you trying to convince me I'm a good guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Good guys sometimes kill. What makes you moral is that you have qualms about killing innocents. My point is that it would be so easy to slip and do that. Too easy."<br/>
<br/>
You sink into your seat. You're not sure what Hal's point is, but he's making you feel far more uncomfortable than you like. "I don't want to think about it," you mutter. The worst part is, now you are. And, as much as you protest, you can't help but wonder, too. Maybe it feels uncomfortable because it would be so easy to do.<br/>
<br/>
"Good! But move away from that, for a moment," Hal says, having slowed his car to a more gentle pace. A low groan from the boot reminds you of the poor, murderous cultist-rower you have trussed up in there. "There's even more uses to your gift you have to restrain yourself from accepting."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"You have their thoughts, right? So you can impersonate them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah..."<br/>
<br/>
"Skills, too?"<br/>
<br/>
"I...guess so?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right. So why not get the<i> imago </i>of a helicopter pilot, so you can fly a helicopter? Or a doctor, in case you need to heal yourself? Learn languages. Become an expert in anything. Sounds great, right? But where do you stop, Will? When you know a thousand ways to kill? When you know how to disguise a cause of death? When you know politics so well you could replace the president and nobody would know? It's a scary proposition that you could easily slip into embracing."<br/>
<br/>
"I won't." you sigh. "Because... because <i>it's wrong</i>, Hal. I don't know any way to put it other than that." <br/>
<br/>
Hal smiles, and pulls the car over.<br/>
<br/>
"Right, Will. But it's always going to be a temptation, isn't it? Remember what I said about the abyss. You stepped into this world with the abyss in your soul."<br/>
<br/>
You frown again. Whatever Will's point is, all he's done is make you feel awful. You look out of the car. You're in a dirty street of wide sidewalks and white-washed houses, each with neat black railings outside. It's pure Mary Poppins. <br/>
<br/>
"This is it?" You ask.<br/>
<br/>
"This is it, Will. The rich part of town. And by rich I mean morally bankrupt but rolling in lucre. Crayson's house is number 12. I need to get to Oxford. Think about what I said, Will. Think about everything you could have. Because you've got to guard against it. The moment you try and take any of it is the moment you start to fall."<br/>
<br/>
Hal's car heads off into the night, leaving you alone in your robe. You can't help but shiver. It's much too big for Miko's tiny form, and looks out of place on her, anyway. You step away into a corner of the deserted street, close your eyes, and concentrate, flicking through faces to find one that suits your attire. Moments later, you step back into the light, wearing Kali's face. The flowing robe is still strange, but it could be an African style that suits her appearance.<br/>
<br/>
It makes you feel even more uncomfortable, though. You just shifted form because of a fashion qualm. It's frightening how easily you could fall. You're sure that was Hal's point, too.<br/>
<br/>
The trouble is, he's made you think of the possibilities. Fame, money, power. You don't want it forever - you certainly wouldn't kill for it, like he's suggesting. But after he outlined so many options, you can't help but wonder what it would be like. The Crayson house is only a few metres away, and you know Hal's plan is for you to infiltrate it. But you'd still be filling Rick's request if you decided to sample the trappings of fame, too. You're in the wealthy part of town, after all. Maybe you could prove to yourself, and to Hal, that you can resist such temptations. Maybe, instead of his mission, you try being rich and famous for a day...</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221
author_id: collider
title: Up the Spout
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've made some stupid choices before, done some stupid things. What you're about to do, you're sure, is one of them. <br/>
<br/>
London is damp and cold. The rain is hammering down, firing in sheets like you've never seen before, a constant cascade that is as remorseless as it is cold. The night is pitch black, and the winter winds are howling. November in London isn't just bad, it's hideous. It's cold, so cold you're surprised it's not snowing. Maybe it would, if the rain didn't drive so hard and fast and bitter.<br/>
<br/>
You huddle in the alleyway, shivering. You're still wearing little more than a sheet. It's the worst possible attire for a night like this, and it's already so water-logged it's beginning to cling to Kali's flesh. The alley is filthy - beyond dirty, polluted by centuries of grime and dirt that nobody has ever swept away. <br/>
<br/>
Dressed in a ceremonial garb, you aren't really equipped to head out into the city, which is probably why Hal dropped you off so close to your intended destination. You don't have any money, either: you're without a wallet. All you've got is Hal's flash drive, and you doubt that's going to be much use for anything. The only thing you're relieved about is that you're still wearing Grace's shoes, and that they're roughly Kali's size.<br/>
<br/>
<i>And how can you tell me/ You're lonely?/ And say for you/ That the sun don't shine. </i>It's a song from Kali's past, a melody she loved, decades ago. It's sad and slow, and haunts you as you play it in your mind. You wonder what Kali would say now. That thought, at least, brings a smile. If you wanted to, if you concentrated, you could <i>know</i> what she'd say.<br/>
<br/>
You could have just walked up to the front door. You could have avoided all this misery. But no, you decided to play it cautious. It's gone 11pm; who would knock on a door at that time of night, you reasoned? So, instead of getting out of the cold air quickly, you decided to make a quick trip around to the back of the house, to see if there was an easier way in. <br/>
<br/>
That's when, out of nowhere, it started to rain. In sheets. In waves. In a tidal force that you didn't get very often back in Saratoga Falls. And that's when, desperate to get out of the weather, you decided to do what you're about to do. Quietly, you take a last look out to the street, to make sure it's deserted. Then you close your eyes, and flick through your <i>imagos</i> and slip back into Miko's form. It's wiry and has the strength – as well as lightness – you'll need for this. You place your hands on the drainpipe, and begin to climb. <br/>
<br/>
You don't know what inspired you to do this. The weather alone should tell you it's a bad idea. But given that there's no sensible way of getting through the front door, it feels like the best way to sneak into the house. Once there, you're confident you'll be able to slip into someone's identity easily enough. Maybe you won't even need to, despite it being part of Rick's test. The key thing right now is to get Hal's flash drive into the study computer, and you're sure Sulva can help conceal your passage through the house. Maybe you could just sneak straight to where you need to go, complete one mission, and then com...<br/>
<br/>
Your hand slips from the slick wetness of the pipe, and you scramble against the stone wall for purchase. The garb is making the climb tough work, stretching and limiting your motion with every inch, but you're getting up the plastic tube, slowly and surely. In fact, you're almost at a first floor side window, left tantalisingly open. You bend your arms, preparing for the kinetic burst to swing yourself over, Miko's figure giving you the cat-like agility you need to pounce. <br/>
<br/>
Your fingers grip the window sill, leaving you straddling the pipe and the ledge. {OK, now what}. You're trapped between a window and a pipe, and the rain is getting worse. So's the cold. Your fingers feel trapped in two worlds, numb from the cold and sore from the exertion. You decide to make a break for it, and swing onto the ledge. Your fingers strain as your body bounces against the brick wall. Now, all you need to do is pull yourself up, and in. You heave, curling yourself into the building, slipping over the window's gaping maw and into the building.<br/>
<br/>
There's a noise to your side. You've got just enough time to turn before you see a blur of a metal softball bat swing straight at your head.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?” The police officer is asking you directly, arms folded as he leans down. “Do you? Do you speak English?”<br/>
<br/>
You don't answer. You haven't answered a word yet. Not when Crayson was screaming at you, a stream of anger and rage that his privacy had been violated. Not when the police first turned up, shortly after you regained consciousness. Not when the paramedic treated you, checking your vision and making sure you weren't going to die in custody.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” you say. Once more, Miko's voice sounds strange with a British accent.<br/>
<br/>
“Good. Now, what's your name? And what were you doing?”<br/>
<br/>
“My name's...” you don't want to say Miko. You're already in enough trouble with her. Now she's going to have her face all over a criminal database. You try and think of a name. “Grace.” It's the first one that comes to your head. You've been going by it for the past two days. “Grace... Nokatomi.” You're pretty sure that's a building in some action movie, but it's the first Japanese sounding surname you could think of.<br/>
<br/>
“And what were you doing?”<br/>
<br/>
“She was caught red handed!” Crayson is screaming. “Trying to break in! Little thief in the night! We often get them. Vagrant immigrant prowlers. Just want to grab what they can and run. Well not this time!”<br/>
<br/>
“All right, sir.” Another police officer, a woman, her tone calm and in control. “We'll handle this.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well?” The first police officer is asking you again. “What were you doing?”<br/>
<br/>
You stare blankly at the wall. <br/>
<br/>
“Are you known to the police? Are you going to say anything at all?”<br/>
<br/>
“Of course she isn't! It's a good thing my daughter spotted her coming through the window and had the foresight to catch her with her bat! She made the sixth form team for softball. This little... this little bitch never stood a chance as...”<br/>
<br/>
“All right, sir.” The female officer is calming Crayson again. You shiver. The paramedic wrapped  you in a heat blanket, probably because your clothes were soaking. The flash drive, at least, is still in your pocket.<br/>
<br/>
“We'll sue you! Do you hear me? My wife's a solicitor! You're going to get the full force of the law, you little vagrant!”<br/>
<br/>
You ignore him, imperious eyes still staring at the wall.<br/>
<br/>
“Not talking again?” The first officer queries. “Fine. If you're not going to talk to us now, you can talk to us at the station, can't you?” The first police officer grabs your cuffed hands, and lifts you up, supporting the heat blanket. “Officer Whitman will escort you to the car. Now, Mr Crayson, sir, can I take a statement about what happened from you?”<br/>
<br/>
The female police officer walks over, hooking her hand under yours, and begins to steer you out of the Crayson residence. “Watch yourself, miss, it's slippy out,” she cautions as the front door opens.<br/>
<br/>
You follow her out into the rain, panicking. You shouldn't <i>have</i> to panic, after all. You're a shapechanger. But a police station is the last thing you need. For one thing, Miko's not going to appreciate her face appearing on a UK police database. Really, you need to escape. The obvious move is to knock out the police officer. But that's going to be difficult with your hands behind your back, and will raise more questions. Just vanishing won't work – Sulva can help with a lot of problems, but you doubt it has an answer to being handcuffed, dressed in a sheet, on a cold London night, miles from any friendly support. The only other option is to wait until the police station. But you can't do that, can you?</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212
author_id: collider
title: The Witch of West Kensington
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Miko, you are pretty sure, is going to kill you. At least unless you can convince someone like Hal to remove her face from the police database, her fingerprints from the computer, and this whole episode from the files of Scotland Yard. You're in a small police station just outside a large park, and have been for the past hour. The police have processed you, and now you're sat in a holding cell, a steel door in front of you, a cot and toilet behind. It's cleaner than you imagined a prison cell to be, but you're not interested in the décor. You're interested in how you're going to get out of here. Your Sulva skills might prove useful... if the opportunity arises. So would taking another form. Neither are real options at the moment, though.<br/>
<br/>
The door opens, the heavy bolt clanging as it slips to open the lock. You're greeted by the gruff face of an officer, who almost immediately steps aside, allowing an immaculately dressed woman through. Her face is strong and toned; lean and aggressive, a strong nose and silvery, faintly glistening skin. Her make-up is worn to impress, her jet black hair cut around her neck. Grey eyes betray her true age, slight wrinkles and crow's feet beginning to emerge. Her figure is in its early 30s, but you'd guess from subtle clues she's a decade older. She purses lips stained mauve, revealing a line of glistening white teeth. It's a shark's smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Good evening," she says, striding in, her suit jacket swaying as she does. The door closes behind her. Her English accent is a little too perfect. It's weird; before your trip, you doubt you'd have even noticed. Now, it rings hollow as if you were a native to this rainy little island.<br/>
<br/>
"Who are you?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, a question. Very good, I was told you wouldn't speak. My name is Ms Lenke Varga. I'll be your solicitor." She opens up a small leather satchel by her side and begins pulling out papers. "At least, that's what I told the police officers outside."<br/>
<br/>
She smiles. As if she's about to steal your soul. You frown.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
She sits down, directly opposite, eyes narrowed, boring into yours. "I mean I can't represent you officially. I'd be removed from the bar.  You see, at around 11pm tonight you broke into my house. My married name is Crayson."<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes widen in surprise. This seems to amuse her; it's a cold, callous amusement though.<br/>
<br/>
"Judging by your reaction, you were not expecting that little confession. But I think we can help each other, to the extent I am willing to risk such things. I think, at the end of this private little chat, you and I will have come to an arrangement. But first, I have a question, to which I require an answer."<br/>
<br/>
She leans forward, pressing her suit into the table.<br/>
<br/>
"Who are you?"<br/>
<br/>
You stay quiet.<br/>
<br/>
"I can't help you unless you tell me who you are. I can see my husband drops the charges, you know. You'll be free within the hour. And you may be substantially richer, too, depending on how you answer."<br/>
<br/>
There's not much more to say. If you're going to play the part of a scared burglar, you might as well go with it.<br/>
<br/>
"Grace," you mutter. "Noka..."<br/>
<br/>
The woman sighs with frustration. "No," she says, clipped voice betraying an edge of pure steel. "I mean who are you <i>really</i>. Grace Nokatomi? Is that the best you could invent? No imagination."<br/>
<br/>
"I... what?"<br/>
<br/>
She smiles, and leans forward, across the desk. "Allow me to explain it to you simply. I am about to weave a hypothetical situation. Tell me if this rings true, hey?<br/>
<br/>
"Let's say there are unique extracurricular activities taking place in the world. Let us say they are almost <i>magical</i> in nature. Strange creatures, stranger events. Rituals, and witches, warlocks and wizards. What would you say to that?"<br/>
<br/>
You swallow hard, trying to mask any look of surprise on your face. How does she know this? Obviously something has betrayed you, because her lips curl into a slight smile, and the silver pen glides across the pad, making a note in shorthand.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, let's imagine that all of this is real. Perhaps you know it to be so because you have a little skill yourself. Or perhaps you know it simply because someone with greater skill demonstrated their powers to you. They command you to break into my home. Or you take it upon yourself to do so. Because inside, you believe, is a power of some kind. Wouldn't that be an interesting tale?”<br/>
<br/>
"I guess." So she knows. Not about the <i>Stellae</i>, perhaps. Certainly not about who you really are. But more than Hal seemed to imagine. You suddenly get the sinking feeling that he picked the wrong Crayson.<br/>
<br/>
"You guess, do you? Well, I know. So I ask again. Who are you. <i>really</i>? This works better, my darling, if you don't lie."<br/>
<br/>
"I..." you don't know what to say. The words just don't come freely.<br/>
<br/>
She laughs, shrill and self-confident. "Oh, there's really no need to hesitate. Your plan is obvious. You were after my idiot husband's computer files... according to this report, they found a flash drive on you. I wouldn't have bothered. You wouldn't find anything of what you are looking for there, I assure you. He has simply no idea of the true nature of being. Whoever ordered you in there – I very much doubt you were alone – must have a low opinion of women, naturally assuming the one with real power was the man of the house."<br/>
<br/>
You marvel at the neatness of what she said, as she paws over the police report handed to her. She's just told you that she's a... well, something. Something too powerful to mess with directly. She's picked what she believes to be your plan apart. You're not going to correct her on the finer points – a misunderstanding here could save your life.<br/>
<br/>
"What I was looking for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Answers," she says, self assured, leaning forward across the table. "Which he does not have, but which I can provide to the right person. Yet before I offer them, I think you need to provide me with a few answers too. Consider it solicitor-client privilege. I want to know who you are. I want to know how you obtained our name and address; why break in? And I want to know if you have any idea of what you are now involved in: did you decide to do this of your own volition, or did someone put you up to the task. If someone else, I want their name. Isn't that simple?"<br/>
<br/>
You look at her deadpan. Miko's great at deadpan.<br/>
<br/>
"I have no idea..."<br/>
<br/>
"Last chance!" She smiles after a rapid interruption, her high, crystal-clear voice cutting you down in a beat as she shakes her head in overwrought disappointment. "No, no my dear darling, you're not appreciating the game here. You can't play your way out here. Even your attire speaks volumes: some kind of ceremonial robe, isn't it? But I know you're just the tool in this. I know it's not your fault, and that's why I'm prepared to give you a chance. How do I know? Listen close! Because here is a painful truth. <i>No one of real power would have tried to break into such a house, with such a mark upon it, in such a way</i>. You were used. No doubt by someone who has convinced you that you owe them a certainly loyalty. Trust in me when I say you do not.”<br/>
<br/>
<i>What mark?</i> you wonder. The girl, waiting with the bat... it was rather convenient. Could the house be warded somehow, so that residents just instinctively are in the right place to defend against a burglar? Is that even possible? You wish someone else was here. Right now, you feel as lost as you did in the palms of Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
“You are a pawn, my darling,” she continues. “A pawn. Not even that, in truth. You cannot see the game from a distance; if you had that ability, you'd never have played. This game spans years and decades. It paints using a palette of subtle wiles. It dances in shadows and daylight. How can I explain it best... you're Japanese, am I correct? Indulge me when I say it is like fugu. One rare morsel of magic, cut by an expert chef, is a delicious slither. It sparkles on your tongue. But without the right person to cut the fish, or if you eat too much, the tingle becomes an ache, becomes a pain, becomes death. Until you know what you are dealing with, you shouldn't try to cut your own slices.”<br/>
<br/>
"So answer, and answer true, my darling, for you have no lives left. Who are you. Who sent you. And how did they stumble across my home?"</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122121
author_id: collider
title: True Lies
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>What was it Joe said, back in your game of questions and answers in Saratoga Falls? <i>Liars go to hell.</i><br/>
<br/>
"My name's Will," you say. You don't know why, but every instinct in your body is telling you to speak only the truth. Not the full truth, not even close to it, but enough that your opponent can infer, and confirm her own prejudices. You cast your eyes down, at the furious shorthand she's scribbling, like an endless, waving line that trails from one edge of her pad to the other in a seamless glide of ink.  "I know that's seems an odd name."<br/>
<br/>
"It's fitting," she says, a pleasant smile. "It's not uncommon for Asians to take a Western name, and it's a powerful one to pick. You consider yourself Willie, evidently. What was it before?"<br/>
<br/>
You're careful to dance around the truth. "If I showed up in Japan, they'd know me as Miko. But... call me Willie."<br/>
<br/>
"Very well," she smiles. "Willie you are. Now, who was it who sent you to my home, hmm?"<br/>
<br/>
"I only met him two days ago."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, my darling? Go on. And what was his name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Henry."<br/>
<br/>
"And what did Henry want you to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know exactly. He wanted me to go for your husband's computer."<br/>
<br/>
"Of course. I knew that already, but I wanted to hear you say it. You're doing very well. So tell me, where did Henry find you, exactly?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't want to share the Cambridge link yet. "He found me working in a..."<br/>
<br/>
"No!" Her voice is a sudden shriek, and she locks you in eye contact. In a flash her demeanour has changed to a threatening, formidable bearing. She takes a moment to compose herself, the mask of friendship returning. "The truth only, Willie. It's very important for you. Imperative. No matter how painful it is, it must be the truth."<br/>
<br/>
You feign fright and nerves - not that it's hard - and nod furiously. Once again you avoid her gaze, looking down at the pen as it flashes along.<br/>
<br/>
It's then you realize what's going on. There's a hectic spike in her shorthand, just where you had started to lie. She's not writing notes at all. The pen is some kind of lie detector. She's using a spell, just not on you. The silver pen begins its trace again.<br/>
<br/>
<i> Liars go to hell. </i><br/>
<br/>
"He found me..." You think of a way to phrase your half-truth, remembering your first meeting. "He found me on the street."<br/>
<br/>
"Better."<br/>
<br/>
"I... I sort of ran away from this... group I was with." you say, using every inch of your acting ability. Miko's tempestuous at times, and you latch onto her nature, imaging the horror as she watched her own image stab her father. The tears and heat well up and burst onto your face. "There was this group. I was their... slave, I guess. I don't want to talk about it. They made me do... things. He... Henry... he helped me out. Got me away from them. He... he could use some kind of magic. He showed me some. Then he said as a favour I needed to get into your house."<br/>
<br/>
The lies are flowing sweetly now, their flavour honeyed with truth. Your interrogator's face is sorrowful and sympathetic, though you don't doubt it's put on.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, my darling. There, there. You don't have to share the rest. I know it already. I've dealt with human trafficking before. You're illegal, aren't you? Brought to the UK and... well. We both know what that means. No wonder you ran away to the cold streets of London."<br/>
<br/>
"And Henry, he..."<br/>
<br/>
"Pretended to help you. <i>Pretended</i>, my darling. Don't you see? You were just used. Used by someone who did not have your interests at heart. I assume you have nothing? No money? No family?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not here. My family are back in my own country. They don't even miss me. Because... because..."  You mutter, trying to come up with a convincing, truthful line. This, perversely, seems to work even better. She sets the silver pen down. <br/>
<br/>
"Yazuka, I suppose? Don't say another word. I'm sorry I distressed you, Willie, but I had to uncover the truth. And the truth is that a tragedy such as yours is all too common; it happens in my own country, too. But you have advantages, unlike many women in your situation. You speak English, for one, and are quite, quite pretty. Both are probably why this Henry decided to use you."<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't use me, he..."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, he did. You were used. He abused that trust you so willingly gave him, because you had no one else to turn to. You can see that now, can't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"He said he'd help. And he showed me..."<br/>
<br/>
"A little magic? It goes a long way. But you were to be his slave, my darling. I honestly believe that. You escaped one life of slavery, and were stepping in to another. But you're free from him now. You can see that, can't you? What if I helped you? Would you like that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Help me?"<br/>
<br/>
She smiles, warm and reassuring and friendly. "Yes, help. Your English is very good, you know; you could even be from London. It would be easy enough to set up a false birth certificate. A passport, as a UK citizen. A new life for you. My employer could arrange it all. Get you some training, some skills. We could look after you, Willie. We really could.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course, that's in the future. First we'd have to get you out of those wet things, wouldn't we? Into some proper clothes. How long has it been since you had a bath, or even somewhere warm to sleep, Willie? How long has it been since you saw a bed? Yes... I think that's the first thing we'll get you. Make sure you're comfortable. And safe from this Henry, too. He'll come looking for you, I don't doubt. And you wouldn't want him to find you, would you? He wouldn't be kind to someone who failed him." <br/>
<br/>
You're in awe at the way she's done it. A slipped threat, a twist to make your friend your enemy, and the promise of exactly what she thinks you desire most, both immediately and in the future. You don't have to speak now. You let Miko's eyes widen and gleam at the prospect of what she's offering. You let the whole tantalising offer reflect on your face and through your tears.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll get me... a bed? Where I'll be safe from them?" You wince mentally as you say it. You're laying it on too thick.<br/>
<br/>
She smiles beatifically. "That's right, Willie. Like I said at the start of this little talk, I thought we'd come to an understanding."<br/>
<br/>
She rises from the cell cot, silver pen slipping into her suit jacket. She takes a step to the door and raps on the metal.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry. You'll be free in half an hour. You and I shall stay at a hotel tonight; I think that's for the best, don't you? And in the morning, after a nice, hot shower and a good night's rest, and as much breakfast as you want, we'll talk about your future."<br/>
<br/>
You just nod. What else is there to do?<br/>
<br/>
"Until then, my darling. And have faith. My employer rewards those who keep the faith. I told you that you are a pawn. And you are. But with faith, even a pawn can become a queen."<br/>
<br/>
The door opens and she slips through. You breathe out a heavy sigh, and sink to the cell's bed. This is definitely not what Hal had planned. Of course, once you're free you could run for it. Your new benefactor wouldn't suspect anything more than a panicked, homeless illegal immigrant, fleeing for a new life.<br/>
<br/>
But you've also got the perfect gateway into something much bigger. It's risky, but you could play the part of the scared initiate simply enough, and find out far more about what's going on. That's sure to impress Hal, Rick, and any other member of the <i>Stellae</i>...</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Trapping of Luxury
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221212

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The private car, a Prius, is waiting outside the police station. Lenke is sat within, reclined in the back seat, a driver in the front. You walk out, shivering in the night air for the briefest of moments before darting for the waiting confines of the cab. Half an hour ago a sheepish call from Crayson had dismissed all charges, leaving you free to go.<br/>
<br/>
Lenke welcomes you with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Take a seat," she says. Commands, really, as she extends an open palm. "Do you have it?" <br/>
<br/>
There's only one thing she can mean. You hand over the flash drive. She keeps the palm open, swinging it under her nose to... smell it. She takes a deep inhalation, like sampling a fine wine.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm. Elaborate. This Henry is a talent, no question. A pity."<br/>
<br/>
"A pity?" The car lurches into action. Lenke smiles.<br/>
<br/>
"Hush. Not in front of an employee."<br/>
<br/>
You nod, and try to suppress your nerves. Fortunately the trip is mercifully short. In minutes you've pulled up outside a grand, cathedral-like structure that turns out to be a hotel, you've crossed a lobby of polished marble, brass fittings and luxury panels, and accompanied Lenke into the nicest hotel room you've ever seen, on the 10th floor, a magnificent view of Hyde Park at night stretching out beyond the glass windows.<br/>
<br/>
You look around in awe. The room is like a James Bond movie; an expansive suite with a huge double bed, its soft duvet puffed and calling for you to drown in its expanse. Stylish fittings abound, from marble-topped tables to the thick, immaculately white carpet. Lenke smiles as she leads you inside.<br/>
<br/>
"It's just a little room we keep for people like yourself," she says, as if this were nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"It's incredible," you say, exploring, staring into the sparkling bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
"We believe in the best, Willie. This is yours for the night. There are fresh clothes in the cupboard; I had to guess your size. Why don't you get comfortable? I need to prepare for our guest."<br/>
<br/>
"Guest?" <br/>
<br/>
Lenke smiles, as if surprised by your question. "Why yes," she says, matter of factly. "Did you think Henry would just abandon you? Oh no, my darling. I suspect he'll be coming along soon." She holds up the flash drive. "This little tool is more than a flash drive. Unless my nose deceives me, this has neat little way to follow your movements."<br/>
<br/>
"So he's going to find me?" You try and keep it personal, but inside it's obvious. Hal put a tracker to keep tabs on you. That's something, at least. You can't help but feel a little abandoned, especially in the situation in which you find yourself. Lenke is clearly dangerous. She clearly knows what she's doing. Everything about her confidence, her off-hand nature about magic, reminds you of Aubrey Blackwell. Aubrey Blackwell with a multinational backing him.<br/>
<br/>
"He will find the drive, at least." Lenke smiles, and turns to the door. She reaches into her pocket, and a piece of chalk appears in her hand. Almost immediately she begins scratching around the surface. The pattern starts as a series of circles. Then it comes more. More, and even more. Circles upon circles upon circles, across the polished wood. "Oh, don't worry. This is just a little spell. The simplest of spells, really. It'll make sure we're nice and protected tonight. You'll find out how to do it, in time. Perhaps they'll even show you at your corporate induction."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean it's a trap?"<br/>
<br/>
Lenke turns, again her smile strangely curious that you even have to ask. "Of course it's a trap. I want to meet this Henry, and if he shows up I'd rather be in a position to question him with impunity. In the meantime, why don't you get comfortable? Run a bath, change into some of those beautiful satin pyjamas we have provided. We'll look after you, now. Go to sleep. I shall sit, and wait, and guard you."<br/>
<br/>
You don't know what else to do but comply. Your mind runs through possibilities as you step into the bathroom and turn on the taps, watching the piping hot water flow into the basin. You stare hard into the mirror, searching for an answer, trying to think what you're going to do. The only logical option is to somehow get word to Hal, or the others. And that means getting past Lenke.<br/>
<br/>
The obvious solution would be to use a sigil on her. But you're not sure if you want to go anywhere near the dark thoughts that lurk in her consciousness. And what if she has some way to stop you? Maybe it's best to sit tight, and wait.<br/>
<br/>
But she clearly expects Hal to come through the door after you. And how do you get away from joining her company? The only way is to capture her - and that will sever any chance of finding out more.<br/>
<br/>
At this moment, you're ruing the day you met Hal Swann.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Waiting Game
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212122

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You let the water wash over you, the beautiful heat unknotting the strained muscles and driving away the dirt of the London streets. Slowly, you let yourself slip deeper, underneath, your black hair bobbing around on the surface, a morass of floating strands as you vanish into the depths of the huge bowl. The bath is piping hot, hotter than you could stand it as Will, though for some reason Miko seems to consider it a <i>normal</i> temperature. Just as it was <i>normal</i> for you to wash yourself in the shower first, scrub yourself clean and glistening, before you even considered entering the bath. Again, the luxury of the hotel is impressed upon you. How many hotels have a shower that's separate from the bath?<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, let the bubbles of breath slip out of your lips one at a time, and listen to the strange, muffled sounds of the water around you.<br/>
<br/>
<i> What the hell are you going to do?</i><br/>
<br/>
You trace through the tactics you could use. The techniques. The methods that would ensure you could slip away unnoticed. Getting past Lenke isn't the problem. You could knock her out easily with a sigil. You could slip past using Sulva, if you could work out what she'd done to the door. You could breeze into the London streets, wrapping people in your cloak as you go, or as anyone you so choose. The clothes are likely to fit Miko, but with a little improvisation you could be Lenke, Claire, Paul, Rick, Will, Kali, Jen or Hélène. <br/>
<br/>
You open your eyes at this, blinking as the hot water strains across your eyeballs. Only three of your faces are men. Two, really: you're still in your teens. You realize you need to correct that; you only want to take a face if you can use it, but you still don't have a full society of appearances, a face for every situation. Trapped as you are as Miko, you're starting to appreciate how important that could be. <br/>
<br/>
You start to run out of breath, lungs burning in silent fury. None of that is going to work. Not if you want to keep your position a secret. Not if you want to keep up with Hal's plan, no matter how crazy, how elaborate, it turns out to be. You think back to the boathouse, to the series of events he set in motion. Is this just another strange series of connections? Has he flicked you like a domino, hoping that when the row falls down it's made whatever pattern he's trying to weave? What planets govern him, you wonder? Catilindria and Kenadandra? Or another two?<br/>
<br/>
You force yourself up and take a deep lungful of the rich, saturated air. You're still no closer to figuring a way out of this mess.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You sit on the bed, dressed in a very comfortable satin pyjama set. Lenke's eyes are sealed closed and her face is meditative, but her hands are active. The silver pen is out, this time stabbing through pieces of paper, like a needle penetrating flesh. Every action is deliberate, forming neat, dotted rows like the perforations of a stamp, tracing out some invisible pattern.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you doing?" You ask, trying to affect the same uncertain curiosity you've mustered throughout. <br/>
<br/>
"Preparing," she replies, clipped and simple. "Don't disturb me, please."<br/>
<br/>
"What if he doesn't come." Lenke's eye opens.<br/>
<br/>
"I said don't disturb me. And do not worry or fret. He will come." She stares at you, one eye open, the other closed.<br/>
<br/>
"Is everyone in your company... like...you?" The second eye opens, accompanied by a heavy sigh. Her voice crackles a little, far more dark and serious than it was before.<br/>
<br/>
"Like me? Oh, heavens, no, my darling. There is very little like <i>me</i>, I assure you. We don't need the vast majority of the corporation. We are simply in key positions. Positions where we can shape, and influence, and transform, and modify. We work with nudges and suggestions, you see. The game has been going on so long it feels almost infinite."<br/>
<br/>
"So your husband doesn't..."<br/>
<br/>
"Know?" She smiles, as if baffled. "Of course he doesn't <i> know </i>. His daughters don't <i> know. </i> And you will never <i> know </i> the full extent of all I have to offer, either, unless you are silent, and obedient, and keep very, very quiet while I prepare. This Henry will come soon, I am sure. And I will need to be ready."<br/>
<br/>
You just nod, and slide under the bed covers. Her eyes snap shut again. <br/>
<br/>
You were prying, searching for something to give you a clue as to what is about to unfold. You never expected such a big one, though. Lenke's language has betrayed her. Her stainless steel, too-perfect English accent has chosen the wrong set of words.<br/>
<br/>
You now know just how desperate your situation is. You close your eyes and turn to Sulva for guidance.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
An hour passes. Two. You don't sleep, though. She knows that you're awake, she must given your proximity, but her eyes remain sealed and her motions remain as strange and arcane as the elaborate chalk drawing. You're too nervous to dream. Too nervous to even think. Instead, you are losing yourself in meditation.<br/>
<br/>
As always, Sulva is there, shining down upon you. Still no sign of the other, still that big, missing hole in your being that should be filled by your second <i>ousiarch</i>. And still the constellation of faces and thoughts, memories and ideas and opinions. You're not master of them all, not yet, but you can at least improve how you access them.<br/>
<br/>
At first, you're nervous. You don't want to do something that would make Lenke suspect anything but the story you've slowly fed her. But after a while your confidence grows. You begin to look at the faces, the memories, and see if you can release them, as you did with Grace's <i>imago</i>.<br/>
<br/>
You go back and forth between Jen and Claire, testing yourself. You relive an argument they had over cushions, of all things, during the summer. First from Jen's perspective, then from Claire's. You marvel at the tricks of memory, how the two women remember the same even with subtle differences in sights, sounds and connected thoughts. Then you sandblast the memory away from one perspective. As hard as you can, you can't recall the second half of the tale - you can only see Claire's perspective. Then, with another conscious effort, you can't even see that. You've cleared your mind of the associated memory entirely.<br/>
<br/>
Sulva beats, shining hard, directing your thoughts. Gradually you stop the training, and drive yourself to something practical. You find yourself deep in Miko's thoughts, running through a catalog of creatures, spirits, demons, monsters... <br/>
<br/>
Your eyes snap open. There's a knock at the door, heavy and hard. Lenke smiles at you, and a finger slowly raises to her lips. The clock shows a little after 4am.<br/>
<br/>
The knock comes again. Lenke smiles, and rises slowly. Still, her eyes are on you. Still, the finger to her lips. The other hand plays along the edges of the paper, a slow rip as she manipulates it with one hand, tearing through the dots in sequence. She sets the finger down, and begins to tear with both hands now, discarded paper falling to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
It's only then you realize exactly what she's been doing with the paper. She's made some kind of humanoid shape; it's some kind of human-shaped paper chain. Holding it flat in her hand, she reaches slowly inside her jacket pocket for that strange, silver pen.<br/>
<br/>
The knocking stops. You hold your breath, and wonder what's about to happen.</span></div></div>


author_id: rugal
title: The Dangers of a Nervous Mind
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122121221

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You should do something. You want to do something. But what can you do?<br/>
<br/>
The knocking suddenly stops.<br/>
<br/>
Lenke's lips stretch into an absolutely wicked smirk. "The hour is upon us, dear." Her words are directed at you but she herself doesn't move so much as a hair on her head, "It is upon you doubly so. What will it be? Take the warm kindness of the open hand or the cold tyranny of the closed fist?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a clock radio next to you and to your shock it comes to life. Music begins blaring through it, voices crying out singing a song about how they'll no longer be enslaved. That's Hal, you realize! It has to be!<br/>
<br/>
Lenke seems to notice it too. "This is your apparent friend Henry, yes?" she asks, her voice calm and measured, "Certainly a dramatic one, is he not? A shame I'll have to dispose of someone so amusing."<br/>
<br/>
And then the door flies open and in bursts Hal, wild clothing and even wilder hair. "Lenke Varga, a pleasure to meet one of the prime oppressors of this fine city." he grins as he stands there, "It'll be an even greater pleasure to finally put an end to said oppression."<br/>
<br/>
His words become slurred and slow as he steps across the threshold and into the room. You're left confused and it's then that you notice and are able to fully take in where Hal has stepped. You see them on the floor, crude chalk drawings in interlocking spirals and parts, all fit together in a manner resembling cogs like you'd find in... a clock! Of course! Hal, the impetuous hot head that he is, burst in without truly thinking and has gotten himself caught in some kind of time trap. His movements, his senses, his very sense of being have all been slowed to a snail's pace.<br/>
<br/>
Lenke laughs, more of a wicked cackle really, as she holds up the paper figurine. She tugs it and raises it, Hal's body raising to match. She turns her head briefly and you follow her gaze. The large window! She's going to fling him towards it. That would be enough to knock him out or potentially worse.<br/>
<br/>
You have to act but what can you do? You're wearing Miko's form so what would she do? And that's when you spring into action. You leap from the bed and tackle Lenke, the voodoo figure flying forward and so too does Hal being flung backwards out of the bedroom and back into the hall. She tries to fight her way up to a standing position but you come with her; Miko's a natural athlete and her body has a deceptive strength to it. "UNGH! Willy, what do you think you're doing?! All that I've offered you, why--"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't have a chance to say any more though. Quickly you use your strength to swing her around and the momentum of the swing as you let go causes her to go stumbling forward right into her own trap. She's now slowed to nearly a complete stop.<br/>
<br/>
You then look and see that Hal was tossed not just into the hall but into another person. Hal, seemingly half-conscious if that, is shoved off of the other person; the messy, grimy figure that can belong only to Rick Bredon. "Rick!" you call out, making sure to do your best to avoid the trap as there's a space between the sigils and the threshold, small but just large enough for your wiry frame to slip through. "Rick, I'm sorry, I--"<br/>
<br/>
"Squirt, we'll talk about your screw ups later but right now we got business we have to take care of."<br/>
<br/>
It's then that you notice him reaching for his knife, grabbing it and then holding it in a position ready to throw it. He's taking no chances with either that trap or Lenke. He's going to eliminate her here and now. "Rick, no!" you cry out as you grab his arm and to hopefully get that knife from him.<br/>
<br/>
"Squirt, I'm--ERGH!--I'm telling you get--UGH!--get away!"<br/>
<br/>
He manages to wrestle free from you. Oh jeez, oh God, he's going to kill Lenke. You... you don't want anyone to die, not even her. And the information she could provide... Rick would give that all up? You can't let him do this. You won't let him do this. But how? How can you... the sigil! Yes, that's it! With the sigil you can put him to sleep! Lenke's dealt with, no need to take her out. You draw the sigil, you reach out and Rick turns to you.<br/>
<br/>
"What're you--"<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't have a chance to answer. Your hand is on his face, you're going to put him to sleep for a little bit. And that's when you witness the most horrifying thing you've ever seen. Rick cries out in pain and clutches at his face, a face that is looking sickly and bloated. Rick's cries continue to pierce your ears as he stumbles, falls to his knees, skin bubbling, blackening, then turning an ashen color. He falls to the floor and immediately stops breathing and then, to your even greater horror, Rick Bredon becomes nothing but a pile of ash.<br/>
<br/>
What could've happened? You bring up the sigil you use to knock people out, it appears faintly on your hand and... that's not it. It looks almost identical but there's something off about it, something different. It's slight but it almost looks like a reversed version of the sigil and colored an ominous black. What is this sigil? How could you have ever drawn up something like this? What have you done?<br/>
<br/>
"Wi-Will..."<br/>
<br/>
Hal's voice is groggy as he pulls himself up. "Hal! I-I'm... I'm sorry. Rick I..." you're getting choked up, "What have I done, Hal?! What am I?!"<br/>
<br/>
"Will, calm down." he says and there's a seriousness to his voice you haven't heard in the short time you've known him, "We'll help you but you need to calm down and you need to help me take care of Lenke."<br/>
<br/>
"Take care of... how can you be so calm?!" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh trust me, I'm freaking out as bad as you right now but showing it right now won't help things." he says, "We'll bring in Lenke first, then figure out what to do with you from there. I need you to get some water, dump it on that trap to disrupt the sigils. Make sure you get something so we can tie her up as well."<br/>
<br/>
Hesitantly you nod. You carefully make your way past the trap once more and then into the bathroom connected to the room. You look around and find a wastebasket near the sink, nothing in it thankfully, so you remove the bag and fill the basket with water. You then head back into the room and, through more searching, find a few robes; you remove the robes' belts so you can use them to bind Lenke. You then head over to the trap and, taking a breath, throw the water onto the sigils which distorts, smudges and washes away the drawings enough to destroy the trap. Lenke, who all this time has been in an ultra-slow stumbling motion, falls to the floor and quickly you're on her using one belt to bind her hands and another to bind her feet so she can't run.<br/>
<br/>
"Right then." Hal says as he pulls himself up, "Now that that's done, we can all get back and figure out what to do with the both of you. Get you the help you need Will."<br/>
<br/>
Lenke lets out a low laugh, "Do you truly believe him, Willie?" she asks. This causes you to turn in her direction and she's smiling at you, "I saw it all Willie. I saw what you did to Henry's poor partner. They won't like that, Willie. They will punish you."<br/>
<br/>
"Will..." Hal calls out.<br/>
<br/>
Lenke keeps going. "This man, these people, they are not your friends. They do not have your best interests at heart. But I do."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't listen to her, Will!" Hal exclaims looking at you with a desperate seriousness, "You know why I believe what I believe? The communism and all that? Because I look at the world and see how fucked up it is. People starving and warring, people who can't even have a roof over their heads. They work and they suffer while the bourgeoisie gets fat and happy off of their labor. I see that and I want to change it. I want everyone on more equal footing, I want an egalitarian society."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah yes, the ramblings of a bright-eyed Marxist who is unaware of how the world truly works." Lenke says dismissively.<br/>
<br/>
Hal, however, ignores her and continues. "It's the same with the Stellae. I'm a member because magic doesn't need to fall into the hands of people like her and her employers, those who would use it to increase their lot at the expense of everyone else. I do it to help people. People like you. I'll help you, Will, I promise. We'll help you, if you let us."<br/>
<br/>
Lenke speaks once more. "They will not help you, Willie. They will brand you a danger and deal with you appropriately. But my employers can help you, make you realize your true potential and give you that which should be yours. I can help you, Willie." You notice something in her tone, something different from what you've experienced. There is no haughtiness in her voice now. There's an odd, vague... sympathy? Is that it? Is she telling the truth? Hell, does she actually care?<br/>
<br/>
You clutch your head, what do you do? One thing is for sure, despite how genuine Hal might seem you can't go back to the Stellae. You've killed one of them and Lenke is right, they would probably punish you. If only Kali was here...<br/>
<br/>
And that's when you feel your body shift and change. "Will, child, you should know that I am always here with you now." comes Kali's voice, gentle and soothing. "I truly wish you could return to us but if you feel that is not an option then you must do what feels right. You must learn to trust your own judgment."<br/>
<br/>
Another shift and Miko returns. You look at your palm, the sigil is there... the correct one this time. The one that would allow you to knock someone unconscious. You look at Lenke and are struck by a thought: she has treated you well. At any time she could've had you killed or left to rot but in her own way she has been kind and truthful. Maybe she's right, maybe Fane could help you. Maybe Fane would be the best place for you.<br/>
<br/>
But are they? Hal's words ring in your ears. If they're so terrible, so oppressive, could you help them if that's truly the case? You feel like you're involved in something bigger than yourself. Maybe you should run, find somewhere far away from England, and lay low away from the Stellae or Fane.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Kraken, the Witch, and the Marxist
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122121222

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The knocking ceases.<br/>
<br/>
“Now, my darling,” Lenke's voice is a low hiss, crackling and almost inhuman. “Your choice is upon you. You can call out, you can warn him as he comes through the door. Should you do so, your journey with me ends. Just sit tight and stay quiet as this unfolds.”<br/>
<br/>
You stay quiet. Waiting until you have to act. When your action will have the greatest impact.<br/>
<br/>
The radio alarm clock next to you clicks on. It only seems to amuse Lenke, but it scares the hell out of you as it blares out a tune. Rousing, some kind of hymnal music. No... it's theatre music. You had to sit through a whole damn semester of this stuff once. You even had a class outing to see this one by a local company. Les Misérables.<br/>
<br/>
<i>“Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!”</i><br/>
<br/>
This doesn't seem to phase her at all. If anything, it's mirth on her face.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh my,” she says, turning. “This Henry does have a flare for the dramatic, doesn't he?” She manages a smile, and you look toward the door. <br/>
<br/>
The chalk markings, crude as they are, are in sharp contrast against the dim light of the room. You stare at them, the strange, interlocking spirals, and wonder what they mean. You want to know; you almost feel as though you <i>should</i>. It feels like a mechanism, like a series of crudely rendered cogs. You frown. Looking harder, more intently at it, it's so obviously a mechanism that you wonder how you could have not seen it.<br/>
<br/>
The door swings open, and Lenke smiles as the strange pantomime plays out. Hal Swann bursts in, arms in heroic pose, tattered red bands and unkempt hair fluttering wild. As he crosses the threshold he begins to slow, as if caught in treacle, as if invisible weights were holding him down. Everything, from the flow of his hair to the look of surprise in his eyes, is rendered clear, in slow, agonising motion as his charge becomes almost stationary. <br/>
<br/>
The back of the door is no longer exposed, but the symbols are all too clear to you now. Hal Swann has run into some kind of time trap. Einstein said time was relative, you remember from your science class. For Hal, everything happening in the room must seem like a lifetime. <br/>
<br/>
The back of the door is no longer exposed, but Lenke smiles, holding up the paper figurine and muttering something to herself: some profane incantation that slips greasy and slithering from her tongue. She tugs the paper figurine, and laughs as Hal's body mimics its action, the surprise wrought over his face as, still in slow motion, he finds himself catapulted through the air. Seconds later he's passed out of the spell's grip, and the socialist's body goes flying across the room, hard, smashing into the window glass and dropping to the floor like a stone. <br/>
<br/>
“Pity they make the windows so thick,” Lenke mutters, turning to you. “Willie, my darling, would you bind Henry here? I have some questions for him.”<br/>
<br/>
Hal manages a palpable groan, and reaches for something in his pocket. He never makes it; Lenke's heel drives straight into the palm of his hand, twisting. <br/>
<br/>
“Willie?” She asks again, beckoning you over. “Come along, now. He won't take advantage of you again.<br/>
<br/>
You're not moving, though. Because you've seen something in the room that she hasn't. For a brief moment she looks confused, then turns to the door. <br/>
<br/>
Rick Bredon is there, an empty cup in hand. The door is soaked with water: dripping wet. The back is out of sight, but you can tell from the puddle forming on the carpet and the chalky, white paste that the ward is no longer effective. Rick's knife is in his hand. He doesn't say a word.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, more company,” Lenke says, levelling the pen. “Think you can move fast enough to save your friend? Think you can throw accurately enough?”<br/>
<br/>
"You don't want to try me."<br/>
<br/>
You don't know where it comes from, or why, but you suddenly have an idea; it's so rapid, so natural, it happens in the blink of an eye. <br/>
<br/>
“I can move fast when I want,” Rick Bredon – or at least his <i>imago</i> – states matter-of-factly from the bed. Lenke turns to stare at you, where Miko had been moments before, in complete confusion. By the time she's managed a double-take, Rick's burst across the room toward Lenke...and then it's all over.<br/>
<br/>
Hal groans and rolls over, a grin on his face, his black eye now accompanied by a gash across his forehead. He starts to laugh. <br/>
<br/>
Neither Rick looks impressed.<br/>
<br/>
<i>*****</i><br/>
<br/>
“I told ya to stay put, squirt. It was for a reason.”<br/>
<br/>
Hal's in the bathroom, looking after Lenke. Rick's helped himself to the minibar, and seems to be downing each single portion in turn. You've already relayed your version of everything that's happened to him. From Cambridge to Lenke. Your curiosity about why he's even there was quickly rebuffed. A quick quote of is rule about trusting no one, and then a simple explanation that he finished within a day, but had business to take care of in Oxford. He was just waiting for you to call for your grade. Which, in case you hadn't worked it out, is a fail. <br/>
<br/>
“I thought I was helping.” You're in your own form now, still in the expensive pyjamas: they're less tailored to your body size and shape, but they still fit, just.<br/>
<br/>
“You always do,” Rick says. “It wasn't about you though, squirt. Reason I told you is because I didn't want you meeting <i>him</i>.” He nods toward the door. “He's Catilindra and Kenandandra. Useful if you want him to build you the craziest contraption you've ever set eyes on. Not so useful if he decides you're something he wants to play around with.”<br/>
<br/>
“Me?” you ask. <br/>
<br/>
“Mac explained it to me in Oxford. Told me all about your little adventure. Said he'd sent you off on a mission he thought would field test you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Field test?”<br/>
<br/>
“His words. Said he wanted to study you after Cambridge, see if he could work out... well, everything. Thought the best way to do it would be to let you go into the field, so he could see what you did. He was tracking you all the way with some gizmo,” Rick shakes his head, and downs another shot.<br/>
<br/>
“So this was a test?” you ask. He means the flash drive, obviously.<br/>
<br/>
“Not one of mine,” Rick practically growls. “He saw his whole thing as a chance to see what you could do, not improve your skills. Surprised he didn't just sit you down, badger you with endless questions and start screwing around with the <i>Libra</i> sigils. Anyway, I told him I was canning his little exercise, so we came to pick you up. Looks like a good job I did, or he'd be dead. You too, maybe, squirt.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don't think she wanted me dead,” you mutter. <br/>
<br/>
Rick shrugs. “Easy way to find that one out, squirt.”<br/>
<br/>
“I'm not going to use a sigil on her,” you say, shaking your head. “There was something about the way she spoke. About time, and her daughters not being her own. I... I'm not sure about it.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick scratches his chin. “Interesting.” He rises up. “Squirt, you take a walk right now.”<br/>
<br/>
“A walk? It's 5am, Rick.” Then you see the sincerity in Rick's eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“That's right,” he says, slowly. “So put some clothes on other than your fancy pajamas, and get going. You don't want to be here right now. I need to have a talk with this Lenke. And, after what you told me about the last couple of days, I think Comrade Swann and I need a little chat, too.”<br/>
<br/>
You nod, a little sheepish. “So...what should I do?”<br/>
<br/>
“Take a walk. Stay in the hotel. And believe me, squirt, you don't want to disobey me three times in a row. You want to do something useful? You still owe me a bedroom face. Hell, it's been three days. So you owe me three faces. Now get going.”</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: New Faces
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221212221

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What? After all this you're just telling me to<i> take a walk</i>?" You're a little incredulous. After all, since you've arrived in England you've been almost killed three times. Now, just as you're in safety, close to answers about something you've been subjected to, and you're being sent on another errand. "Rick, tonight I've been trapped in a ritual sex-death dance, tried to murder Hal, been in a police car chase, tried to break into someone's house, been thrown in jail, been rescued from jail by a corporate witch, seen Hal catapulted across a room in slow motion and... and..."<br/>
<br/>
Rick looks at you, arms folded. "And that's just for starters, right? Squirt, I told you to stay put. Eventually you're gonna know when you should listen and when you should follow your gut. But if this whole adventure should have taught you anything, it's that you still need work. You get that, squirt?"<br/>
<br/>
"I..." You just nod. Pathetically. "Yeah, I know that."<br/>
<br/>
"So what am I telling you to do?" He asks. <br/>
<br/>
"You're... you're giving me a task to keep me busy?"<br/>
<br/>
Rick shakes his head. He's now on a little bottle of gin, which causes him to bite and curl his lips. "No squirt, I'm giving you a task that might save your life. You need to be able to slip anywhere, and that means all kinds of looks. So I'm keeping you alive. Second, Mac and I need a talk. And the last think I need is all that fight-the-power crap trippin' off his tongue. And third, I need to see what's in the bathroom.”<br/>
<br/>
You look up, look into Rick's eyes. “You already know, don't you?” You ask. “You can see things. And you always act dumber than you are.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not the time, squirt,” Rick says, a look of disappointment as he casts the last of the minibar's booze away. “But yeah. That's one of my rules. It's one Mac's already learned. The fact that you need me to spell it out for you shows you don't. Which is why, once we get you out of here, it's straight up training.”<br/>
<br/>
“Won't Lenke be missed?” You ask. You'd have thought Rick would have seen that. He just nods. <br/>
<br/>
“Squirt, I told you it's not the time. You go for your walk, you go get your faces. Then we'll talk.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">***** </div><br/>
<br/>
You walk down into the lobby, across the perfect marble floor. The night manager glances up at you, briefly, with a quick, polite smile. You return it, and take a seat in the near-deserted carpeted area. The TV is showing a news channel, flashing up something about the body of a girl being found near Oxford. You shift uncomfortably. The clothes Lenke chose for Miko don't fit very well, but you're just relieved to be someone other than her. You're tempted to wipe her <i>imago</i> from your 'collection' entirely, but you suspect she's got talents that are going to be useful.<br/>
<br/>
“The bar's closed,” a man says, next to you. He's dressed for business, although his tie is loose and his shirt collar is unbuttoned. He looks as tired as you do, although he smells of a fresh shower and his hair's still wet. You smile.<br/>
<br/>
“Dat's al'ite, bit early for a drink anyway, isant'it?” You chirp back. The man smiles. He's in his 40s, turning grey, a beer gut hanging over his trousers and a look of general dissatisfaction at life on his face.<br/>
<br/>
“Bit early for anything,” he concedes, comfortable in the strangely square, leather boxes that the hotel considers a chair. “Usually there's a car ready. Tonight, I've got the doorman hailing a cab.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, ewe leaving, then?” You ask. “Business?” He nods. <br/>
<br/>
“Yup.” He leans over, offering a hand. “Owen Jellicoe.”<br/>
<br/>
You smile, and take it. “Claire Jones,” you reply. “Oh, 'ang on. I think you've got a bit of fluff or something...” you point to his hair.<br/>
<br/>
“What?” he says, patting at his head. “Where? Did that get it?”<br/>
<br/>
“'Ang on, let me,” you say, leaning over. The sigil hits, and he slumps. You finish brushing some fluff from his head, and rise, crossing the lobby again. Through the glass windows of the lobby, you can see the doorman, standing in the rain, hoping to find a cab. Owen Reynolds is sat in his chair, looking like he's just fallen asleep. The night manager nods again as you walk past. <br/>
<br/>
That's one. You close  your eyes, staring up at that constellation, probing the smokey tendrils of his <i>essentia</i>. You smile as you step into the elevator as you find what you're looking for.<br/>
<br/>
Perfect.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You rap on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. You rap again, and again. <br/>
<br/>
“What?” You hear from inside. <br/>
<br/>
“It's me,” you call. “Open up.”<br/>
<br/>
“Owen?” The voice is strained and tired. “I thought you had to head off?”<br/>
<br/>
You hear the door lock turn. You've assumed Owen's form, which puts almost undue strain on the clothes you're wearing. Owen Jellicoe's stay at the hotel isn't business, it's pure pleasure: the kind that his wife doesn't know about. You wonder what his partner sees in him. Owen's not what Rick would class as a 'bedroom face', and his partner in this is a full 15 years younger, and not short in the looks department. It's not money either – she's equally successful. If you had to guess, it's just the sheer attraction of power. It can be a powerful aphrodisiac.<br/>
<br/>
The door opens. Felicity Orson gives a sleepy smile, auburn hair in twisting, spiralling curls, matted against her head from the pillow. She's in her nightgown, and for a brief moment you get a flashback to what happened with Grace. But Flick Orson is far from shy and retiring, she knows exactly how she looks, and her hair is straight out of a bottle. She's 27 years old, but could pass for anything from 17 to 37.<br/>
<br/>
“So you want... Geez, Owen. What are you wearing?” You grin.<br/>
<br/>
“Just a little bit of fun,” you smile, stepping inside and scooping your hands behind her shoulders. You lean and kiss her, feeling her melt under your charms, letting her body wilt as you kick the door shut. “Interested?”<br/>
<br/>
She nibbles on her lip seductively. “Oh”, she says, tugging against the buttons that you're practically bursting out of. “I won't say no...”</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Outburst
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212122211

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"You'd better start talking sense real soon, Mac."<br/>
<br/>
"About what? I've been speaking the truth since I realized what that potato-print bourgeoisie clone in there is." <br/>
<br/>
Hal's voice sounds like someone's grabbed his internal controls and turned him down. It's slower, less excited. More despondent. Whatever Rick said to him, it's had a major effect.<br/>
<br/>
You don't feel too guilty, eavesdropping in Flick's form, listening through the hotel door, still damp from where Rick threw the cup. You didn't bed your new face in the end, just put her to sleep as you led her into the hotel room. It didn't seem right, somehow.<br/>
<br/>
"Was." There's a depressing finality to Rick's voice. "And she wasn't a 'clone'. She just wasn't what she appeared to be. You know the difference." <br/>
<br/>
"Fine. So she was an employee pretending to be another Fane employee."<br/>
<br/>
"Which you knew before you sent the kid in."<br/>
<br/>
"No! I mean... I suspected. One of the servers I cracked has her passport in Milan and her security pass in London, Hong Kong and Jakarta at the same time. I figured one more Lenke Varga wouldn't hurt. There's some really strange stuff going on with this capitalist behemoth of corporate oppression! Cambridge was just the tip of the iceberg; I still haven't figured out why the bloody Song of the Nile was there! So I sent him off to probe a different cog in the mechanism! How was I to know this one would be trained?"<br/>
<br/>
"You think before you act." Rick's voice echoes with a kraken's fury, though right now he seems no more annoyed than when talking to you. Whatever storm Hal Swann faced, it's passed.  "So, you sent the kid on a test he thought was about..."<br/>
<br/>
"I had to see what he can do!" Hal's voice is a little more excited now. "Sulva! A Sulva, Rick! I haven't got to see one of them before! I never got to meet... well. You know. And not just a Sulva, either! One with only one <i>ousiarch</i>! One that absorbed the powers of the <i>Libra</i>! I had to see how that worked. Something like Fane would poke him on a slab. I wanted to see what he did in the field. I <i>had</i> to see what it was like running around, missing a great chunk of who you are."<br/>
<br/>
"Kali's working on that," Rick growls. "And she has more experience at it than you. It's just hidden by Sulva at the moment, she reckons."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" Hal's voice echoes with sudden surprise. "You mean you can't see it? Kali hasn't seen it? I saw it when I got a look in Cambridge."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Seen what?</i> You lean closer, pressing your ear to the wet door, wondering what Hal's been keeping from you. <br/>
<br/>
"Saw what? Start talking straight, Mac." Ricky's voice sounds thin on patience.<br/>
<br/>
"It's been cut off, brother! Severed. Like a clock with one hand! It got snapped off him by the..." Your eyes spring wide in alarm. Snapped off? The <i>Libra</i> broke off your second <i>ousiarch</i>? Is that even possible? You hardly have a moment to take the revelation in.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up a moment." Ricky's voice is suddenly more serious than usual.<br/>
<br/>
"What? That's what happened! It's obvious to me! The word of the people cannot be silenced by..."<br/>
<br/>
"I said shut up."<br/>
<br/>
The door swings open. Rick stares at your crouched form, knife in his hand.<br/>
<br/>
"Two faces down, one to go," you say weakly, pointing at yourself. Rick shakes his head in disappointment.<br/>
<br/>
"Water on the door, squirt. Shoulda seen that, 'specially after what happened in LA. And you shoulda used Sulva to go unseen, too. Instead you got caught."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You sit on the bed, crouched up. Rick's sat in one of the room's chairs. Hal is sat in another chair, furiously tapping on his phone. Lenke Varga is dead in the bathroom. At least, someone with Lenke Varga's <i>imago</i>is dead. Hal looks sheepish. <br/>
<br/>
"What I told you was true." Hal states to you, justifying himself. "I only speak the truth to the fellow workers against..."<br/>
<br/>
"Stow it," you grumble. Hal just nods.<br/>
<br/>
"The flashdrive. I wanted that in his computer so I could get to the servers. I picked him because he's got access but clearly has no idea what he's dealing with. His wife... she's too low to be anyone important. But... she's an anomaly. She appears in multiple locations."<br/>
<br/>
"Golems?" The word makes you shudder. But you don't think so.<br/>
<br/>
"No. I doubt Lenke Varga actually exists, off a sheet of paper. It's just an identity various agents use to slip around to cover their tracks. Whoever's needed in London stays with the husband and kids. Distant, career-focused mother? Nobody's gonna notice subtle changes."<br/>
<br/>
"So...what did she want with me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not sure," Rick says, rubbing his chin. "The moment she started talking she suffered some kind of stroke. Whoever it was, she was expendable, and knew it."<br/>
<br/>
<i>A pawn</i>. Isn't that what Lenke told you? Maybe she was really describing her true self. <br/>
<br/>
"I think I was being recruited," you say. "She was talking about a corporate induction."<br/>
<br/>
"Makes sense," Rick grunts. "Talent spotter. Saw something in you, decided to recruit you. Probably wanted to net Hal too."<br/>
<br/>
"And put him on a slab?" you interrupt, pointedly. Hal shrugs. Rick nods.<br/>
<br/>
"Probably. Whatever we're dealing with here goes deep."<br/>
<br/>
"We? You mean us three? You want me to keep working on this?"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean the <i>Stellae</i> as a whole, squirt."<br/>
<br/>
"I could use him," Hal chirps.<br/>
<br/>
"You already <i>have</i>," you sulk. "Either way, there's no way I'm going to be up for anything immediately. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since... since LA. And you still haven't explained what the hell you mean about my <i>ouisarch</i> being 'severed'."<br/>
<br/>
"You got a point, squirt."<br/>
<br/>
"And quit calling me squirt!" You snap. You've had it. You're tired, and emotional, and you're being led around and bossed about and confused and confounded. You're sick of the <i>Stellae</i>, sick of the bullshit and the lies and the misdirection. "It's because I pissed myself, the first time we met, right? Well you'd piss yourself if someone threw a knife at you! Hell, I bet you piss yourself when you're so damn drunk you're barely sensible! And you! You've almost got me killed twice! You would have been dead yourself if it hadn't been for Rick! I'm done! OK? I'm broken. I messed up, I shouldn't have followed you to the UK! <br/>
<br/>
"And now I have everything is just getting worse! And it's my fault. And now we're in a hotel room with a dead witch and I don't know what I'm even doing any more! All I've seen since I found that damn book is misery and pain and jeopardy. From Blackwell, from Shabbleman, from Joe and Frank, from Miko and you and you. I tried to fix things and ruined them further. I tried to help and ended up almost being murdered. I tried to help again, same result! I don't even get a break from this!<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't ask to find that book! I didn't ask to lose my second <i>ousiarch</i>. I didn't ask to lose my face! My face, Rick! What do I look like? I don't even know any more! Right now I'm some woman I just picked up in a hotel. I can be anyone except who I really am! And I'm not a damn guinea pig!"<br/>
<br/>
Neither Hal or Rick speak. They just watch as you vent.<br/>
<br/>
"OK," Rick says, slowly. Painfully slowly. "So what do you want to do about it? Hal can clean this up. And you're off the Fane case. Forget about it. Now, what do you want to do?"</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Liberation of Will Prescott
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122121222111

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I want to go home."<br/>
<br/>
It's a simple request, almost pathetic, but you can see in the endless ocean of Rick's eyes that it's never going to be granted. Rick just looks at you. Hal seems about to say something, but a furtive glance toward Rick convinces him otherwise.<br/>
<br/>
"You know that ain't going to happen, squirt. Closest we can get you is back to Saratoga Falls. But there isn't a way back, now you've started on this path. Just doesn't work like that."<br/>
<br/>
You nod, Flick's hair falling into your eyes. "Yeah," you sigh, the energy dissipating from your body, ebbing like an outgoing tide. "I know. In which case, what I want to do now is get some breakfast."<br/>
<br/>
Rick nods. "That I <i>can</i> help with. Go downstairs, you should be able to get something fixed up. Room service is out until Mac here has sorted out your friend."<br/>
<br/>
"Shouldn't be too tricky," Hal says, thumb and index finger extended as he imagines taking snapshots of the room. With his indie clothes and ridiculous facial hair, he looks like a hip artist styling his next shot. <br/>
<br/>
"All right," you say. "See you downstairs."<br/>
<br/>
You never do.<br/>
<br/>
<i>*****</i><br/>
<br/>
You sit in the carriage of the mass transit train - the London Underground, or Tube. It's early morning, and the first commuters are trickling in, taking spare seats, reading the free papers discarded the night before. Everyone is stifling yawns or spreading germs, coughing and spluttering as the November cold season takes its grip on London's workforce. You sit in the molded seat, part of a long bench along the edge of the train, staring out at the dark, soot-clad wall flashing by and thinking of what you're doing. Like an epiphany, the Tube train bursts out of a tunnel, dazzling you with light as you bathe in the ruddy glow of a sunrise.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Red sky in the morning. sailor's warning. </i>A storm is coming.<br/>
<br/>
Something happened in the hotel room, you decided. Actually, before the hotel room. Before Lenke. Before you even reached England. Maybe it was the day you spent talking to Frank and Joe, or maybe it simply traces back to the day you first picked up the book. But ever since you met Aubrey Blackwell, everyone has been using you. <br/>
<br/>
Their motives are different, but you've never really belonged; you've always just been as Lenke said - as Lenke <i>was</i>. A pawn. A piece to move in someone else's game. Blackwell pitted you against Shabbleman, and destroyed your life, to have you as his assistant. Joe and Frank used you to take down Blackwell, although you did save them. Kali and Miko and Rick were all forging you into a weapon for their organisation. Hal tried to use you for the same purpose, but didn't really care if you were hurt; he even set you up with the drive. And Lenke, who tried to recruit you to some other, opposing, force was just the same.<br/>
<br/>
But if Sulva has shown you anything, it's that you can forge your own path if you want. You have every advantage. Advantages others can only dream of. You're sick of being used, played. Now you're going to go out on your own. You're leaving it all behind.<br/>
<br/>
No<i> Stellae</i>. No Fane. No mistakes like you made with Jen and Claire. Just Will Prescott, and a wide, open world ahead of you.<br/>
<br/>
You receive a sharp elbow in your side. A young woman, make up thick and business attire tight on her pudgy frame, has sat down next to you, crowding you out of your seat. This, Flick's memories tell you, is standard in London. A coldness, a detachment. A lack of empathy or interest in the lives of others. Just like the world you have made your first, tentative steps into. The carriage plunges into darkness as it enters a tunnel again, the whole realm flashing light and dark, light and dark as it passes through the Tube network and into the heart of the city.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, looking at the moon, letting its glow drown out the conflicting voices. Rick's rules and tests, and his paranoia; Hal's insistence that you'll have to kill, sooner or later, and general reckless attitude; Lenke's honeyed tongue and false promises; Kali's serenity, masking only doubt that culminated in her shock and unexplained flight. None of them have all the answers. Instead, a world of answers lie before you. You have the freedom to find your own way.<br/>
<br/>
The train lurches down a slight gradient, bumping everyone in the carriage and plunging you into a flash of darkness. It takes a second for your palm to press against your neighbour's cheek and slip back to your side. The carriage rights itself in the tunnel, the light flashing back on. Nobody pays any attention to the sleeping commuter next to you, her head slumped down. Doesn't everyone snooze on the Tube? And nobody pays any attention as you get off the carriage with the rest of the throng, walk across the platform, and head back the way you came. <br/>
<br/>
<i>*****</i><br/>
<br/>
Helena Long is 19 years old. She's sat in her bedroom - she lives with her parents, unable to make enough money to buy her own home - applying her makeup. She thinks of herself as fat, though in truth she's just a little overweight. She prefers to think of herself as 'bubbly', but feels could do with losing at least a stone, which is why she's permanently on a diet. Her hair is styled short and modern, and she's dressed in a pair of jeans at the bottom of her wardrobe, a warm, rich wool cardigan a relative bought her she's never worn, and some hoop earrings from a pile loosely discarded in her jewelry case. She's saving for a place of her own, but her meager job as a receptionist doesn't pay, so she's made some cutbacks; she's no plans for a holiday any time soon. Of course, her outgoing personality means she spends more time going out than saving, but her parents have a few things stored for a rainy day. They've given her some stocks, although she never looks at them.<br/>
<br/>
Helena pouts her lips to apply a thick coat of lipstick. Or, rather, <i>you</i> pout your lips. You're Helena now, after all. The real Helena is probably at work, having dozed off half her commute, and is carrying on life without knowing that you're sat in her room, pretending to be her. Her mom - your mom - let you in after you knocked on the door, saying you forgot something. And right now you're getting ready to steal her identity in a way that causes no harm, and leaves no trace.<br/>
<br/>
You've taken Helena's rucksack, the one she used to go backpacking around France last year, and filled it with clothes from a bin bag in the corner - the one she planned on giving to charity. Her cast-offs are fine for your purpose, though. You've dressed in items she'll never miss, taken a passport she won't look for... you can be out of the country before she even realises. Then you simply mail back her passport, claiming it was found on the street. The stocks she won't miss either -  you'll swing past the bank and clean them out, at least until you can replace them later. <br/>
<br/>
Overall, you decide as you finish brushing your hair, Helena will never know you've stolen her life. Nor will Rick, or any of the <i>Stellae</i>. None of them know this face.  Rick is probably tracking you down, so you intend to get out of the UK as soon as possible. That's not a problem. Helena's discards are summer clothes, so you're going to catch some Winter sun. Italy sounds nice; you've always wanted to see Rome. You don't know what the weather will be like, but it must be better than the damp, grey dreariness of London in November.<br/>
<br/>
And you will, as an Italian, once you've dropped Helena's <i>imago</i> for something better. Once you're out of the country you'll find a new identity to borrow. Some good looking, popular guy who could have his pick of girls. Or an Italian beauty perhaps, with a face you'd love to wake up to every day. And while you're flicking between lives, you'll study. You'll learn what you really are. And, free from the <i>Stellae</i>, and Fane, and any other murderous game, you'll find the true meaning of magic.<br/>
<br/>
To the rest of the world, Helena Long rises, picking up her neatly packed rucksack and casually swinging it over her shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
To you, Will Prescott takes his first step toward true freedom.<br/>
<br/>
Two years pass: "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11211" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 1942914">The Death of Sofia Pistone</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11211" target="_blank" title="Open in new window."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a></span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122
author_id: collider
title: Liar Liar
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I... I don't know who..." you don't even get past your first sentence. Lenke's pen flashes across her pad, and immediately she rises. <br/>
<br/>
"No!" she cries, almost shrilly. "That isn't true my darling. That's a little lie, and you were on your final life. Such a pity, but that's the last chance. I don't think we'll be helping you now. No... quite the opposite. And such a pretty face. A shame."<br/>
<br/>
The lawyer rises. Under the table, your hand twitches, playing rapidly with the sigil. As she steps away from the table you decide to make a play. You launch up from your seat, reaching out with desperate hands, scrambling to hold her, get her back. Your hand makes contact with the back of her wrist, the other gripping her suit, your face pleading with her to stay put and help you.<br/>
<br/>
"Please! Wait! I'll help! I will!" <br/>
<br/>
The contempt and disgust is apparent on your 'savior's' face. Her long, lacquered nails pry your grip away, straightening her suit with a firm flick. <br/>
<br/>
"A shame, my darling. Such a shame." She waits for her exit. As the door swings open, you let tears burst from your eyes and sink to the ground, staring up with her in despair. Then the door swings closed, and you are alone again.<br/>
<br/>
Gotcha.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn't possible to take her <i>imago</i> and walk out; that would only raise questions with the police about what had happened. But your quick action has gained you much more - you've got her memories. You sit down and begin flicking through them, exploring the life of... Pauline Laurence? As your tears dry, Miko's elegant eyes widen in sheer horror. Your thoughts cover her background, her rise in the Fane system, the hushed conversations that led to her choice. Then you see the needle, and the machine. <br/>
<br/>
You see the silver lance entering flesh, rippling through the body, transforming, metamorphosing, shifting and shaping. <br/>
<br/>
Your ears are filled with the screams, your sight with the blood dripping slowly onto a sterile floor.<br/>
<br/>
To feel the machine. And not even its most refined state.<br/>
<br/>
You've got to get out of here and warn the others.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
"Come on, miss." You watch as the officer escorts a young woman in her early twenties from a cell. <br/>
<br/>
"Let's be civil, shall we?"<br/>
<br/>
"Piss off! I am being civil! You sayin'' I ain't being civil? Get off me! Don't touch me, yeah!" She's young and lean, almost emaciated, her dirty, dark ginger hair pulled up severely into a ponytail, slicking her hair back and straining her forehead back. Her face is pock-marked with acne, her eyes dark against pale skin, her lips thin and impossibly dry. She's dressed in sports clothes under a thick coat, large gold hoops hanging from her ears.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, miss. Let's just get you processed, and then you can go."<br/>
<br/>
The two walk past the door, and you watch them through the glass of the office door. It took an hour in the cells for anything to happen. It's strange how calm you are given the circumstances. It's the first time you've been inside a police cell, after all. <br/>
<br/>
Before that book, you'd probably have been panicking, your stomach a torture of knots and worried thoughts at what your parents will say. But now, despite being trapped in a foreign legal system, you feel almost tranquil. The only concern you have is to get the information you have to the right hands, as soon as possible.<br/>
<br/>
When the cell door opened, you were ready for anything. But the first thing the police officer said took you completely off guard, leading to where you are now: sat in the corridor of the police station, gathering your thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
They said you were free to go.<br/>
<br/>
That's why you haven't walked out the door: it doesn't make any sense. Lenke, Pauline, whatever her name is, was in a fury. From her thoughts, you know she was using a simple spell with her pen. The tracing on the pad wasn't random scrawl, but a simple, elegant lie detector. It's something you'll remember when you get out of here.<br/>
<br/>
The only question is how. You could easily switch <i>imago</i> and walk out the door, but it's possible Lenke would have arranged someone to pick you up. Even if you changed form, Grace's singular, notable robe would make you stand out. And your cloak isn't going to work if you don't know where your watchers are... given magic's involved there could be some creature silent and waiting for you.<br/>
<br/>
You need a better plan.<br/>
<br/>
You sit and watch, your cloak enveloping you as you pick out potential options. There's a room with swipe card access along the corridor, and you spotted lockers when you saw an officer enter. You guess it's the changing rooms. You could wait for another police officer to head off duty, take their <i>imago</i>, and while they walk out in their normal clothes you can walk out in their uniform.<br/>
<br/>
Alternatively, the yelling woman from earlier is now loudly demanding she visits the toilets before the police release her. It'd be simple enough to wait until she's passing, knock her out and put her in a cell. Then you could take her clothes and simply walk out the front door. It's not the most attractive appearance you've stolen, but it's one that's unlikely to arouse suspicion.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: An Unlikely Intervention
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The woman seems to be the best bet. She's going to leave, after all, and is less likely to arouse suspicion than a police officer. At least, you think that's the case. Just to make sure, you walk past, brushing past her just enough to grab her <i>imago</i> as you do so. She folds a little, the police officer attending catching her with a frown.<br/>
<br/>
"Easy there, miss. You sure you should be leaving?"<br/>
<br/>
"Urgh... what? Fuck off! Get your fuckin' hands off me! Just fuck off!" She practically spits venom as she brushes aside her helpers. You watch it all and slip back to your corner, closing your eyes and focusing on her memories. <br/>
<br/>
Bianca Smith, who is... <i>shit</i>. She's only 20, but she looks as if she's five years older. You flick through her memories. Unemployed, drug addict - she wants to get in the toilets because she wants to retrieve a supply of drugs, carefully hidden from all but the most thorough of searches in an uncomfortable location. She's a petty thief, a burglar, a mugger, but mostly she deals in stolen goods. Her boyfriends are all in various crime gangs, but all small time. She's a tragedy... a life that had promise, and is now spent chasing a needle. The police just don't have capacity to deal with her, even if she's constantly picked up by them. She's slept rough on the streets enough times, but today was picked up in a ruined squat, eager to escape the misery of her existence with one more hit.<br/>
<br/>
You've borrowed a lot of lives since this began, but never one so fallen apart. It's a far cry from Saratoga Falls. And, you decide as you watch her shove the police officers aside and enter the toilet, maybe you can help each other. You watch the door close behind her, the police officers shaking their heads in disbelief, and quietly you come up with a plan. First, you should give her a little privacy. Instead, you turn your mind to what 'Lenke' knew.<br/>
<br/>
It's garbled, but there are two clear leads. The first is some kind of machine, kept in Cambridge, under the use of a 'Mr Hyde-White'. That's obviously what Hal was really looking for - the root of Fane's activities. You can still feel her pain as the machine bit into her, and you can still picture as clear as day the duplicate Lenke's, all ready to assume one particular identity. It's something to do with some sigil you don't recognize, a tattoo emblazoned right on the bone, at the base of the spine.<br/>
<br/>
The other lead is more mysterious. Fane seems to have spread itself like a spider's web, but there's something happening at the 'Casterley'. What, you - or rather Lenke - doesn't know. But Fane is set to pull all the strings it needs to within the UK parliament to obtain it. They've even got various members of parliament in their payroll, prepared to tip the balance if required. You shake your head. It's amazing how far this organization goes. The<i> Stellae</i> have to act. There's just no choice.<br/>
<br/>
You open your eyes, and focus on the toilet door. You've given her long enough. You take a deep breath, and, still wrapped in your cloak, stride into the restroom, the door closing behind you.<br/>
<br/>
Almost immediately, Bianca swings around. She's hunched over one of the sinks, washing something - you hate to think why - and looks frightened out of her wits as the door opens. She settles herself as it swings closed, muttering curses under her breath as she finishes scrubbing her hands clean. You allow her a moment to compose herself. Then the horror that, you hope, will change her life for the better, begins. <br/>
<br/>
Your form shifts, your breasts pulling against the gown, the dark, dirty ginger hair cascading down your back. The emaciated face with its cracking lips and pale skin overtake Miko's features in an instant, the acne appearing on your face, a haunted look taking hold of your eyes. You allow yourself a moment to feel the strange, crooked teeth in your mouth, or the large, proud Roman nose that now dominates your face. Then you pace forward, dropping the cloak, arms folded in irritation.<br/>
<br/>
"That's my gear. Give us it." Your voice is now hers, a thick London accent permeating everything you say.<br/>
<br/>
The real Bianca spins around, the drugs falling into the basin, her eyes wide in terror. She stares at you, uncomprehending, lips quivering in horror. You take a step forward.<br/>
<br/>
"I said that's my fuckin' gear." You smirk viciously. This has to be frightening. This has to be terrifying.<br/>
<br/>
"What the fu..." she doesn't scream, as you knew. Instead she just backs up, hands futilely gripping the sink as you stride forward.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna need your clothes, too, ain't I?" You raise your fingers to your lips in mock apology. "Oops. I mean, <i>my</i> fuckin' clothes, don't I?"<br/>
<br/>
"What the... what the... who..."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?" You edge forward nose, pale face against pale face, brushing a strand of ginger hair out of your eyes, leaning forward until your proud noses are almost touching. "Ain't it fuckin' obvious? I'm <i>you</i>. I'm gonna take your life. Why? 'Cause you don't deserve it. Look at you. You need to get your act together, 'n' no mistake. You don't deserve the chances what you had."<br/>
<br/>
She just stares at you, uncomprehending.<br/>
<br/>
"When you wake up, this is all goin' to be a nasty little dream. But you remember that dream, babes. 'Cause you can change it all. Just ask the Filth for help, yeah? Get your act together. Get sorted. Or else this life is goin' to someone else." And with a malicious grin, you reach up, tapping her gently on the forehead, and catching her as she slumps to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****<br/>
</div><br/>
<br/>
You walk out of the police station, into the night. Your dark ginger hair is tied up behind you, the tightness of the hairdo ripping at your scalp and making the orange strands even more slick and greasy under the street lights. You're dressed in a battered, stinking pair of running bottoms, a T-shirt, a fastened hooded top and a thick, leopard-print coat that almost swallows your body. Large, gold hoops hang from your ears as you walk toward the executive car waiting at the front of the police station. Lenke must be inside, but her driver - henchman? - is standing outside.<br/>
<br/>
"You got a fag?" you ask, looking at him with fake desperation. It was a good call to swap <i>imagos</i>, and there is no way Bianca would attract attention. The driver shakes his head, barely bothering to look at you, so you give him a look of contempt and turn away. The underground system is closed, but Bianca knows the night bus routes too well. <br/>
<br/>
You give it ten minutes before you try the phone. The real Bianca, by now, will have been found. You only put her to sleep for fifteen minutes: just enough to get into her clothes and leave the building, having retained her dignity with your ceremonial shift. You were careful to spill her drugs next to her, and right about now the police will be monitoring her, trying to keep her alive after a supposed overdose. Bianca, you know (as you have her thoughts), will have been terrified by her ordeal, but would chalk it up to her situation. Now, you've given the police enough evidence to keep her, and her enough motivation - you're sure - to get help. Maybe you've just borrowed her life, but some vague hope tells you you've also changed it for the better.<br/>
<br/>
At least, that's what you tell yourself. Because otherwise you don't know how you could live the life you've chosen.<br/>
<br/>
You swing into a nearby payphone, a little red box like you've seen on TV, and dial the number Rick gave you. You can only hope he's back in the UK...<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" A grizzled voice answers the phone.<br/>
<br/>
"It's squirt," you say, realizing you need to identify yourself. "Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" <i>Fuck, Rick. Why do you have to be so paranoid?</i><br/>
<br/>
"I can prove it. We left the Welsh girl's flat. You were cleaning up my mess?"<br/>
<br/>
"I remember. Where are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right now...uh... somewhere called... ah, Earl's Court. Rick, we're in trouble. I know what's going on. Tell Hal..."<br/>
<br/>
"We'll talk in person, squirt. Just got back from LA. We'll be with you in an hour. Wait there."<br/>
<br/>
"OK. I'm wearing... shit. Just look for a redhead wearing leopard print. Hurry. There's some big shit happening here."<br/>
<br/>
"I know." The phone goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
You slump against the phone box. It's a cold, wet November night, and at least it's some form of shelter from the biting cold as you wait for Rick to arrive. Of course, you could always try and find somewhere less hostile. But that's just going to get you in even more trouble, isn't it?</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: An Even More Unlikely Intervention
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's late, past midnight, on a cold November night in central London. You're huddled in a strange part of town - hell, in a strange country - wearing the face of a woman with a criminal record. Earlier tonight you were held by the police, and earlier still you were almost killed in an occult ritual led by the Cambridge University Rowing Team.<br/>
<br/>
You huddle in your warm jacket - the only warmth you have - and curse under your breath. The sooner you're back with Rick and the <i>Stellae</i>, the better. You hate to admit it, but Rick, Kali and even Miko were right. You were not ready to go out in the field. The stupid tests were actually teaching you skills to stay alive. You should never have replaced that flight attendant and flown to Europe.<br/>
<br/>
You look up. The streets are well lit but deserted, piles of refuse sacks left out by local shops for the garbage collection. London's streets are surprisingly dirty, and the night surprisingly dark. Most of all, you're amazed by how quiet it all is. You're used to quiet streets at night back home, but you'd have expected one of the busiest cities in the world to have more activity. Instead, this part of town seems to have gone to bed, leaving only the city's vacant arteries and a strange, orange-illuminated wilderness.<br/>
<br/>
Almost vacant. As you tuck your pasty, pale hands into the folds of your stolen clothes, you notice a van parked opposite. It's an old VW camper, beaten up and beatnik, blue paint peeling and rust on the rims. It's exactly the kind of van you'd have expected Hal to drive. You roll your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey." The voice is Irish, a thick accent that takes you off guard with easy charm. Perhaps it's your current situation - a woman alone on the street - or perhaps it's everything that you've been through that makes you pull back.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You say, wary eyes boring into him. He smiles, and raises his hands. He's dressed casually, wearing some kind of sports top under a leather jacket: too light for the weather.<br/>
<br/>
"Easy! I'm a friend. My name's Shaun. Shaun Doyle. I don't mean ya any harm."<br/>
<br/>
"Well fuck off, yeah? I ain't no fuckin' prossie, and I don't want no company!" It's Bianca's words. Shaun laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"I know you're not a hookah. And I ain't goin' to feck off until I've said me peace. Which, as it goes, I'd rather do indoors?"<br/>
<br/>
"What? What you talkin' 'bout? Is you fuckin' high, is that your problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ha! No. This is about Lenke Varga. And Fane. And you. So let's cut the act, shall we?"<br/>
<br/>
You raise an eyebrow. What else can you do?<br/>
<br/>
"What you talkin'..."<br/>
<br/>
"Lenke. Varga. She's a solicitor. She was at the police station earlier. Now, we might have missed the break-in, but the police radio was chattin' away beautifully, an' it says clearly that some woman was held troi'in to break in to Varga's mansion. Now we headed to the police station as fast as we could, and copped sight of you walkin' out. A quick inquiry says nobody else is in there fittin' the description, so that leads us to you."<br/>
<br/>
"You callin' me a tealeaf? 'Cause I ain't done no breakin' and enterin' or nuffin."<br/>
<br/>
"You can drop that act. Just as oi'll drop moin. You aren't some petty thief, are you? You couldn't have picked that house at random. There's certain wards that'll prevent you from doin' it. Most poiple, they don't even notice it. So woi did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I ain't got no idea what you're talkin' about." You begin to walk away. "I was bein' done for gear, yeah? Drugs? So you're wrong. I ain't who you is lookin' for, with this 'Linky' or 'Fayn' or whatevs."<br/>
<br/>
Shaun laughs. And it's only then you notice the VW camper has started up, and is cruising silently, serenely, down the street. The driver's darkly skinned, and is watching you intently. Next to him is a girl that looks strangely familiar... you're sure you've seen her in Saratoga Falls. It's enough to cause you to pause and stare. Her hair is raven black, and she's daubed heavily in goth makeup.<br/>
<br/>
The VW pulls up, and the rear door slides open. Another girl, this time in her early twenties, stares back at you. Her hair is a maze of dreadlocks, her face piled with studs and piercings. She smiles at you with sincere warmth.<br/>
<br/>
"Well," Shaun sighs. "That was the easy way. Sorry 'bout this. But we're really, genuinely troin' to help ya."<br/>
<br/>
You don't have time to prepare a sigil before the chloroform passes under your nose.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: Mis-taken identity
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122211

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The bed's quilt is thick. The radiator clicks to keep the room warm, thawing out the winter cold. There's a smell of bacon drifting through the house.<br/>
<br/>
"Rise and shine, sleepy head." Shaun's lilt comes through your clouded, drugged dreams. Right now you're tempted to slap a sigil on the bastard and watch him crumple - and find out what's going on. But you're in unknown territory here. Better to play it safe.<br/>
<br/>
"Where the fuck am..."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, the end of the world. The forgotten land. Also known as Slough."<br/>
<br/>
"Slaow?"<br/>
<br/>
"Slough. As in The Office. Or Betjeman. Come friendly bombs, an' fall on Slough. It isn't fit for humans now. It... ah, but you won't be a poetry kind of lass, would you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll scream! This is kidnappin' an'..."<br/>
<br/>
"No you will not." Shaun rises. "It's not in your best interest. Varga. Fane. You and I both know what that means. You're one of the gifted, aren't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Gifted?" Shaun smiles.<br/>
<br/>
"Gifted. Magic, as you and I both know, is real. Alas, I can't do more dan a few parlor tricks. But if Lenke Varga picked you up, then somethin' tells me you're particularly able. Which is why we need yah. I promise, when you hear what we hav to say, you'll want to share. Now get your kit on, and pop down stairs, all right hun?"<br/>
<br/>
With that, Doyle stands up and leaves, leaving you alone in bed. You feel disgusting against the smooth of the sheets. Bianca's body just feels worn and wormy and uncomfortable. You roll over and look at the clothes left for you. Fortunately, they're not Bianca's. Unfortunately, they're little more than drab sheets. <br/>
<br/>
You're about to start when there's a knock at the door.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" <br/>
<br/>
"Breakfast," comes the mousy reply. The voice is strange, high-pitched and squeaky, but distinctly north American. You shrug, and wait for it to come in. The door opens, and the girl with dreadlocked hair comes in, a tray with a platter of eggs and bacon ready to eat. She walks over and places it on the side.<br/>
<br/>
"You doing OK?" It's a sincere question. She looks at you with large, brown eyes, her head tilted to the side. "You had a rough night."<br/>
<br/>
"Like you care." She seems to wince at that. <br/>
<br/>
"Shaun's only trying to help you. With what you're trapped in. That's kind of what we do."<br/>
<br/>
"You a fuckin' charity?"<br/>
<br/>
She smiles. "Something like that."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck. You's a church, yeah? God boverers?"<br/>
<br/>
The dreadlocked girl winces again. "We... something like that. We do fight demons, if that counts."<br/>
<br/>
You raise an eyebrow. "Demons? You on PCP?"<br/>
<br/>
Another wince. "No... not all demons look like demons. Some look like corporations. Here, eat up."<br/>
<br/>
She never sees it coming. You're preparing the sigil under the sheets, and the moment she leans forward and finishes placing the tray on the bedside table, you've slapped it on her forehead. You watch as she crumples to the ground, eyes rolling back. You rise, sighing as you flick through her memories. She'll be out for around ten minutes - more than enough time to take her place and walk out the front door of whatever place you're stuck in. This group is obviously something that the Stellae need to know about. And the girl...uh... Willow Jasper... is a perfect disguise. It's not her real name, you quickly realize. She changed it when she hit 21, from Kathy Newton. And that's the same year her boyfriend got involved in the black arts, and the trauma began. <br/>
<br/>
You shift easily into her form, and begin to strip her of clothes. "Well, Kathy," you sigh. "Sorry about this. You'll wake up soon, though."<br/>
<br/>
Her top comes off easily, as do her socks and leggings; she's not wearing any shoes. You stroke the new dreadlocks out of your eyeline, pouting her thin lips in concentration, trying to remember her life while you appropriate her appearance. Shaun and James are downstairs, with the new girl, 'Gill'. Shaun picked her up on his travels, when he was making a quick trip to... Saratoga Falls. You knew it. Apparently Gill went through something similar to you - or rather Willow - when her boyfriend's hobby got out of hand, only a month ago. They're all downstairs, monitoring the baby monitor hidden behind to keep an eye on...<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i><br/>
<br/>
The door swings open. Both men stand there, looking straight at you - at Willow - and the Willow on the floor. Shaun grins. James frowns.<br/>
<br/>
"That's a neat trick," Shaun says. "So... shall we start again, whoever you are? Because oi'm still troin' to help ya."<br/>
<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: Bellerophon
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"This is so freaky." Willow leans forward, across the table, poking her own face. Well, poking your face. You flinch, letting your cloak do all the hard work, wrinkling her nose as she would and blinking furiously. The real Willow - Kathy, whatever - blushes and looks away. You do the exact same, a perfect mirror.<br/>
<br/>
"Stop doing that!" You both object at the same time. "Hey! That isn't funny!"<br/>
<br/>
It kind of is. Shaun and the others smirk. Gillian seems relieved, while Vinnie - the large, silent right hand of Shaun - still looks at you with distrust.<br/>
<br/>
"All roight. So who are ya? Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right now, I'm Willow Jasper," you shrug. "But you're right, this is just a disguise. I can flick through them, change them at will. All I need is to borrow someone's <i>imago</i>. That's what I did with the...uh..."<br/>
<br/>
"Chav." Vinnie says, helpfully, a surly London accent echoing around your deliberation. "She was a chav."<br/>
<br/>
Willow gives him a withering look. "That's rude."<br/>
<br/>
"It's better than tart. Hooker. Prossie. Slag."<br/>
<br/>
"Nobody says slag outside of <i>Eastenders</i>."<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't we getting a little off the point?" you ask. "And she's right. It's disrespectful. Anyway, I took her form in the police station, to get away from Ms Varga."<br/>
<br/>
"You were escapin' Fane?" Shaun is the only one who stayed on track.<br/>
<br/>
"They were trying to recruit me."<br/>
<br/>
"Because you're a shapeshift'a?" <br/>
<br/>
"No. Because I tried to break in to her home. She didn't know I was a, ah, 'shape shifter'. Nobody really knows. Although I know she's not Varga. Varga's dead, died almost a year ago when her usefulness ran out. There's a whole selection of 'em now. They took her <i>imago</i>, and imprinted it on others as a trial. They haven't perfected it."<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you know dat?" <br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and wave your hands - an entirely unimportant conceit, but you don't want them to know that - and let your form settle into the older woman's. You feel your hair neaten and become more perfect, your lips pucker and your nose straighten. "I took her face and memories," you say in her clipped, perfect voice. "I didn't leave the station has her because, you see, my darlings, it would have tipped my hand."<br/>
<br/>
Vinnie stares at you, distrust turning to a flash of something else. Fear? Shaun folds his arms.<br/>
<br/>
"Neat trick. So who are you really? Before you started takin' faces. You shrug, and turn into the approximation of who you were, what seems to be an age ago.<br/>
<br/>
"My name's Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott." Gillian finally speaks up, becoming animated. "Will Prescott! I know him! He's from Saratoga Falls! He hangs around with that creep Caleb! But how did you... can you... you were still in the Falls only... I saw you..."<br/>
<br/>
You don't know how to react to that. You're stunned. You barely know her name, and you hardly made waves back home. You're surprised she even knows who you are. But more to the point, what the hell has the other Will been doing?<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't see me. It's... complicated. I've been in LA, with some... friends. They know more about this stuff than I do. I was waiting for them when you picked me up."<br/>
<br/>
"Which is prolly a good thing. For you, at least." Shaun interrupts again. "Whoever your friends are, they ain't got a clue in heaven who they're dealin' wit. Fane ain't just a corporation. Ain't just messin' about with Varga's faces - we know all about that. It goes deep. Deep like a feckin' cancer. Right through the whole setup. Black magic, y'know? The blackest kind."<br/>
<br/>
"And who are you, then?" You fold your arms, almost instinctively defensive. Shaun smiles.<br/>
<br/>
"We're the good guys. I keep tellin' ya. All of us have seen what messin' with the wrong trinket can do. And all of it boiled down to one word, repeated over and over in a dozen feckin' glossy magazines."<br/>
<br/>
"Fane."<br/>
<br/>
"Fane. That how you became all shape-shifty?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. That was...something else." At least you don't think it was anything to do with them. You can never be sure though, can you? You've felt like a pawn in a dozen different games since you found that book.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's as may be. But Willow's boyfriend, Vinnie's sister, Gillian's boyfriend. My wife. We've seen what this kind of thing can do, especially in the wrong hands. And Fane... that's the worst kind of hands possible."<br/>
<br/>
"Who are they?" <br/>
<br/>
"You ever heard of Bellerophon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh...?" <br/>
<br/>
"Yah, right.How about Prometheus? Have to know that one. Stealin' fire from the Gods."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." <br/>
<br/>
"Well, Bellerophon was kind of like that. He wasn't a titan though, like Prometheus. And he didn't want to take somethin' from the Gods to give it to mankind, to you and me. Bellerophon was a hero. A grade-A monster slayin' badass. Seen <i>Clash of the Titans</i>? Bellerophon makes Perseus seem like a pussy. Slayed the chimera. Rode Pegasus."<br/>
<br/>
"So what's the point?" You feel the atmosphere shift.<br/>
<br/>
"Bellerophon decided that a few tricks like that - the parlor tricks of black magic that we've all seen - were enough to join the true Gods. We don't know much about 'em, except it's somethin' to do with goofy-named planets. Astrology, y'know? Well, anyway. These people are the real feckin' deal. Inherently magical. Fane'd feckin' love to be dat. You know Fane means 'Temple'? Yah. Anyway, some centuries ago, or so we think, they start thinkin' like Bellerophon. Thinking that he could join the true Gods on Olympus."<br/>
<br/>
You frown. Shaun's not the most coherent person to follow. Gillian, Willow and Vinnie seem enraptured, but you wonder how much of this is true, and how much of this is just a story he's made up, taking 2 and 2 and making 5. Isn't that what all cults or...whatever this is... do?<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, Bellerophon. So this cocky fecker thinks he can join the Gods. Not to help humanity, but because he's rockin' awesome. So off he trots on Pegasus to take his place with the Gods. Only the Gods, they think 'who's this douche wit' the flyin' horse?', y'know? So they send a thunderbolt to fry his feckin' ass and laugh as he plummets to the ground."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're saying Fane is about becoming a God?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're not Gods. There's only one God." Gillian chips in.<br/>
<br/>
"That's what you believe." Willow adds quietly.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a metaphor," Shaun sighs. "That's how we think it started, anyways. Been goin' on, and on. Centuries, we reckon. We only know from what we can get from askin' questions of employees. Some know shit, some know a lot. They seem to operate all cell-like, need-ta-know stuff."<br/>
<br/>
You wonder how exactly they 'convince' people to sharing information. Or what the hell they've seen that would make them take such action. You tentatively touch Gillian's memories in your constellation. The very thought of the aftermath of what happened sends a shiver down your spine.<br/>
<br/>
"So where do you come in to this?" You decide it's probably best not to mention the <i>Stellae</i> right now.<br/>
<br/>
"The Gods are gettin' lazy. They're lettin' Fane get too close to flyin' up to Olympus. They're ignorin' the suffering that they're inflicted in the world. What they did in Exeter. Barcelona. Feckin' Osaka - you'd have thought that would make someone sit up and take notice. But no, Fane's gettin' away with it. They're gettin' away with it!"<br/>
<br/>
"They're the Tower of Babylon." Vinnie chips in. "Only no thunderbolt is coming."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're people who have suffered because of magic. And you want to stop Fane... taking over the world?"<br/>
<br/>
Shaun grins. "Yeah. The Gods ain't asked for it, but we ain't askin' their permission. We're just humble, pathetic mortals, but we gotta get in the game. So we're the thunderbolt. We're gonna tumble Fane off their high flyin' horse."<br/>
<br/>
"All the way down." Vinnie says.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, and lean back. So that's what this is. You've stumbled into a mess of people whose lives have been broken by magic, by Fane, who are now acting like some kind of eco-terrorist group, fighting a single corporation and their attempt to steal... magic? The whole story of Shaun's makes no damn sense. You're sure he's getting in garbled. Yet he appears totally sincere. And you believe his conviction, just as you know Willow does.<br/>
<br/>
"So what do you want from me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why," Shaun grins. "We wants you to join us, of course."<br/>
<br/>
"That doesn't answer the question." Shaun laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, I guess not. What do we want? We want you to break into a feckin' museum, so we can get to the root of the devil. We thought you'd know a few parlor tricks. But hell, a shapeshifter? No breakin' necessary. You could just waltz right in."<br/>
<br/>
You weigh up your options. You could easily do this for them. They seem to be on the same side as you, and that maniac Hal. But part of you thinks you should help them get their story straight. The <i>Stellae</i> could use all the allies they could get.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: An offer you can refuse
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221112

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I can't. I should get back to my friends."<br/>
<br/>
Shaun sighs, and nods. "I understan'. Phone's over there if you need to call 'em. Mind if I ask who they are?"<br/>
<br/>
You think for a moment. Mention of the <i>Stellae</i> at this point isn't smart. "It's a long story."<br/>
<br/>
Shaun nods. "Willow, take Gillian upstairs, there's a hon?" The two girls leave. Shaun smiles. "OK, so start at the beginning. Saratoga Falls. We were there a week back. That's where we picked up Gillian. She's new to all this. You... don't seem to be."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I guess I'm not." That explains why Gillian is so nervy - and why you don't know why she's here. "What were you doing in Saratoga Falls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Lookin' for a book. Then... look, it don't matter what happened. Ask Gillian about it sometime. It was ugly. Everyone here's got ugly stories. Dat's why we need yas. So why'd ya leave the falls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like you. Everyone has stories. Mine involves a guy called Blackwell. This shapeshifting thing is kind of... a side effect. I used it to slip over to England."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" <br/>
<br/>
"Uh... I had a dream about Cambridge."<br/>
<br/>
You take your time spinning a yarn that's close enough to the truth for Shaun to settle, all neatly sidestepping the <i>Stellae</i>. You do tell them all about Hal, though - you figure his 'fight the power' chic is probably the kind of thing they're looking to link up with. You're halfway through when there's a bang at the door, and another procession of people come through. A middle-aged man, reed-thin glasses sat on a n overweight, balloonish head and thinning hair, sticks his head around the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Shaun, we stopped off at Asda and gra... oh. Who's this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will Prescott, Otto Rigg. Otto, Will. Will's not sticking around." Otto just gives a nod. <br/>
<br/>
"So it's not just you four?" you ask. Shaun laughs. "You think I'd afford a pad like dis? Nah, dis is a kind of safe house. Otto and his other half Ed look after it for the cause."<br/>
<br/>
You give a faint smile. "Does your cause even have a name?"<br/>
<br/>
Shaun shakes his head. "Just a purpose. Vincent and I try and do the heavy liftin' but usually pick up waifs and strays, y'know? Miranda and Lex do the same. Then there's Luuk, he does our research for us. Spends most of his time at the British Library - he'd have helped ya if you'd agreed. And then there's Jodie."<br/>
<br/>
"Jodie?"<br/>
<br/>
Shaun sighs. "Tell you what, Will. You can call your friends and leave if you want. But talk to Jodie first, yeah?" There's something about the way he says it that makes you dread doing so.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You knock lightly at the door. Shaun nods. "Jodie, lass. There's a guy here who'd like to talk to ya, if it's OK?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause, then a quiet voice, which sounds like a similar accent to the Beatles. "About what happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"If that's OK."<br/>
<br/>
"OK."<br/>
<br/>
Shaun opens the door. It swings open slowly. It's a very plain, basic room, full of second-hand furniture. In the far corner, leaning over a laptop, is a young woman. She's short, overweight, with bedraggled, black hair that looks like it hasn't been washed in a week. Her body is covered up by a long sleeved shirt and trousers. She turns around and looks at you behind thick bottle glasses. She's in her mid-twenties perhaps, but there's something about the horrors she's seen that's prematurely aged her.<br/>
<br/>
"Hi," she says. "Are you ready?" <br/>
<br/>
"For what?" you ask. She looks away. She looks uncomfortable, awkward, afraid. Then she lifts up her top, just enough to reveal her midriff. Her navel is pierced, but that isn't what grabs your attention.<br/>
<br/>
Faces are branded into her flesh. Hideous faces, beyond human imagination, like demonic snarls that are trying to burst out of her flabby belly. The red brands are raised, bright red scars that ripple across her skin like stretched canvas. You can't help but feel sick, and she's acutely aware of it as she pulls her shirt down.<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Fane happened. At least to someone else. I was staying with friends in Exeter. At least I thought they were friends. One of them had... had been mentored. They got me drunk, then they started their ritual. Summoning something, maybe. Or putting something in. I don't know. I just know they did it wrong. The house caught fire." She sighs, and pulls up her left sleeve. The burns are extensive. She pulls it back down again.<br/>
<br/>
"That meant I was able to escape. But not until this all happened. And then Lex found me." She looks pleadingly at Shaun, eyes already dampened. She clearly doesn't want to talk about it.<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks, lass. Thanks a lot." Shaun closes the door, and then you two are in the corridor, alone. "That's one story. Gill's is worse, she saw what happened to her boyfriend, but she doesn't have any scars. Me, I saw my darlin' wife corrupted until she and two friends butchered five, then were killed themselves when they weren't useful no more. Vinnie screams every time he sleeps, so we make him sleep in the van. Everyone here has a story. Sometimes we've been hurt, sometimes we've seen our loved ones destroyed. This is a feckin' survivors' group, Will. And that's why we need your help. And that's why we want to help. We've got to do somethin' about it.<br/>
<br/>
"So oi'll ask ya again. The phone's still downstairs if you want it. But help us. Please."</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The History Lesson
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122211121

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The gathering is a strange one. You're in some kind of bistro on the Euston Road, everything you've ever heard about the UK coming to pass in front of your eyes. Black cabs, red buses, terrible food and continuous rain; it might as well be a film. It's a perfect stereotype, if it weren't for the odd selection of people with you.<br/>
<br/>
Around the table sit Rick and Vinnie, having some kind of surly staring contest, although Rick is making every effort to seem like he's not engaging. Shaun and Hal have, for at least half an hour, exchanged bonkers conspiracy theories the likes of which seem outrageous even after everything you know. And then there's you, sat passively, in effect invisible to anyone's gaze. That's the beauty, and the curse, of Sulva. <br/>
<br/>
You called Rick and Hal as soon as you could, explained everything. Rick seemed instinctively reluctant, but through no fault of your own you're already too far to back out. Rick doesn't give much away, but you get the distinct impression he's not happy with how things have unfolded; he seems even more gruff than usual. And as for Hal... outside of his stranger theories, whenever something that matters is broached his eyes dart to the floor, the bravado of a true believer gone. You wonder what exactly happened in Oxford, or what they've been doing for the past 12 hours.<br/>
<br/>
After you saw what the survivor group had been through, it seemed only fair to give them the thunderbolt they craved. You were careful to choose your words carefully; the last thing you want is for Shaun to become convinced he's got three of his 'gods' around the table. That's another reason you suspect Rick has been so quiet. You made Shaun explain himself first, and gave the same crap you'd fed him earlier, cloaking your true intent with stories of Hal's little movement. <br/>
<br/>
"So, brothers," Hal says, his wild eyes and wilder hair an animated mask. "How are we going to take on the oppressive powers of the capitalist elite, exactly? By which I mean... what's your plan?"<br/>
<br/>
"Best to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Speaking of which..."<br/>
<br/>
A small man, in his thirties with an immaculately shaved head, takes a seat. He offers a hand, to Rick first, who seems to take an age before taking it. Shaun grins. "This is Luuk."<br/>
<br/>
"Hi." The man's accent puts him pretty clearly as Dutch. "These the people you said would help?"<br/>
<br/>
"We're united in this fight." Hal smiles, and slaps the man on the shoulder. Luuk seems jittery about this. <br/>
<br/>
"You're sure we can trust them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Probably." For once, Vinnie speaks. Rick's face gives nothing away, but you suspect it's the kind of answer he'd like. <br/>
<br/>
Luuk nods. "All right. So the item is in the preservation room. For conservation. I tried to get access, but it was denied."<br/>
<br/>
"Hold it." Rick speaks up. "Start with what the 'item' is. And why it's so important."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, yes. OK. So... I was researching the beginnings of Fane." You see Hal grin as the name is mentioned. "Which is... a nightmare. It's sprawling, and the audit trail would rival Al Capone's network. Only all legally."<br/>
<br/>
"That's because the 1% know how to evade tax legally now. Shell corporations, fake headquarters, companies listed in offshore locations, asset management through..."<br/>
<br/>
Rick silences Hal with a withering glare.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh... as I was saying. So I started at Company's House. And then it just became messy. As best I can tell it's entwined with several companies across the Euro zone, which are in turn entwined with smaller companies, spread out as far as the Cayman Islands and Taiwan. All of which isn't very helpful."<br/>
<br/>
"Tell 'em what you did find." Shaun smiles, interrupting.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes! Well, eventually I traced the origins of the company to... the origins of companies itself. The Australis Company, specifically. It was a rival to the South Seas Company. That was during the first ever stock market, back in the early 18th century. This is not the origin definitely; the company must have been around before that. Nor do we know that this was the origin of its interest in the..." Luuk leans forward conspiratorially, "you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Interesting." Rick says, coolly. <br/>
<br/>
"Interesting? That's exploitation before the proletariat had developed enough to rise up!" Hal.<br/>
<br/>
"Go on, Luuk."<br/>
<br/>
"The South Seas Company crashed in something called the South Seas Bubble. I suspect that this might have been the first public instance of the Australis Company using its, ah, influence. So I've been researching this at the British Library. And I think I've found what we need. The Earl of Braintree was one of the key figures involved in the Australis Company. Some of his writings were taken when he died - in mysterious circumstances - in 1724. In particular, a piece of paper that was recorded as 'a most blasphemous and ungodly writ' in the catelogue of his effects. Why it wasn't destroyed then, I don't know. But I suspect that writ might contain writings that will present the company in a new light. It will not help our cause completely, but..." Luuk shrugs. "It can't hurt."<br/>
<br/>
“So you want to get to this?” You ask. <br/>
<br/>
“Yes. To see what precisely the writ contains. It is vaguely described as containing a confession and a truth.”<br/>
<br/>
“Interesting. So why can't you just get it? Why is your access denied?”<br/>
<br/>
Luuk sighs. “Readers are just that. Researchers. Anyone can get that kind of access. But the preservation lab is for staff. So you will need to get a staff pass. Although you'll need to look older. And smarter.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, I think our young friend here can go one better.” Shaun smiles. “No time like the present?”<br/>
<br/>
You look at Rick. He chews his lip, and swigs his coffee. You're pretty sure he poured something into it earlier. <br/>
<br/>
“Your call, squirt.”<br/>
<br/>
You look at him. The snippet of information seems tempting. And getting access to the document shouldn't be hard. But you've got a nagging feeling. Why would something so potentially important be left in such a public location? Unless, of course, it's a trap.</span></div></div>


author_id: masktrixie
title: A moment’s reflection
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111211

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>I know that waiting is the smart move,” you tell Rick as you ride in the back of the van. “I know that. There’s no time limit here. Fane aren’t aware of the full extent of our involvement, and the chaos in Cambridge will likely keep them busy. I understand all of that.”<br/>
<br/>
Rick gives a level stare and a slow reply. “So why are we here, squirt?”<br/>
<br/>
“Because sometimes the smart move is overthinking things,” you say. “And I don’t mean the mess that got me to London in the first place. If we plan an approach, then we’re looking at a detailed plan that might be safer, but just as likely is going to tie us up in knots. I replace someone at the facility, then that’s just someone who can be traced. We could do recon, but eventually there’s a limit as to how far that can go, and these creep-ass organization is large and strong enough to rewind its cameras and see who’s involved. The smart move, however stupid this sounds, is to act dumb.”<br/>
<br/>
“If you say so,” comes the grunted reply.<br/>
<br/>
“You sure yur up for this?” Asks Shaun. Luuk has already given you enough information, you’re confident.<br/>
<br/>
“If not, you’ve got two people who are,” you say self-effacingly, as the van door slips open. You hop out onto the bustling streets outside Euston station, avoiding the grime-stained detritus washing down the drain on a dreary, miserable Fall day in London. <br/>
<br/>
You dart quickly across the road, dodging a black cab and a cyclist desperately trying to get up speed, slipping through crowds outside pubs before walking determinedly across a vast, open courtyard surrounded with bronze statues.<br/>
<br/>
The British Library is a weird building, the kind of red brick architectural design that screams it was built in the middle of the 20th century. It reminds you of some of the faculty halls on Keyserling’s campus, all strange angles that suggest industry and import. Luuk’s filled you in on the layout. The public only really get to see a couple of floors with reading rooms dedicated to each area of interest: newspapers and periodicals, historic documents, the greatest collection of books in Europe. Readers have to request documents or microfilm in advance and get them brought up from the vaults that extend deep underground. Apparently, there’s a disused London Underground ‘Tube’ platform below, accessible from St Pancras station across the road. But your plan is to just walk through the front door.<br/>
<br/>
You step inside, past security and through the metal detectors, into a vast atrium. You had considered a whole host of forms for this mission – Kali’s face wouldn’t ruffle feathers but simply be looked on as a seasoned researcher or academic, Grace Simpson is literally a University of Cambridge student – but there doesn’t seem to be any point in cloaking yourself as anyone other than Will Prescott. Ignoring the exhibition floor and coat check, you take the escalator up and try to get a feel for the place. <br/>
<br/>
The library is vast but neatly laid out, and the number of people coming and going means it should be relatively easy to slip in deeper hidden among the crowds. You drift aimlessly for a while, looking at security cameras, winding up in a room with glass cases stuffed with old documents and drawings, notes from authors you remember from English class. Jane Austen’s notebook; Thomas Hardy’s original submissions; a woodcut advertising a Shakespeare play. This is beyond anything the Arnholm brothers could imagine, all laid out in a collection worth millions. But then you’re a long way beyond Saratoga Falls. <br/>
<br/>
You wonder if the Libra would ever have ended up in a place like this; you remember Caleb once mentioned something about a Necronomicon spellbook locked here. You place fingers on a cabinet and wonder if you’ll ever see Saratoga Falls again. Your old school, your old life, your family all seem so distant and pale.<br/>
<br/>
“No touching.” A security guard barks, barely getting up from his seat. You lean back, looking briefly across before glancing at the glass to see where you’ve placed your fingertips. You’ve been slouching on the Magna Carta.<br/>
<br/>
You recoil a moment. Since Los Angeles your world has been endless turmoil. You haven’t even been able to catch your breath. First the item in Kali’s room, then the flight, the fire, the madness in Cambridge, the greater madness in London. Now you’re here, sticking your fingers on… what did Mr Howard call it when you had world history as a junior? The most important paper in the English language?<br/>
<br/>
You step back again, turning, walking out of the room and its treasures, sinking to sit on one of the benches in the atrium. You can still carry out your plan; it wouldn’t be hard to slip through the door by following someone, and the comings and goings of staff has convinced you that you won’t even need to steal someone’s identity – you could probably just walk around back there. After all, you’re not taking the manuscript, just copying it; it is a library after all.<br/>
<br/>
And yet you keep trying to walk away. Something about the Sulva nature is pulling you away from this, suggesting something else, dragging you in another direction. It pulled you to Cambridge, after all; maybe you should listen to your gut. Something about the Australis Company document doesn’t feel right. You could call this raid off and leave it to the more skilled and established Stellae who know how to deal with this. You also need to get to grips with your power. You’ve almost run away twice already, and that’s probably a good sign you should think about unentangling yourself from the chaos of the Stellae’s actual work.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe this is the point where you need to admit that you are just not ready.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: Thinking for once
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111212

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Smart." Rick's acknowledgment is praise indeed. You're still in the cafe, but the others have headed to the restroom, giving you, Rick and Hal enough space to breathe. You've ready told them you will do it, just not tonight. You have a better plan, one you've just shared. Hal is already working on it.<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks."<br/>
<br/>
"Well squirt," Rick sighs, swigging from his laced cup, "it's about damn time you started thinking."<br/>
<br/>
"I made the best of a bad situation." You cast a deliberate eye at Hal, who doesn't meet your gaze. Instead he keeps tapping at his phone. "I blew it trying to replace 'Willow' though." <br/>
<br/>
"So why ain't I chewing you out about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I moved too quickly. I panicked. I had time, and I could have just waited it out and should have got my bearings before making a move."<br/>
<br/>
Rick nods. "Yup. You're on a fail right now. But that ain't what I asked. Why ain't I yelling?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I know what I did wrong and you don't need to tell me. And I'm not going to make the same mistake here." You mean the plan you outlined moments before. Rick seems as satisfied as he ever is.<br/>
<br/>
"OK...ooh. Yes!" Hal mutters. "Specialist in Georgian manuscripts. Is 1724 Georgian? Uh... James got the boot, Bill and Mary, Anna gloria, George, George, George, George, Victoria..."<br/>
<br/>
You both pause as Hal's scrambled mind works his way through the history of his country. He stops when he realizes you are both staring at him. <br/>
<br/>
You get back to your apology.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I know I goofed coming here. I want to get back to LA. And I shouldn't have gone to Cambridge. I know that. But I know I can do this.<br/>
<br/>
"And there's more I found out. The whole thing about Fane, what I tried to tell you last night. They're doing something with sigils; grafting them on to people. Lenke wasn't Lenke. It's being led by someone called Hyde-White."<br/>
<br/>
Hal pauses, his ears pricking up. He shoots you both a look of triumph, then punches the air in victory. "Yes! I knew it! I bloody knew it was Cambridge! And the oligarchy!"<br/>
<br/>
"All right, simmer down," Rick sighs. <br/>
<br/>
"Hyde-White is a professor at Cambridge."<br/>
<br/>
"That can wait for now. Go on, squirt."<br/>
<br/>
"They don't know what they're doing, it's experimental. But I get the impression that they're trying to recruit students into some kind of... Infiltration programme."<br/>
<br/>
"Masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. This isn't the libra. It's some kind of mechanical approximation of sigils. It hurts like hell. And that isn't even the main operation. There are other divisions that 'Lenke' knew of; it was almost like the corporation is competing with itself."<br/>
<br/>
"That's just like capitalists." Hal goes back to his phone.<br/>
<br/>
"As far as it goes, I think Shaun was right. He said there are those competing to become gods."<br/>
<br/>
"Hal and Fyodor will hand that." Rick says, with a gruff finality that reminds you he won't tolerate another 'wacky dream about rowers' or 'impersonate a stewardess' moment.<br/>
<br/>
"We will? Ace!" Hal grins, before looking at you. "Search done. Found two candidates."<br/>
<br/>
Rick holds his hand up. The other three are returning from the restroom. Hal keeps quiet until they sit.<br/>
<br/>
"We found two candidates for Will here to substitute for." Hal says.<br/>
<br/>
"How?" Luuk asks. Shaun taps his finger to his lips in reply; you guess he'll explain later that your magical 'victimisation' has had an interesting side effect.<br/>
<br/>
"The first candidate is Rachel Sexton. Professor at UCL and specialist in Georgian manuscripts, which is close enough. Second is Ben Stone, her PhD candidate. Got addresses for both."<br/>
<br/>
You nod. As you explained earlier, you are going to take your time. Assume their identity temporarily for a couple of days, as Rick had previously assigned you. That means you don't have to 'break in' at all; you can just access the document as part of their research routine. And if you are careful, Fane will never know.<br/>
<br/>
You wonder which to pick... And whether this means Rick will finally forgive you and change your grade.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The new professor
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221112121

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You wonder why you prefer to become women. Certainly it's more than a trend now; it's a streak. It's not something you'd have ever thought would have happened only months before, and each choice is logical. But you still now understand it's a reality.<br/>
<br/>
"OK," you say, getting out of the car in a quiet, leafy suburban street. "Give me 30 seconds then do it."<br/>
<br/>
Hal nods. Rick, you noticed, decided to drive, and Hal didn't challenge him. At least it means they won't draw attention. You walk up to the house, an old Victorian terrace with bow windows and a neat, tended garden. Then you stand by the door, relax, and let your cloak envelope you.<br/>
<br/>
As Hal and Rick pulls away, the Sextons' car alarm goes off.<br/>
<br/>
You stay motionless. There's some banging from inside, then the door opens. A beleaguered man in a polo shirt walks out, rubbing his arms to keep warm. He doesn't notice you because that's what you choose. As he turns the alarm off you step inside.<br/>
<br/>
Hal's information is solid, and far more  detailed than he gave you in your last operation. The husband is Oliver Sexton, a fellow academic, working on bones. Two children, 18 year old Elizabeth - away at University - and 16 year old Lucas, upstairs. You walk into the house, listening, standing up against the wall. Once more , Oliver doesn't see you as he walks straight past, calling up the stair.<br/>
<br/>
"Foxes," he calls out. "Sorted now."<br/>
<br/>
"All right." A female voice from upstairs. "I'll have my bath, then."<br/>
<br/>
Perfect. You walk up the stairs, trying not to focus on how creepy this is, and listen out. A room with a skull and crossbones on the door has lights flickering under it - you figure Lucas is on his console. You ready your sigil. Your target steps through the door, and right into your palm. You catch her as she slumps, and bring her back into the bedroom, swinging the door behind you.<br/>
<br/>
In a moment your form has shifted, and you're appraising your new, lean face in the mirror, your exact double on the floor in her bathrobe. Professor Rachel Sexton looks back at you, your mature hands probing a narrow face with a small mole on the cheek, defined bones, clear hazel eyes framed with crow's feet, and brunette locks streaked with silver above your eyes in a stylish full fringe. You run your new tongue across your teeth as you flick through your memories, pulling your own clothes off.<br/>
<br/>
Perfect; Ollie doesn't go in Rachel's - your - walk-in closet. You lean down and pull the real Rachel inside, closing the door. Tomorrow you'll head to work late and get Rick to take the sleeping Rachel away. For now though, you need to assume her life.<br/>
<br/>
*****<br/>
<br/>
"Lucas! Turn off that bloody laptop and go to bed!" You walk down the corridor, ready to settle down for the night. You sigh, making a tutting sound as you walk into the bedroom. Ollie looks up from his book.<br/>
<br/>
"Let him be."<br/>
<br/>
"He's got to start revising."<br/>
<br/>
"He's got six months until his exams."<br/>
<br/>
You narrow your eyes, slipping under the covers, your silk nightgown rubbing against the duvet. "Don't encourage him."<br/>
<br/>
Ollie shrugs, and climbs out, presumably to the toilet. "I won't. Back in a second... oh hey, you left your scarf out."<br/>
<br/>
You look up in horror. Earlier, you remember Rachel left her scarf on the table, but the neat-freak in her usually keeps it in the walk-in. Ollie is heading straight toward it...<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, leave it. One scarf out isn't going to kill me."<br/>
<br/>
Ollie ignores you, picking it up, walking to the closed door behind which the real Rachel is collapsed. "It's not a problem, hon ."<br/>
<br/>
"Wait!" You snap in Rachel's most authoritative voice. Ollie pauses, looking at you in confusion. You scramble for an explanation. Then you let Rachel's mind take over. "Your Christmas present is in there."<br/>
<br/>
Ollie stops, smiles, and sets the scarf down. "Say no more. Love you, old girl."<br/>
<br/>
You watch as he leaves the room. Then you close your eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. <br/>
<br/>
"Love you too..." You exhale.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: A matter of preservation
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122211121211

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Rachel, a word?" <br/>
<br/>
You look up from your cramped basement office, stuffed full of paper stacks and tattered old maps, a coffee mug stained to a deep black steaming away, a smear of silvery-pink lipstick on its rim.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course." You give a smile, stop focusing on your antique PC - almost ten years old now - and beckon the director in. Well, assistant director. Peter McKirk is a small man, very much the perfect model of an academic.<br/>
<br/>
"I was reviewing the requests for digitization. You've added a new section, from the KR catelogs."<br/>
<br/>
Ah. You knew this would come up, although Rachel didn't, so you look intrigued. It's what she would do.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
You expected someone would query your request, put in two days ago and lazily, uninterestedly, set aside. Rachel Sexton would view the manuscript you're after as just another set of artefacts that might have significance.<br/>
<br/>
"One of the researchers requested a set on the Australis Company, two weeks ago." This, you figure, McKirk already knows. You had him pegged as a possible interested party - certainly not a Fane employee, but likely willing to take a back hander to keep certain public documents private - since you saw him in the staff cafeteria.<br/>
<br/>
"And?"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug, setting the squash racquet on your desk aside so you can lean in. You've got a game with one of your friends booked at lunch. You've been living Rachel's life for three days, and with the exception of getting exasperated with cooking and ordering a takeout for two nights in a row, husband, son, friends and colleagues haven't spotted a difference. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, It's policy to review archives in light of any request to determine if they require digitization. You know that."<br/>
<br/>
"For one request? Rachel, if we did that for every single request we'd..."<br/>
<br/>
"And," you say, cutting him off like a chiding school mam, "The Earl of Braintree is an interesting individual. I was planning a paper with our colleagues in Cambridge about the South Seas bubble. There's particular merit to the Australis Company and it's impact on coffee house politics, particularly of the earlyHanoverian  period."<br/>
<br/>
McKirk steps on into the office. You allow your mature eyes to pique with curiosity.<br/>
<br/>
"That record can't be digitized."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" You do your best to look confused, even letting out an incredulous laugh. It crackles and breaks like a log in a fire.<br/>
<br/>
"Professor Sexton, as you know our institution, while public, relies heavily on outside donation to provide various outreach programmes. Occasionally this means our sponsor..."<br/>
<br/>
You hold you hand up, wedding ring gleaming in the light. "Say no more," you sigh. "I understand. No paper, either."<br/>
<br/>
"It would be preferable."<br/>
<br/>
"Not a problem," you shrug passively. "Saves me the hassle if I'm honest. I've got this work to clear for my students on George II, and that's the breather I need."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm glad you're so agreeable. I appreciate it."<br/>
<br/>
You wait to McKirk turns before you deliver your dagger thrust, just as Rachel would do. She's still bitter that she didn't get the position McKirk now occupies: she considers herself the superior acedemic, and McKirk just well connected. You smile at just how true that is.<br/>
<br/>
"There is one thing," you call. "I'm going to have to look at then still. Just make sure they're not damaged by the preservation process. We've already pulled them from the deep vaults. Standard protocol."<br/>
<br/>
It isn't, but Rachel knows McKirk doesn't understand grunt work, and this little victory is a reminder of her contempt. He nods his assent and leaves.<br/>
<br/>
There are perks to being Professor Rachel Sexton.<br/>
<br/>
*****<br/>
<br/>
The vault is, of course, horrid. Deep below street level, temperature controlled to perfection, with an acrid bite from the near absence of any moisture in the air. Rachel hates it because it dries out her skin, and you live through her moisturise ritual before heading down, waiting for the staff to lay out the paper on the illuminated desk for you.<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you," you dismiss then, putting on the white cotton gloves as you study the parchment, already cracking and brittle. The ink is too faded to simply take a photo to send to the others, but something tells you it's not the words that matter. Something about the document makes the hairs on your arms stand on end.<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes, waiting for Sulva and it's hidden secrets to rear into your mind's eye: you study it's flaws and imperfections, it's shadows and craters, each lit up in turn by its rotation. It shows it's secrets with its own, silent glow.<br/>
<br/>
Your aged eyes flick open as you concentrate on the parchment. You trace the shadows and secret lines of the document, the faded sigils few can see. You let your mind dance across them, let your fingers flick them in the air like rotating a tumbler lock...<br/>
<br/>
Then the world flashes into a brilliant white, and the rusty taste of blood fills your lungs.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Australis Company part one
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111212111

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>I thought my pact with the Devil incarnate commenced in the stews of the Liberty of the Clink, in a brothel unmarked and unobserved, yet recalled by the name Fat Susan's. This may be a most auspicious location for Devilment as you could choose, though it had little to engage with the pox-plagued doxies of that den. The truth was the bargain had been struck the moment I set eyes upon her.<br/>
<br/>
The issue, as ever in my life, was Georgiana Fielding. Oh she was fair in ways a man could barely comprehend, and half of London would have committed much villany to see a glimpse of the soft, white flesh of her ankles. Georgiana danced the game well, knew when to tease and when to play the perfect madam, and slipped through society as only one in her shoes could muster. She had blossomed to a fine woman of court, and at 18 was well advanced in the marriage game.<br/>
<br/>
To put a point on it I was hopeless lost on her, and had expressed such unwholesome delusions to the good Dr C------t, of whom I had become acquainted several years before at Wyndham College, where we had puzzled the mysteries of Divinity before my brother's consumption had claimed me my title.<br/>
<br/>
"What I would not trade for her!" I had muttered one night after the heavy fortified wine had twisted its mists upon me.<br/>
<br/>
"Aha," said he. "Yet such hope is lost, for she is bound to far wealthier game than you my boy, far wealthier stock."<br/>
<br/>
T'was true enough, but my friend only knew half of my desires, for the other half were never spoken of, yet engaged only in Susan's unknown court.<br/>
<br/>
"A pity, then," I resigned myself. T'was true enough that Georgiana was forever beyond me yet, as, I confided to the fellow, my lands I would forgo for her. And so it concluded and I thought little of it, until the night in Fat Susan's, when I entered - as was my custom - and found not the happy gathering if harlots I expected, but a gathering of gentlemen, solemn and stern, gay and free in turn.<br/>
<br/>
They greeted me by name, and I feared at once my unique vice had been uncovered, until I sighted C------t there, among the fellows. He beckoned me sit, and introduced his colleagues. Various scattered nobility had assembled for this unlikely moment; men to a higher station than I. A conspiracy, then, I thought; drinks to the king across the water. Yet there were men of lower station too; foreigners most remarkable. A Huguenot I imagine, called D---------r, - I cannot imagine a true Frenchie at the gathering - and Prussians or some such, names with 'Shhhh's' and 'Kayzz' and other unpronounceable rot. <br/>
<br/>
"Come join us." It was not an invitation. And so I sat myself down, around the candlelit conspiracy, and found myself drawn into a game of dice that shall, as I finish this missive, end my life forever. <br/>
<br/>
Dear reader, should you comprehend these words you already know much of what I speak, for such hidden shapes as that breatheren taught me disguise the truth of this document. To read these lines, you must have already chosen to blacken your foul soul with wicked magicks. I pray to God you cease now, for these lines condemn me to a pit I would not wish upon you. Turn back, Sir! Turn back!<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: The Australis Company part two
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221112121111

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Do you believe the hosts I describe to wear shadowy masks and bells and ribbons? None if this I saw that night. The gentlemen were dressed in coats and Sunday wigs, as though they were to church or business. The fallen women of the stew did not disturb our dark drinks that night, and I venture they had been paid to remain absent.<br/>
<br/>
How do I relay what I was told? Much, yet painful little; I was Sisyphus, my eyes pecked out the moment I saw a glimmer of truth on those forked tongues. Did I know of the Australis Company? Indeed; it had profited much from the South Seas failure. Did I know why the company had been so founded? For profit and venture, I replied. <br/>
<br/>
"No, sir." The leader of this ring, a man of lesser airs than many of that auspicious group. His name was Dr S--------k, but was the chief commenter that eve. "It was to search."<br/>
<br/>
"Search?"<br/>
<br/>
"Indeed, sir. Search. For what if I told you truths that rebelled against creation itself lingered beyond the recorded inks of charts and maps? Beyond the stars we know and the waves and currents? This, sir, is the reason we venture to the unknown. To claim that which we know yet cannot."<br/>
<br/>
A riddle, then, and not the first he recited that eve. Did I believe in alchemy, he asked? I did not.<br/>
<br/>
"That is as well, for gold is not the subject of our transmutation. Alchemists sought to control the world by transubstantiation of matter. Chryspoeia is not our object. The alchemists believed each metal equated to a planet. We believe the planets hold far more mysteries; indeed, we question whether there are yet other planets that may govern hearts and souls on ways undefined."<br/>
<br/>
Were they scientists or religious? Neither. The conversation revealed their dalliance into the forbidden came neither from desire to unravel the questions of the world as they did to define and catalog greater gnostic questions.<br/>
<br/>
"A monk seeks wisdom from God. But where did the divine claim this omnipotence? How was God created?"<br/>
<br/>
This was far from the end of his heresy. He spoke of conversing with demons, for stealing the forbidden knowledge of Dee and Bacon, of the Azteca of the Americas, of the Gods of Asia.<br/>
<br/>
"They hold the truth of it," said he, to silent nods. "They remember what we have suppressed. This brotherhood shall unlock these truths. Those they give freely we shall use. Those denied we shall take."<br/>
<br/>
Does the remainder of his speech matter? I cannot, in truth, recall it. My world was a mixed spirit of confusion, horror and acute discomfort. What did they wish of me? To join them? Why? Why should this Hellfire and Brimstone club engage me, unexpectedly, and at such a location. I asked the question.<br/>
<br/>
"Come with us."<br/>
<br/>
I was led up to the top room, the most private of chambers. S, C and D were the only companions I had on this lonely march.<br/>
<br/>
"It is simple enough," S spoke. "We require land. Capital we have, and in abundance. Yet a private holding is one thing we do not have. We are all family men, and our families and most of our servants remain unaware of our nature. Thus we wish to acquire your holdings, in entirety."<br/>
<br/>
"Entirety? But how shall I sustain myself?" They were asking for my entire existence, parcels of land across Essex, Middlesex and the Vale." I already knew the game: t'was blackmail. Why else lead me to the room of my secret shame?<br/>
<br/>
"You will have a new life."<br/>
<br/>
"A new life?" I was confused. At this juncture I did not believe in their magicks.<br/>
<br/>
"Indeed." They opened the door, and base me step inside. The room looked much as it always did, save for a large mirror, full length and polished in the corner.<br/>
<br/>
 "What do you mean?" I was lost. <br/>
<br/>
"Step to the mirror," C said. "Step to the mirror and tell me what you see."<br/>
<br/>
Curious, and frankly lost to all sense, I did so. And the sight confounded every sense I held. Cold shudders ripped my body, exotic sensations caressed my insides; the smells of London vanished to the void. I was so lost in the sight I could not recall the passage if time. My eyes deceived me, but with such veracity I knew in an instant this strange company and its ill practises were not sold by empty words.<br/>
<br/>
I stared at the reflection of Georgiana Fielding. The room was changed from a dull, wooden dive to a richly carpeted bedroom, my companions to a gaggle of ladies' maids tending to my hair. I was dressed just so in fine fashion, yet the mirror left me no doubt who I was cast as. She blinked when I did so. I reached up to touch my face, and watched as she did the same. I smiled, and saw that radiant grin burst out across her cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
"How?" I stammered, watching words utter on another's lips.<br/>
<br/>
"This," I heard S say, "Is your payment. Should you give us as we ask, you shall become Lady Georgiana Fielding. Her body, life, most intimate secrets, her very soul, will be yours to own. All you must do is say 'yes'."<br/>
<br/>
This was the Devil's deal. I knew my answer the moment he uttered the question.</span></div></div>


author_id: masktrixie
title: The Australis Company part three
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122211121211111

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>To this point I have endeavored to cloak my true meaning in allusion, though any reader who deigned to venture further has already seen such magicks as would become a second Faustus. Indeed, it was Marlowe’s warning against the dark arts that weighed heavy in my mind the moment I uttered my acquiescence. Allow me, then, to speak plain in this record, for at this venture my soul is too far gone.<br/>
<br/>
The chamber atop Fat Susan’s was a Molly House, where those of my failing could dally as the sex they had always wished, free from prying eyes. Yes; I longed to be a woman, and cavorted in the finest laces and petticoats to the delight of admirers. It was masquerade and folly, but also sweet comfort. And, in my most intimate of games, I had always proclaimed myself playing the character of Georgiana Fielding.<br/>
<br/>
How these learned gentlemen had come across my secret I knew not, though first in my mind was of course Jonathan Wild, who all of London knows is no more a thief-taker as the king of thieves himself. Wild had men in every cunnywarren across the borough, and those paying for such titbits would have come across my name eventually.<br/>
<br/>
Regardless, my conspirators had not chosen to blackmail me, yet offer me a pact. And without a moment’s pause I had accepted it. Their magicks had shown me that I could become the Lady Fielding; their words had pledged I would possess all of her quick and cunning. My lands and title were but small price for such a jewel; why, I would have given all the tea in China, all the pin in the Dials, verily every fur in the Colonies. And thus the bargain was struck.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” I remember saying. “A thousand times, yes.” At as I spoke, so did Georgiana, sending her maids into confusion. Yet for all my rapture, D cast a cloak over the mirror, and in an instant the spell was broken. The connection between me and that beauty was severed and gone. I was, once more, myself alone.<br/>
<br/>
“And so it shall be,” S said, resting a hand light upon my shoulder. “In a week’s time, you shall come to my offices at Lincoln’s Inn Fields to sign your testament, then we shall on to St Mary Aldermary in the city for evening service. You shall not need anything, save preparedness to leave your old life behind.”<br/>
<br/>
“And what guarantee is there you shall hold to your word?” says I, for even with my head clouded my alluring promise, I was a man of considerable fortune.<br/>
<br/>
“None,” D spoke, and it was then I realized it was for the first time. “Such a wager has no guarantee in life. Behold the collapse of the South Sea Bubble. This gambit is all the greater. You think we are swindlers, aiming to trick you sign away your fortune and murder you in a back alley? It would hardly be the first time London has seen such wickedness. And yet…” D moved forward, and when he spoke the words seemed as honey. “This is not who we are. Know that what you saw in this mirror is naught but butter to bread; a moment’s sweetness, spread upon the wheat of life. We,” he gestured to his confederates, “are in command of the milk of the very firmament. We reward those who serve us. You have seen our power. Do you not think we could snatch your lands in a snap should we wish it? Instead we offer you join us.”<br/>
<br/>
I knew that, had I refused in that instant, my life would be ruin. I agreed to his terms.<br/>
<br/>
I spent three days at cards in my club, playing whist with Bute while I uncorked the riddle of that night. D had been correct when he stated it was a wager that I had to take if true. And yet there was also a most obvious, vexatious question: what if it had been naught but a pantomime? How they could have convinced me I had, for a brief moment, slipped into the life of Lady Georgiana I did not know, for certainly I had been exposed to no tincture, nor felt the lasting stupor of Indian poppy. It was mid a rubber ‘gainst Archie Sinclair and one Captain Nearn that I suddenly became possessed of the obvious solution, and took to my carriage without my winnings.<br/>
<br/>
“Tibhurst Hall,” I instructed, slapping the roof with me cane. And, a mere three hours later, found myself presented in deep Hertfordshire.<br/>
<br/>
“My Lord Braintree,” my host had greeted me, descending from his parlor with my card in hand. “This is a surprise, though we would be honoured for you to join us this eve given the hour grows late.”<br/>
<br/>
“My Lord Fielding,” I said, flourishing him with my stiffest bow. “Worry not, for urgent business takes me north along Watling Street, and I will find a coachhouse for the night. Instead, I must beg an indulgence of you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Name it, sir.” Fielding was known for his generosity, though he must have suspected something wayward, for he eyed me as he would a venison shank about to be carved.<br/>
<br/>
“My cousin Lucy shall soon arrive from Brighton, and I wish a lady’s maid for her. I have come to ask that I may borrow one of your daughter’s household.”<br/>
<br/>
“What, man?” Fielding looked at me as if I had fever. “And why is your household not sorting this trifle out for you? And are there no maids to be found in London?”<br/>
<br/>
“There are,” I admitted. “Yet Lucy is the jewel of my life. And, when she was last in the capital, she was admiring of your daughter’s petticoat. She begged of me that she could be done up just so. No, sir, if she hears that the Lady Georgiana’s maid is attending her, why she would beam a smile that heaven itself could not deny. For a weekend, I but ask one maid. The one with blonde hair, curve to the lip.”<br/>
<br/>
Fielding looked at me queer. “You’re an odd fish, Braintree,” says he. “I’ve never heard such a ludicrous folly. And yet I’ll not ask you a purse of guineas for her.” He rang a bell, and his man appeared, silently slipping through a nearby door. “Warren, you’ll instruct Mary she is to go with this gentlemen tonight to attend his niece.” He turned to me. “How long d’you need her for?” <br/>
<br/>
“A weekend,” I lied. Fielding, I suspect, knew that, though I imagined he thought I’d merely taken a fancy to the woman and wished a few days with her as my doxy. It mattered naught to him, of course.<br/>
<br/>
“Done. And when we get back to the Lords, I suspect you to look on my Endowment Act with fondness?”<br/>
<br/>
The rest, it matters not. Mary did not accompany me to London. Instead, after we had driven barely a mile down the lane, she was paid three guineas – a fortune for her ilk – and told to find some other lodging until the Monday. Instead, I asked her to spy upon her master of the house, and report back to me Fielding’s habits. She took my proposal with the usual serving class’ desperation and hunger for ready cash, and did not even notice when I asked her the true question.<br/>
<br/>
“Three days ago, your mistress attended the Countess of Rathburton’s Ball,” I asked her as she bit into my coin.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, sir.”<br/>
<br/>
“Think on this. As you dressed her, did your mistress do anything strange. Anything at all?”<br/>
<br/>
“No, sir,” the maid said. My heart sank.<br/>
<br/>
“Nothing?”<br/>
<br/>
And then! “No, sir. ’Cept, for the briefest moment she fainted.”<br/>
<br/>
“Fainted?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, sir. Admiring the mirror, she was. She asked how we’d done the powder – never taken so much interest in it before – then, and I remember, she said she wanted it always thus. ‘A thousand times, yes,’” she said, which we laughed at, young miss getting excited like that over a little rouge, not that she needs it. Then she fainted, just brief, like, and normal enough for a woman of her standing, what with being stitched in and all. Milly had to fetch the salts for her. Is that what you wanted to know?”<br/>
<br/>
“Not really, sounds like chambermaid gossip,” I sneered dismissively. “Never mind. Good night, Mary. And remember, report back to me, once a month at least, on who visits Fielding.”<br/>
<br/>
I shut the carriage door then, barely able to breathe. Mary’s recruitment had been, of course, but a paltry excuse to test my theory. But it had worked! The magicks of the learned men were real! I had been, for the briefest moment, Georgiana Fielding.<br/>
<br/>
Cost be damned, and my soul with it! In four days, I would be her evermore.</span></div></div>


author_id: masktrixie
title: The Australis Company part four
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111212111111

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The four days I still had to wait hung around my neck, heavy as a yoke. I wiled away time in the coffee houses; in the club; taking the air on Constitution Hill. Naught drew me from a world of imagination, of longing that an impossible dream could finally be realized. I felt as Icarus, waiting for his father to finish the wings to let him soar; or of Raleigh’s first colonists setting foot in unknown Virginia. And, even as I dreamt, I remembered those lessons, beaten into me with a cane as a child. Icarus fell; the colonists vanished.<br/>
<br/>
And so I began this record as insurance; in four packets, delivered in trust to my estate with instruction it was to fall to Sir Hans Sloane’s collection of curiosities should I die. The first three I completed during those days; this, the fourth, I wrote in the hand of another.<br/>
<br/>
My narrative returns in the evening twilight of Clerkenwell. In the company of S, I altered my will and testament – much against the instruction of my family attorney and raising eyebrows in Chancery – and thence walked through the crowds to St Mary Aldermary. Under its white opulent ceiling we were met with C, who took us down twisting lane and side alley, before at last pausing to lift a grate and slip beneath the lanes of London. The strench of the passage sent me in recoil, and I reached for my lavender pouch even as C lit a torch and beckoned us into the depths. In but a few yards we had gone beyond Wren’s new London; a few turns more past rivers of filth took us past the ancient tunnels known to Becket. Still we sank, until a shiver ran through my blood and I wondered if, somehow, I had been duped and was to be set upon where none would find me. Were C and S mere footpads after all? <br/>
<br/>
My answer came with a distant glow. And, with each step, the glow became flame; then fires lighting a large chamber, deep in London’s core. It was a minotaur’s lair – a crumbling tomb filled with symbols of bulls, the Thames water long having cracked stone and flooded much of the stone slabs upon which we walked. Here, in the robes of an alchemist and seemingly uninterested in the damp air, D sat in front of the mirror, a bow resting on his lap. <br/>
<br/>
“Silence, now, sir, I beg of you. Silence until you are sir no more.” S said in a whisper. I nodded, and felt the warmth of braziers being lit behind me by C. <br/>
<br/>
“The supplicant comes forth.” D’s instruction; C and S held my hands, and gently guided me to position on a large carving of a bull. “Brothers, today we honor a pledge, a deal made in faith. Let us grant the Heliodromus in the procession of the Sun-runner, under guise of Cautes and Cautopates.”<br/>
<br/>
“Aye, Pater,” they both replied. And, in slow and deliberate movements, led me around the room, walking a path across symbols of suns and planets, until I saw that the damp and drenched stones all bore astrologers’ marks. It was only the beginning, and the depths of the rite I shall not speak of, the hours of silence and solemnity, save for its end, bound as I was, stripped and in front of the mirror, the heat from my breast warming my body against the chill of the room. D spoke in low tones to the mirror, then turned, wrapping his cloak around me until all I could see was shadow.<br/>
<br/>
“Through seven grades, we three have risen. Through seven grades we have begun a path to secure the Australis Company. Here, in our sanctum fanum, we grant the soul’s desire. Supplicant, rise, and walk, and remember this life as naught but a dream.”<br/>
<br/>
The cloak opened, and I looked deep into the mirror. There, crouched in my pose, was Georgiana Fielding once again. This time her face was unmade, the natural beauty of her sweet complexion framed by her own locks hanging wild and uncombed, her pale flesh concealed in a night dress. The room in which she stood was ill-lit, and at once I realized it was her bedchamber.<br/>
<br/>
“What’s happening?” Her voice, trembling and strained, echoed distant through the mirror, her eyes wide with terror. I rose, and watched as her body motions copied my own. She fought, struggled as she realized her limbs were not her own, despaired as, confused and terrified, she knew she was naught more than a poppet. Her neck strained to open her mouth and scream, but my own mouth was closed, and so hers remained.<br/>
<br/>
“Go,” D bade. I took a step, as did the figure in the mirror. Another. So did she. And so on, in slow and deliberate steps, until both stood at the mirror’s edge. Eyes, damp with fearful tears, looked into my own. And, not knowing what was to come, we stepped into each other.<br/>
<br/>
The transition was chill, as cold as I had ever felt, before I stumbled back, slipping to the ground. Catching my breath, I scrambled across a wooden floor, trying to find purchase to rise amid the layers of my nightdress. And, in the dark of that room, I laughed my perfect, trill laugh and stared at a mirror that showed only my refection. The strange chamber under London was naught but dream.<br/>
<br/>
That night’s slumber was the most restful of my eighteen years. The breakfast with mother and father a joy where I had previously found it dull and dreary. The dream of that strange life I had recorded, or believe I had recorded, seemed half-forgotten, slipping away as I recalled my love of piano, though I confess I am poor at it, and needlepoint, to which I excel; of my childhood at Tibhurst and the suitors of whom father shall choose, for I am to be married to a lord with not less than £10,000 a year.<br/>
<br/>
And yet I do not think that other life was a dream. For, though the names and faces of that memory fade, it feels too real to ignore. And so I write this missive, consigned to Sir Hans Sloane’s collection in the hope it joins three other packages of my Lord Braintree’s estate, or least that which has not gone to the Australis Company. Father refused me the truth of how he perished, saying only it was not for a lady to consider. But Mary knows such things, and relayed he was found the night of my dream, upturned in the Thames, a footpad’s blade in his back.<br/>
<br/>
It is a ghastly and tragic end to a noble and undeserving soul, and I trust it finds its way to God.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: Death of a Sulva
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221112121112

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The blood continues to fill your lungs. You look down, confused that you can't focus on the page, worried that you can't focus on anything: you're spasming, eyesight blurring and vibrating. Every muscle is in spasm, your eyelids are twitching and you can feel your heart squeeze until it bursts. There's a slight pain in your neck, and somehow you're able to spin around enough to look - however fleetingly - at Peter McKirk pull away a syringe, still dripping some sinister blue substance.<br/>
<br/>
Your body goes still, frozen. Your heart stops beating. A numbness washes over your skin, through your flesh, down to your very bones. Then you slowly fall back, collapsed, dead.<br/>
<br/>
Dead. You are. There's no question. The body you're in has died. But somehow you're holding on to the thinnest, most slender chance at life comprehendible. You've retreated into the blackness of your mind, into the constellations and stars, back to Sulva and its quiet, pale light.<br/>
<br/>
You have no idea how you're alive. Maybe you can't die, so long as you have this cave to retreat to. Or perhaps some instinct has shifted you out of Rachel Sexton enough, so that you can carry on.<br/>
<br/>
Panic fades. You sit in your mind, lying in wait, free of the consciousness of what was going on. You replay the last moment in your mind. Peter McKirk's face looms at you, looking even more terrified than you were at your lingering demise. You suspect that he's messed up somehow. Evidently he was far more a Fane agent than you suspected, but still not fully involved. When you accessed the manuscript he must have worried that something would be found; perhaps his exact instructions were that it was not to be accessed by anyone. As Sexton you crossed a line and, unsure what to do, he simply killed you.<br/>
<br/>
You bathe deep in Sulva's surface, turning away, gazing into the darkness of space. Yes, that's probably it. No doubt at this moment your body is being picked up. Perhaps he's called whoever his supervisor is, and is begging them to cover up 'Rachel's' demise. Perhaps he's working out how to get a body out of central London without anyone noticing.<br/>
<br/>
Either way, this 'operation' is blown. The document was interesting, but not to the point it was worth the risk. Rick and Hal would have lost interest, and that group of survivors would continue circling Fane, probably until they were swotted like errant flies. You imagine some of the other stories you heard in that house, snippets of conversations, meant they had probably already accidentally stumbled on something more important. <br/>
<br/>
While you wait, safe inside your own consciousness, you turn to 'Willow's constellation. You pry into it, looking through the thoughts and memories, skipping through her consciousness as if it were a Filofax. She had a lead in Cambridge, you detect. Apparently she was worried about a girl called Maira, and whether she was being indoctrinated into a Fane recruitment programme. Scottish, only a passing acquaintance... although you could use Kali's face to pretend to be her mother and gain a little information if you needed. The resemblance is just about close enough. Hmm... interesting if you want to tell Hal or Rick.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not sure you do. Not now.<br/>
<br/>
There's something more to dying. Something you never expected.<br/>
<br/>
It's <i>a rush</i>.<br/>
<br/>
Since you joined the <i>Stellae</i>, the idea that you could be anyone has always been qualified with responsibility. Ultimately you had skills none of them could muster or master - abilities that came to you through the <i>Libra</i> that should be locked a way in a vault. You've always felt guilty about it. <i>Stellae</i> are born, and books like the <i>Libra</i> are written, but creatures like you are created. As you spent time in LA or London, you've continually felt guilty about your unique gift. You know it's something you shouldn't have. It's a point hammered home with each exercise. But with every step the real lesson has been safety. Rick taught you to hide so you could survive. You were angry at Hal because it could have meant your death. You were scared at the sense of your own mortality.<br/>
<br/>
Now you've been killed, or at least should have been. And yet you still draw breath. You're sure you do. All you need to do is select one of your many guises, and pull it closer to you, closer and closer...<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes flash open. You're naked, and the steel almost immediately makes your back arch up, your mouth making Os of shock at the chill. You roll over, the cloth falling off your body as you look around. <br/>
<br/>
You're back as Will Prescott, or your facsimile of your own appearance. You're stark naked and, from the look of it, in a morgue. You've climbed off an open slab, and rows of silver drawers line the wall. Inches away from you, neatly arranged on a tray, are a series of brutal implements designed to dissect a corpse. Dissect<i> you</i>. <br/>
<br/>
Obviously, Fane intends to see Rachel's death explained away. An aneurysm, perhaps. Right now, you do feel like murdering Peter McKirk in revenge, even if the true Rachel Sexton is alive and well with the survivors. You take a deep breath, enjoying your life, staring up at the burning strip lights. Then your gaze falls to the door, and you walk toward it. <br/>
<br/>
As with most hospitals on TV, there are small, circular windows. You can look through them, at a bored looking morgue attendant on the phone. He's scratching his head, talking animatedly on the phone to someone on the other end.<br/>
<br/>
"Again? How many autopsies do you think I can fake before someone notices? This one's clear-cut, anyway. Any idiot can see where the injection site was. She was straight up killed by... OK. Fuck you, twenty grand isn't enough. I want fifty for this one. This is clear murder. You hear me? It's clear murder. It's going to take a big risk on my part. Why do you even care? Yeah, I know it's none of my... all right. No questions. Fifty... I want fif... fine, forty. What do you want the cause of death to be? Stroke. Got it. You're going to have to convince the family to cremate though, because... OK. Good. Deal."<br/>
<br/>
He puts the phone down, walking toward the door. You step to one side, confident that your cloak is fully extended, and poise yourself for the next act.<br/>
<br/>
The sensible thing, the honorable thing, would be to knock him out and get in touch with Rick. You'll have to change your plans - the survivors and Rachel will be in danger. You'll need backup too, as you're going to have to take on Fane directly; this is no longer a subtle probing for information. <br/>
<br/>
But why do you even need them any more? You feel the smile cross your lips as you wonder. You can be anybody, perfectly. You can take anyone's life you want. And you have nothing to fear any more. There's no consequences for you, no possibility of death. You can just assume another form and come back, stronger than ever. You are, effectively, immortal. Fane wanted to make themselves Gods. All they've done is demonstrate how you are one.<br/>
<br/>
You don't need them any more. You don't need anyone or anything.<br/>
<br/>
Except clothes, of course.</span></div></div>


author_id: collider
title: Faces in a Mirror
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122211121211121

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stare into the mirror. It's the deep, frenzied stare of the hunted and haunted. You flex your jaw, baring your teeth like a wild dog. Snarling. Snarling until it turns to laughter, and rings hollow and caustic throughout the hotel room.<br/>
<br/>
You escaped from the hotel two hours ago. It was easy enough to walk out into the corridor and grab some of the laundry prepared for patients, and then a janitor's uniform. From there it was simple enough to head outside, and pick through enough of one of your faces' memories to claim their card had been stolen, and get emergency funds from an ATM. That's paid for your hotel right now. You'd thought about calling Rick and telling him you're still alive. But after all you've gone through, you know a break is what you need. The past week in this fucking country, where all it does is grow dark and rain, has been mental torture.<br/>
<br/>
And that moment, when you'd sucked up just enough air to recover from what happened, did the true weight of it hit you. The burden of what you'd discovered about yourself.<br/>
<br/>
At first glance, you'd seen only immortality. But now you look deeper. Now you look at your soul in the mirror.<br/>
<br/>
You look at the face of Miko. You rip at it, pulling at her black hair, scratching around those perfect, pearled eyes, raking your fingers down your lean neck and small breasts until the skin severs, and blood trickles. It rolls around the sink of the hotel bathroom, blossoming like red paint, before it rides over a harder, drier substance. The clay that your 'flesh' or 'hair' turns to. The truth that none of it is real. The nothingness of you.<br/>
<br/>
You howl, driving your fingers into your mouth, ripping at your throat as your lips push out and your neck becomes less toned, paler, and you look at Grace's strange beauty in the mirror. You yell, grabbing her fire-red hair, pulling at it as if you're trying to force the mask off. Your entire skin goes taught as you change <i>imago</i> again, and Kali's image stares back at you. You wear her eyes well, and the grey in her hair that betrays her age. <br/>
<br/>
"Calm down, child," you say in a fake Scottish voice. It only enrages you further, and you slap your cheeks, closing your eyes and crying your false tears. The mirror's reflection changes to the unknown girl, Helene, the reason Kali fled here in the first place. It's not a face you think you should wear. At once you've closed your eyes, and you're flicking through faces, merging them in your mind with Sulva's guidance. <br/>
<br/>
You throw away Helene's face forever, out into the void of your mind, banished from your constellations. Biana and Jen, the stewardess' faces merge, blending into a strange cocktail of the two women, one older than she looks, one desperate to look younger. The end result is a strange hybrid, a non-existent woman in her 30s of stunning averageness. You laugh, and add in Claire, the Welsh housemate, for good measure. It's a strange, perplexing face. One that feels instantly familiar and yet totally foreign, like a sketch artist painting someone only described to them. You laugh, and are amazed at the strange voice, the accents and inflections melting into a light, airy mix.<br/>
<br/>
You keep laughing. You keep laughing as the hybrid, as Willow, as Kali, as Miko. You keep laughing as you cast away Rachel Sexton's identity into the ether of your mind, and keep laughing even as your tone darkens and you return to 'Will Prescott'. Only you're not Will Prescott, truly. Not any more. Now you're simply a shadow.<br/>
<br/>
You sink to the floor and groan. Blood and tears surround you. And yet you won't die. You won't grow old, unless you choose that you do so. You can live any life that you want, if you so much as reach out for it. And yet, right now, you are so unhappy you curse the very day you walked into the book store.<br/>
<br/>
There's a knock at the door. You look up, and shift into Kali's form - you used it to pay for the hotel room. <br/>
<br/>
"One moment," you say, taking a deep breath and composing yourself, and your lies. You open the door and see a young man standing there.<br/>
<br/>
"Excuse me, m'am," he says, smiling politely. "Some guests have complained they heard a commotion. Is everything all right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ah... yes," you reply, shakily. You can see from his earnest expression he's not convinced.  "I just... received some bad news over the phone."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," he says, shifting his weight awkwardly. "I'm sorry to hear that, m'am. It's just that other guests said they heard several different people in the room, and..."<br/>
<br/>
"It was on speaker," you say, a little too quickly. The manager looks at you, almost apologetically.<br/>
<br/>
"I understand," he says. "But I'm afraid it's hotel policy if I just look in to see if everything is all right."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> The blood in the bathroom. You act fast, summoning the sigil to your hands as you sidestep to let him in, and close the door behind him. You give the back of his neck the fainted of touches, and wait to catch him as he slumps.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't.<br/>
<br/>
He turns to look at you. You stare back, in horror, as some kind of black mark burns into his flesh, right where your finger landed. The man scratches at his back in misunderstanding, trying to grasp at it, unable to do so. You watch, in horror, as the blackness grows and spreads, covering over his body, turning it a disgusting, bloated mass. It's still human, though it looks infected with something. He tries to say something, mouth flapping open and closed, but nothing comes as he stumbles, then slumps, to the floor. Then, like ash to the wind, his body begins to break apart, drifting away like idle dust.<br/>
<br/>
You recoil in horror, Kali's frame pressed against the door as you back away from whatever you've just witnessed. What the hell have you <i>just done</i>?<br/>
<br/>
You look at your hands, concentrating as you open your mind and think of the sigil you drew. The sigil you had broken apart and studied, as if it were some inherent gift Sulva granted you. <br/>
<br/>
That's when you notice it wasn't the right sigil. It was another, one that you don't even remember looking at before... or do you? Suddenly it hits you. The manuscript in the library. It had sigils, secrets that were spiralling up at you as you were killed. What if they weren't secrets at all? What if it was some arcane booby trap, some protection to stop whatever lay in that manuscript from ever being read?<br/>
<br/>
You wonder if you've now absorbed some terrible power. There was already a darkness in you, before what happened with Rick and Hal. But whatever was lurking on that document seems to have taken root as well. When you have a moment, it might be able to break it up in your mind, study it, understand it. But right now you're not thinking clearly enough to do it. What's clear is that, for all intents and purposes, Kali Valentine granted a hotel manager access to her room, and the manager has now... disappeared. <br/>
<br/>
The <i>Stellae </i> aren't going to like this. It might be possible to contact them and explain, but you expect that you're fast becoming a weapon they can't handle. What's going to stop them killing you, you wonder? After all, you're not really Will Prescott. You're just building blocks, the magical constituents of Will. Maybe they'll lock you up and throw away the key.<br/>
<br/>
So perhaps you need to run and hide. With the limited funds you have, you could get out of London. Maybe the answers lie on this 'Earl of Braintree's estate. It's not too far away. And if you pick the right face, they'll never find you there. When you work out what is happening to you, and cure it, then maybe you'll return. But right now perhaps the smartest thing to do is get the hell out of London.</span></div></div>


author_id: rugal
title: Embracing Immor(t)ality?
path:
112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212112121112122112221112211221211112222121122111221122122211121211122

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Mmm, I've been having a great time tonight." the younger woman says as she rests her head on your shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
"I am glad." you reply in a soothing, almost motherly tone. "It is not often that someone such as yourself gives me the time of day."<br/>
<br/>
The woman looks at you in shock as you open the door to the hotel room where she's been staying. "I don't believe that!" she exclaims, "Why, you're quite beautiful and if tonight is anything to go by you're so kind."<br/>
<br/>
"Aye, but an older woman..." you start with a sigh, "Most would not give me a second glance."<br/>
<br/>
"And they'd be crazy." the woman says and though her face is warm her tone is much harsher, "Sure your hair might have a bit of gray but you still look so young."<br/>
<br/>
You let out a small laugh, "Well thank you. That is a very kind thing of you to say."<br/>
<br/>
"No that's the truth, if you want kind..." she clicks the door shut and drags you along as she sits on the bed and begins removing her clothes. You follow her lead and do the same, "You've been so nice to me tonight that I think I'll give you something nice in return."<br/>
<br/>
She pulls you onto the bed and you spend the next while involved in passionate lovemaking. Being with another woman isn't something your current form has had much experience with, though you sure have given it some, and you've absorbed the imagos of a few lesbians and bisexual women and calling upon another's memories while retaining your shape has become fairly easy over the last month.<br/>
<br/>
As you lap at her cunt you decide to have a little bit of fun. You're leaving London so you want to be a little daring with this one. You run a hand along her thigh and there's a brief tingle, one that causes her to giggle. You then feel yourself beginning to change, your face becoming a little more angular, your nose a bit bigger, your hair falling in longer, light brown curls, your skin becoming lighter. Your changing facial features seem to stimulate her even more and she lets out a moan as she cums.<br/>
<br/>
"That was... that was amazing." she says, thick with sweat and short of breath.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm glad you enjoyed it." you say and this gives your partner pause when she hears your voice. She's even more surprised when she opens her eyes to see her own face staring at her from her crotch. "Hi." you say. Her eyes go wide with shock and she's at a loss for words. You can tell she's probably going to scream so you then reach a hand up to her head and use the sigil to knock her out though not for long. About 15 minutes or so should be good for what you need.<br/>
<br/>
You poke around her belongings until you find what you're looking for: her passport and her wallet, both of which you put in her purse. Likewise you look through her stuff and pull out a few of her clothes. Underwear, leggings, an oversized though stylish sweater, small boots, and a white headband to complete the ensemble.<br/>
<br/>
You set them aside in the bathroom for a moment and take a quick look at yourself in the mirror and as you do you take mental note of your new form. She's a pretty girl though in an unassuming way, a little bit of a girl next door you think. She definitely has a face that places her origin as Jewish and it looks quite nice. Her body is much like her face: breasts that are small but not too small, thin but not skinny, her hips are just wide enough to be attractive but not so wide as to stand out. Olivia Goldstein is a girl that isn't a head turner but, you imagine, would have more than her share of suitors.<br/>
<br/>
In fact you don't have to imagine it at all. Her memories tell you as much. All throughout high school and really for much of her 26 years on this Earth she's had a quality that draws people to her. You suspect, from searching through her mind, that some of it comes from the fact that her father is a very successful investment banker meaning she's lived a fairly easy, well off life on Manhattan's Upper West Side. After graduating from NYU she moved out to LA to become an actress though so far it's resulted in only small roles and independent stuff. In fact, she's leaving late in the mid-morning to catch a flight back to LA.<br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately for her she won't be on that flight although <i>an</i> Olivia Goldstein most certainly will.<br/>
<br/>
You look back at her. A thought runs through your head, a very dark one. You remember the first time you tried to use the knockout sigil after dying, the effect it had on the person turning them to dust, killing them. You hid. You examined it and were able to figure out how it worked, how to harness it if you so desired. You haven't desired to though, but you might have to stop running eventually and when you do? Olivia would make a fine place to put down some roots. Perhaps you should. You have her looks, her mind, everything.<br/>
<br/>
It's not like you would miss being Will Prescott anyway. No, Will Prescott is back in Saratoga Falls. You merely had a copy, a fucked up copy at that, of his imago. An imago that you cast into the ether weeks ago. You are an immortal, one with no form or identity. You are who you appear to be at any given moment. Right now you are Olivia Goldstein, but just a few moments ago? You shift back to the form you had occupied. Copper skin, a pretty face with just a slight hint of aging lines, dark hair, streaks of gray at the temples. A few moments ago you were, and right now you are, Kali Valentine.<br/>
<br/>
Kali Valentine, a bit of a walking contradiction. Aged yet young, dogmatic yet compassionate. You cup a breast, you lift, you squeeze, you run your hands over your taut stomach. There was a time where you wore this form and you were so careful not to look. Not to enjoy. Not to savor. What an idiot you were. Why would you not? This is <i>your</i> body, after all, and you can do what you like with it because <i>you</i> are Kali Valentine much as you have been for most of the last month. Oh sure here and there your tastes, and those of others, changed. Some times you were Miko Toyotomi when you wanted something rough. Some times Grace Simpson when you wanted things to always seem new. Some times you wanted something fun and wild and to forget your worries, those times you were Willow Jasper. Willow, in fact, was your second preferred identity.<br/>
<br/>
But often you wanted something tender, compassionate, and loving even if it was only for one night. That is why you are often Kali.<br/>
<br/>
Your companion, the other Olivia, begins to rouse. She looks at you through half-open eyes. "Oh, it's you." she says groggily.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course it is me, who else would I be?" you ask with some amusement.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just... I thought I saw myself and then I passed out." she replies.<br/>
<br/>
You walk over to her and sit on the bed next to her. You move a bit of hair from her face and lean down to give her a peck on the forehead. "It was just the excitement of things I am sure. You told me you have an early flight, correct?" She nods, "You are young, you have time and do not need to rush. It would have been nice to spend more than one night together but please, get some rest." You once again debate using the other sigil, the one that would allow you to become Olivia Goldstein permanently. You relent, however, and settle for merely putting her to sleep for 12 hours. It's past midnight already so you will be halfway across the Atlantic by the time she wakes up.<br/>
<br/>
You turn back into Olivia and throw the ensemble on. You'll need money so you make a quick trip to the ATM. Olivia isn't hurting for money so you withdraw the British equivalent of a few thousand dollars, then you catch a cab and head to Heathrow.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Man, really? England?" the young man, Jess Levins, says as he takes a swig of his beer.<br/>
<br/>
You nod, "Yeah, wasn't that fun though. Lotta gray skies and rain and shit. The stereotypes are totally true." You take another hit of the joint you're holding, "Not like this place. Always heard it was real rainy and shit but I gotta say it's pretty nice."<br/>
<br/>
"Englad's got all that cool history though, so that's something." another of your compatriots, a young woman, replies.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah true. All San Diego's got is sprawl and military bases." you say making a face, "Glad I decided to get outta there. Shit's just so dull and concrete. Not like here. Feel like I've found a place where I can just chill and be me, you know?"<br/>
<br/>
Where you are, it's the kind of place where someone like you, someone like Willow Jasper, doesn't look out of place. Not that you particularly looked out of place in your native San Diego either but it's like you told your new friends, the vibe was soulless. You're not going to be sitting around a bonfire getting drunk and high, not in the relaxing way you are now, in San Diego.<br/>
<br/>
After getting back to LA you didn't want to risk being in the vicinity of the other Kali so you went back down to San Diego but quickly growing bored you made your way north, easy to do when you've got a few grand, work odd jobs, and can change your appearance on a whim. That's how you ended up in Portland, that liberal, hippie, hipster, indie enclave.<br/>
<br/>
"So you gonna stay?" the girl, Erika Weaver, asks.<br/>
<br/>
You give a noncommittal shrug. Most of your time drifting you've been Willow. You like yourself. You like your dreads, the little bits of baby fat, your voice. You like the freedom. You like drifting. But you wonder if it's not time to find another life and put down roots? You wouldn't be Willow anymore, you would be someone else. Someone like Erika perhaps.</span></div></div>


author_id: rugal
title: "Seeking Asylum" or "Talking to Yourself"
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111212111221

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stand in the bathroom of a dingy motel just outside of Salt Lake City. The water from the faucet collects in your hands and you splash a bit on your face. Your breath is heavy. You dry your face off and take a look in the mirror. You look at the large brown eyes encased behind dark framed, cat eye glasses resting on a pert nose. Your bright pink hair pulled back in a short but high ponytail and straight bangs hanging over your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
Hair color, and multiple piercings in your ears, aside it's a bit of a 1950s throwback look which you're happy about. You like looking a little retro. A little Audrey Hepburnish you think which is what you were going for. You do idolize her after all. A little shorter, not quite as waifish, but still button cute and with an ability to charm most anyone.<br/>
<br/>
Willow thought so too. She had been there a few weeks, living in your little cramped boarding house in Portland. She liked it, she had told you, but she couldn't stay. She was still trying to find what she wanted and it wasn't here in Portland. Being tied down in one place wasn't for her, not right now at least, so she was heading out. You were stunned. You listened to her stories about being on the road and the places she'd been, the people she'd met and gotten to know. It was all very intriguing.<br/>
<br/>
Six months ago you'd graduated high school. Two months ago you turned nineteen. You hadn't started college yet, you'd been accepted into Portland State and were starting in the spring though you came up early. You just wanted to focus a bit on your hobbies, the cutesy little diary comics you'd make and post online and your interest in photography. Then Willow came and she was the coolest person you'd ever met. You were so enamored with her that when she told you she was leaving you freaked a little bit. You asked her why, you told her you wanted her to stay. She just smiled and grabbed your hand as she sat down on your bed.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart was pounding as she pulled you in to a kiss. You didn't know how to respond. You had experimented a bit with a friend back in your junior year but outside of that you'd exclusively been with guys. So why did it feel so right? Why did you not resist? Because of Willow. That was the effect she had on you. That kiss was so perfect but so short and then... then she was gone leaving you alone in your room. For a month you'd stayed living with the rest of the crew. You hooked up with Jess a few times, he's such a nice guy and cute, but you realized you felt nothing. When Willow left it was like she took all the fun with her. You thought you would be fine without her. You were a girl from NorCal suburban hell, so bland and boring and lifeless compared to where you were now. But a cool city only goes so far when you can't quite adjust.<br/>
<br/>
You would try messaging Willow, calling her, messaging her on social media and nothing. Then, in the middle of the night, she returned. You're not sure how she snuck in but she was in your rooms. Said she hadn't gone far, had gotten your messages, and came back. She wanted to know if you wanted to go with her. Just travel, try and find a place to call home. You didn't have to think longer than a few seconds. You packed, left a note, and you were in your car on the highway.<br/>
<br/>
That was two days ago.<br/>
<br/>
It's all been very crazy, truth be told. You feel a tremor of excitement go through your body. Willow's voice, that unique blend of squeakiness and laid back SoCal speaking style, calls out to you. "Hey Erika, you ready? I don't wanna spend too long in Mormonland."<br/>
<br/>
You tremble again in excitement. Crazy, yeah, but totally amazing. "Yeah, I'll be there in a minute!" you call back. You double check to make sure you haven't left anything in the room and then head out to your car and god knows where afterwards.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Mmm, yes! Just a little... yeah! Yeah! Right there, that's... oh god!" Umeko Prescott's face contorts and her head lulls back as she moans in ecstasy as you massage her clit until she climaxes. "Mmm, yeah. That was nice. Just a little bit of stimulation for now." she says content though with a small giggle. You bring your fingers to your mouth. You turn to the mirror hanging over your dresser in the room of your small apartment and watch as Umeko slowly, seductively, licks the girl cum from her fingers.<br/>
<br/>
You want to laugh. When you started out on this journey you hadn't intended to come back here. Why would you, Saratoga Falls is just some piss ant stop on the way to a city like New York, or Boston, or DC. Somewhere large and exciting. That's what you'd told yourself when you arrived back. And yet some time later and close to the start of a new year here you are.<br/>
<br/>
Umeko isn't an identity you plan to take over, she has in fact been your romantic companion for a while now, merely one you took like so many others. Some have been test runs, attempts at finding a permanent home, some have been for fun or convenience, all followed the same routine: you found someone that you thought looked nice or interesting or unique or something, a quick brush later and they were inside of you, living inside of you like all the others who had come to call your body home. For the test runs, some you used the black sigil on, some you merely kept knocked out for certain lengths of time. None had proven good enough homes to plant yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You watch your reflection in the mirror shift and change. Willow Jasper, the SoCal girl you'd met in England who started everything. Erika Weaver, the first intentional use of the black sigil, you'd left her and Willow in New Mexico for a while. Angela Nuñez, a hot shot young lawyer in Phoenix. Evan Weeks, a fun-loving frat boy in Boulder, Colorado. LaShondra Cummings, a teen runaway from Chicago. Meghan Lowell, a straight-laced and studious student in Louisville, Kentucky. Jason Harkless, a handsome young firefighter in Atlanta. Charlene Hsu, aspiring singer from a Hong Kong immigrant family in Orlando. Kaori Pak, a news director at a local station in Saratoga Falls. KC Petrovic, a student here at Keyserling. Finally back to Erika who you've been living as ever since. Those aren't all of them, just the most notable in your mind.<br/>
<br/>
You wonder if maybe you've found home. If it was the most obvious place the whole time.<br/>
<br/>
"Home? Here?" Miko Toyotomi's voice is derisive. "This isn't a home. You'll get as bored here as everywhere else. Will you use that black sigil on Umeko on the way out? Probably. You're just that selfish and unsure of what you want. Can't break her heart if she's not even alive, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stop being a bitch." says Willow, "Home is where you make it whether that's permanent or temporary."<br/>
<br/>
"That's what poor hippies like you <i>would</i> say." sneers Olivia Goldstein. "Money provides you with a real home. People who matter like to call a temporary home a vacation."<br/>
<br/>
"Girls, please." it's Kali Valentine this time, "You are right in that this is not home but not for the reasons you think. Home is among the Stellae, we we will give you the guidance you seek. Of course we might not accept you back but then, remember when you copied Joe's prodigy? The moon, as they say, is a mirror. Perhaps it could reflect other ousiarchs. Then the Stellae would be your home and any member your room."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you serious?" KC jumps in, "If you're talking organizations then Fane is the perfect home. I should know, I'm a recruiter. It's my job to know the type of people who'd work in Fane, who <i>need</i> Fane. This person is one of them; someone looking for a purpose. A purpose that <i>we</i> can provide."<br/>
<br/>
"And you think someone someone so low on the totem pole like yourself is a great way to get your foot in?" Kaori says, a smirk on her face, "I run the media here for Fane. When Sarah graduates there's a national job lined up for me. I have what you offer and more."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't listen to them." says Erika in her tiny, chirpy voice. "The Stellae, Fane... you ran to escape that life, to escape all of their crap. You won't find peace with them. They'll just use you for their own ends."<br/>
<br/>
"I might be biased but Erika's right." adds Umeko, "You came back. You've found peace here, stability. You've found happiness. After searching for me for so long you've found me. So don't listen to them, listen to Erika. Listen to me. Stay here. Stay here with me and for once in your life be happy."<br/>
<br/>
Your head is spinning. What do you do? They all offer great points... most of them anyway. You quickly dismiss Willow's appeal, you weren't happy on the road. Olivia's too because if money could buy happiness one wouldn't need so much of it. But is Kali right? Could you find a home among, as, the Stellae? What about KC and Kaori? Back on your adventure in London what did the Stellae offer you? Misery, assholes, a dogmatic and conservative nature, lunatics. Lenke offered you safety, however, a place to belong. She tried to rescue you and you resisted but should you resist? Who says Fane is evil, anyway? The Stellae does and they're hardly unbiased.<br/>
<br/>
Erika and Umeko's appeals ring true as well, though. What started as a quick pass through has become something more permanent. You have a job, a place to live, a girlfriend. You were even thinking of enrolling at Keyserling. Maybe they're right. Maybe you've been looking for so long that maybe you overlooked the most obvious answer.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, you're sure you've found the home you've been seeking. The question is, where is it?</span></div></div>


author_id: rugal
title: Home is Where Your Heart is
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221112121112211

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Are you really going to listen to them?" asks KC. The tone of her voice isn't mean, it's not dismissive, there's an almost supportive tone to it. "After everything you've experienced, do you really think living here living a normal life is what you'd want? Is it something you could even go back to?" Her voice coos sympathetically, "Listen, you're immortal. What happens when everyone around you grows old? What kind of life is staying in one place when everyone around you will die and you'll live? If you can live forever, why not <i>do</i> something? That's what I can offer you."<br/>
<br/>
You look at her, a slim torso and hips, a slim hand touching the tattoo of the astrological symbol for Pisces above a small breast. There are other tattoos: the coat of arms of Nis, her home town, on the back of her left shoulder as well as the eight-pointed star representing Inanna--representing an interest in Sumerian mythology--behind her ear. A more angular face framed by a wavy, lavender bob.<br/>
<br/>
They're features that are replaced by those of an Asian woman, north of forty but with a mature attractiveness to her. "What <i>we</i> can offer." she adds and there's a subtle shrewdness to her voice; as if it's a side of herself she keeps well hidden. "Not only could you do important things at Fane, but who could stop you? Your gifts, they give you all the power you need to do something great. I think of it, that power, and..." She smiles and you embrace her, caress her, bringing her to relative quick climax. She lets out a small laugh and looks at you hungrily, "Power, as they say, is the ultimate aphrodisiac."<br/>
<br/>
Soon she is gone, replaced by another woman who, though older, looks a slight bit younger. "You cannot listen to them, child." she replies and though the Scottish accent is noticeable it has become admittedly less prominent as the years have gone on. "They are snakes. They tempt you, asking you to take a bite of the fruit, and when you do what happens? You will have damned yourself, sold your very soul to the liars and manipulators."<br/>
<br/>
Her words carry an air of sincerity. Kali, when you were Will Prescott and undergoing your training, was the only one who seemed to treat you with any compassion. Not like Rick, who seemed to go out of his way to nitpick you and make you second guess yourself. Not like Hal, who lied to you and manipulated you, putting you in danger for his own ends. And especially not like...<br/>
<br/>
"I can't believe you." Miko says incredulously, "I viewed you as a bomb, I viewed you as something of a coward, as a whiny child who would in no way be up for handling the life of a Stellae. And I did it because deep down, loathe as I am to admit it, I wanted the best out of you. I <i>wanted</i> you to grow a spine, <i>wanted</i> you to prove me wrong. I wanted you to come to me one day and tell me exactly where I could stick the handle of my sword. But you proved me right instead and despite all of that, the only thing that would disappoint me is if you showed yourself to be the one thing I <i>hadn't</i> pegged you as: a traitor."<br/>
<br/>
She too is replaced by someone else. Someone who looks familiar yet alien. Someone who is KC Petrovic with bits of Kaori Pak... or perhaps Kaori Pak with bits of KC Petrovic. Someone who is both and neither at the same time. "They won't accept you back." she says, "If you go back what happens? They'll kill you or put you to sleep or merely lock you away forever. Either way you'll be buried, forgotten to time. What else can you expect from a group of backwards wizards with an outdated worldview who increase their membership by force? They might give you a choice but their ultimate meaning is that there is no choice at all."<br/>
<br/>
"And do you truly think Fane would be better?" asks another new face, part Kali Valentine and part Miko Toyotomi, "They may say they care about progress, about opening our world up to others, about helping people but talk is just that. Progress for progress' sake will do nothing but leave those who oppose them, those who are weak, anyone they want really, crushed under their fight. They would see themselves stand tall on the bones of all those deemed as necessary sacrifices. All in the name of progress."<br/>
<br/>
You want to yell, want to scream at all of them to shut up. To stop pushing and pulling you. To stop using you to fight their little magical pissing contest. You don't want their war, you merely want peace. Peace of mind, peace of self, peace away from the lunatics and the dogmatics. Those who would see the world kept in the past and those who would drag it kicking and screaming into the future.<br/>
<br/>
The woman, the Kali/Miko hybrid is gone; replaced once more by Umeko. She says nothing. She doesn't have to. She merely looks at you, a face that's a mixture of sorrow, pity and love. It's a face that stirs something in you, something of Will Prescott. Not of the memories, not solely, but of the feelings attached to them. The love that you held for Umeko for so long that went unrequited. Yet for her you felt a love that nobody, not even Lisa Yarborough, could match. With her you've found that love. With her you've found the acceptance and companionship that your brief time with the Stellae couldn't provide. With her you've found the peace that you're sure Fane wouldn't provide.<br/>
<br/>
You look at her face reflected in the mirror and stand up, walk over to it, and touch it. It's the face that you'd wanted next to your own before all of this had started. The face that, whenever you would see it, would brighten your day no matter how bad you felt. You thought you had cast away every trace of Will Prescott but perhaps you'd merely suppressed him. You can never be him again but, you realize, you don't want to be. He can't provide you with everything you've found that's so recently made you happy.<br/>
<br/>
But you realize there's somebody who is. Somebody who can provide you with the home and happiness you've been searching for. You head back to the bed and gather up your clothes. You feel yourself and the world around you shift. You get dressed and grab the pair of glasses from the nightstand next to your bed. You go back to the mirror. Erika Weaver looks back at you and, for some reason, she looks like she has tears welling up in her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You hear a knock at the front door and, composing yourself, you head out to the small living room and open it. Umeko, the real Umeko, is there. "Yo, thought I'd stop by tonight with some Chinese and we could--" she stops when she notices your face, "Whoa, Erika what's wrong?" she asks as she steps in and places the bag of food on the counter. "You alright?"<br/>
<br/>
You look at her, a goofy post-cry smile on your face and nod as you take hold of her. "Yeah, yeah I'm alright. Don't worry."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The subsequent year, or close enough to it, passes without incident, at least without incident of the variety you've experienced. There's still happenings, big deals, but it's all a great deal more personal. Umeko decides to come out to her adoptive parents; they don't take it well and though they don't disown her the relationship between them becomes icy and it's only close to the end of the year that it begins to slowly thaw.<br/>
<br/>
Your relationship with your own parents isn't as bad though they're not terribly happy with you skipping out on your school of choice and taking a cross country journey to some place they've never heard of. It's also a bit of a hassle telling your original school that you weren't going and trying to get enrolled at Keyserling though after much headache you're able to get it done. On the plus side you're able to make a little extra cash doing freelance photography in addition to your job at one of the local coffee houses; the fact it's one frequented by military and Proteus types, combined with your natural charm, means you do more than alright on tips.<br/>
<br/>
Your relationship with Umeko also reconnects you with your family. Things for Will don't go well at Westside and eventually he's pulled out of school and transferred over to Eastman for the remainder of his senior year where things improve but only barely. Robert, meanwhile, upon entering high school begins to start filling out, hitting a growth spurt. His confidence grows with his height and by halfway through the school year he's got a girlfriend; he'll probably wind up popular and an athlete, the complete opposite of Will, you predict.<br/>
<br/>
Getting off work you drive home, pulling into the parking lot, and heading up to the small apartment you've been living in though one that you now share with Umeko. Christmas is coming up and she's been nervous due to her parents. You've been reassuring her that if she survived Thanksgiving with no incident she'll survive Christmas. Her parents do seem to be realizing that she's still their child, after all, however slowly.<br/>
<br/>
"You home, Erika?" Umeko calls out from the couch after you close the front door.<br/>
<br/>
You set your things down and join her, giving her a quick peck and a smile. "Yeah, I am."</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: The Drifter
path:
1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211221112211221222111212111222

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You drift.<br/>
<br/>
The freedom of the Oregon scene palls after a while, and the once charming squeakiness of Willow’s voice finally starts to grate on you.  One day you set out of the grimy bedsit you’d been living in with Grace Simpson’s visage pasted onto your face.  It is nothing more than a seeming, but it makes it easy enough for you to hitch a ride southward.  Her pretty smile charms the drivers that see fit to pick you up.<br/>
<br/>
And the odd fool that tries something with you, well you can defend yourself in ways they did not expect.<br/>
<br/>
Vegas holds your attention for a month.  You flit from tourist to tourist, never staying in one identity for more than a couple of days.  No one ever questions their seemingly day long black outs.  Or if they do, you never hear of it.  It is all just part of the venal debauchery of the place.  You lose tens of thousands of other peoples money on gambling and other seedier pursuits, but the relentless hedonism just leaves you feeling empty inside.<br/>
<br/>
You move on again.<br/>
<br/>
This time you cross over the Rockies and into Colorado and decide to settle down for spell.  It became the first time you’d used the blackened sigil premeditatedly.  Oh, you’d used it by accident before that – the poor hotel manager back in England.  You’d even used it intentionally, on the spur of the moment, defending yourself against the amorous intentions of a truck driver that had picked up Grace in the Nevada desert.<br/>
<br/>
But it was the first time you set out to deliberately kill someone, the first time you’d planned on using it from the very start, to put someone permanently out the way so you could step into their life.  Annette Adams was worth it though:  Just 17, budding into beauty and the treasured princess of her stockbroker father.  She’d seemed so sweet and innocent too, the perfect place to wash away the stains of your time in Las Vegas.<br/>
<br/>
It had been easy enough to capture a copy of one of Annie’s school friends:  Just a copy, no fatal burning of the mousy little girl.  You’d gazed in wonder as you’d walked through the Adams house.  Partly your own, and partly that of the girl you’d copied.  You’d met Annie in her bedroom.  The black sigil had leapt to your hand, almost eagerly, and you’d pressed it to the surprised girl’s head.<br/>
<br/>
One Annie Adams had died, her body turned to ash.<br/>
<br/>
Another one had come into being.  You had picked up Annie’s clothes, donned them and walked into her life as if nothing had happened.  That night, in Annie’s bed, in Annie’s nightdress, you retreated within yourself to study closely the black sigil.  It was beautiful, intricate and filled with potential.  It didn’t just burn the victim, there were other parts.  Little epicycles that hinted at an even darker purpose underneath, that would take months of study to unlock.<br/>
<br/>
Annie’s life, however, was not all you had hoped.  Sure, your new father gave you almost everything you asked for, and sure you were popular, pretty and the centre of attention at your new school.  It just seemed so…  hollow.<br/>
<br/>
You’d slunk off one spring evening.  The disappearance of Annie Adams managed to make the network news.  She was pretty and telegenic, exactly the kind of story to keep the ratings high.  You didn’t care though, by that time you were working as a farm hand in the mid-west.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” you squeal.  “I’m close…  I’m close…”<br/>
<br/>
The rhythmic pounding continues, as Carl thrust himself into you excitedly from behind.  It’s awkward, bending over to fit in the back of his little camper van, but his enthusiasm makes up for it.  Not that you blame him -  Ellie Reeve, who’s face you have borrowed for the evening, is enough to get any man’s heart racing.  Carl runs his hands his hands up your slender back, already tanned by the late spring sunshine.  He grunts appreciatively.<br/>
<br/>
Carl’s a good catch himself, and that’s why you’re here.  He drifted into the small town you’ve been living in for the last two months.  Like you, he picked up some odd jobs on the farms surrounding the town, but his rugged looks and laid back bohemian style caught far more attention from the local women than you ever had.  You’d wanted it that way at first.  You’d been here to bury yourself in simple honest labour for a time, but it’s time to move on again.  Carl, you have decided, is your ticket out of this rural backwater.<br/>
<br/>
Ellie is the perfect bait for Carl.  She’s a pretty little farmer’s daughter in her early twenties.  No real prospects in life, you suppose, but her earthy body and simple good looks have yet to fade.  You doubt that she’ll mind you borrowed her face.  With any luck she’ll never know at all, save perhaps to wonder whatever happened to the farm hand that disappeared that one year.<br/>
<br/>
“Please,” you squeal again, your breath ragged.<br/>
<br/>
There’s a change in the tenor of Carl’s motions.  He becomes less urgent, but he pushes deeper and harder inside you.  He must be as close to release as you feel, and with that realisation you squeeze tightly round his member.  You will him to cum inside you, whispering your begged entreaties too quietly for Carl to here.  Then, just as the sense of bliss starts to peak, just as you feel Carl’s cock spasm inside you, you call forth the black sigil.<br/>
<br/>
You do not manifest it on your hands.<br/>
<br/>
You try something different, forming the sigil inside yourself, buried inside your stolen cunny.  Hidden from view, it makes contact with Carl’s member and activates.  His loud moans of pleasure have only the briefest chance to transform to screams of agony before the sigil works its magic on him.  He makes a strange hacking sound for a few seconds before falling silent as his breath escapes him.  You do not see what happens to him, but you feel it.  His skin burns hot against your own as it blackens and warps.  The blistering heat pushes you further over the edge and you scream in ecstasy as everything of Carl flows inside you:  His shape, his memories, his hopes and dreams, and all his fears.  They are yours now.  Somewhere along the line, you shift shape without realising it, going from Ellie to Carl.  The twisting sensation of your orgasm flipping from Ellie’s to Carl’s halfway through leaves you collapsed on the floor of the van and struggling to breathe.  It is both profoundly and unsettlingly strange, and new and wonderful.<br/>
<br/>
You lie there for a few minutes, mewling weakly.<br/>
<br/>
You haul yourself upwards till you are squatting cross-legged on the floor of the van.  Your new Carl-skin is slick with sweat, your shoulder length brown locks plastered to the side of your head.  Carl’s perfect white teeth flash in a cocky grin as you fish his – your – shirt from the floor and slip it on.  You leave the top two buttons undone, offering a glimpse at your shaven chest, just the way the other Carl used to.  As you pull on the rest of your clothes you riffle through your newly acquired set of memories.  There’s nothing out of the ordinary there:  Carl Logan drifts from town to town, shacking up with whatever women he can as he goes.  Sometimes he leaves, and sometimes he gets chased out by angry fathers.  Sometimes even angry sons…<br/>
<br/>
Not that you care, you’re just looking for a life that will let you move on.  Carl will be ideal for a little while.  Until you tire of being him and change again.  You buckle up the belt of your jeans and climb to the front of the van, struggling round the drivers seat before slipping into it.  The key fits into the ignition easily and you are about to turn it when you are distracted by a rapping at the passenger side window.  It’s Ellie Reeve, the real one.  She grins at you lasciviously.<br/>
<br/>
Ah well, you’re not in any rush to leave.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The mountain road twists and turns as you drive your way up it.  Even this high up the air is stifling hot and you have the windows of your van down in a vain attempt to let some air in.  Sickly looking trees crowd the road and you are beginning to think you made a wrong turning.<br/>
<br/>
Not that you intended to come this way.  Or go any other way in particular.  You’ve just been driving at random for a few days, taking whatever road looked interesting.  You aren’t sure where the idea came from.  It’s not something Carl has ever done.  And you can’t imagine it’s something that you would have ever tried when you were still Will.  It seems right though.  Fitting enough for a drifter like yourself.  Assuming you don’t run out of gas, you think, peering worriedly at the dial on the dashboard.<br/>
<br/>
Just as the needle hits the little red zone on the dial, you round a corner and see a gas station at the side of the road.  Well, a rotting shack with a lone antiquated gas pump out the front of it.  There’s a big sign on the side of the building, but with the faded and peeling paint you cannot read the words.  You pull the van up beside the pump, rolling over thick cable.  Through the open windows of the van, you can hear a dinging sound inside of the shack.  As you switch off the engine, you can hear an evil, almost sawing like sound, from the insects in the bushes round the shack.<br/>
<br/>
A man in dirty looking overalls limps out of the shack, favouring one leg over the other.  His odd gait leaves one shoulder riding higher than the other.  His dark hair is matted and weird lumps disfigure his nose.<br/>
<br/>
“Fill ‘er up,” he asks as he reaches your window.  “And getcha on yer way?”<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: imaj
title: Deliverance
path:
11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112211122112212221112121112221

chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You favour the attendant with an easy smile, the kind that comes so naturally to Carl.  “Sure.”  He limps round your van and opens the petrol cap awkwardly.  The gas pump isn’t even electronic and metallic numbers click round as he starts filling the van.  “Hey man,” you add.  “Where about am I?”<br/>
<br/>
The attendant freezes.  The pump stops clanking.  “Yew lost,” he asks, chewing thoughtfully and then spitting on the ground.<br/>
<br/>
“Nah,  I was just following the road, seeing where it led me.”<br/>
<br/>
The attendant remains stiff.  “This here’s Cuthbert,” he admits resentfully.  “Ain’t much for a lowlander to see up here.  Yew should turn yewself aroun’ an’ go back way yew came.”<br/>
<br/>
The name jogs a memory and you frown.  It takes a minute to pinpoint the source of the recollection, so full is your head of memories now.  It is a Will Prescott thought:  You’ve been here before, a terrifying excursion when you were a child to visit some long lost relatives.  The memories come thick and fast:  Ugly, ill kempt and ill fed ‘cousins’, who’s brutish little minds matched perfectly their unpleasant exteriors.  Your brother Robert screaming and bawling the whole time in fear and horror.  Without realising it, you snort a derisive laugh.<br/>
<br/>
The attendant coughs beside you, having finished filling up your van whilst you were lost in your reverie.  He gives you an odd look, made all the odder by his disfigured face, regarding you as if you were some alien that had just landed a spaceship on his front lawn.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” you tell him.  “I was just remembering I used to have family up here.”<br/>
<br/>
That makes the attendant stare at you all the harder.  “Ain’t nobody left Cuthbert for a long time,” he states flatly.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, it’s a long story,” you laugh.  “Say, how much do I owe you?”<br/>
<br/>
“Thirteen dollars,” replies the attendant.  “Fifty three cents.”<br/>
<br/>
You hand him a couple of grubby looking bills from your wallet.  As the attendant limps back inside the shack, your mind drifts back to Will Prescott’s visit to Cuthbert as a youth.  Yeah, you’d been as terrified as Robert was, you’d just not shown it so obviously.  Even your dad had seemed freaked out by the whole thing.  As you think this, an impish impulse starts to form in your mind:  Cuthbert can’t really be as bad as you remember.  You should drive into town, maybe take a quick look around before heading back down the mountain.<br/>
<br/>
“Here you go,” says the attendant, reappearing at your window.  He counts out your change carefully for you before handing it over.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks fella,” you replay.  “Say, is there a place here I could get a bite to eat.  I’m famished, been driving since yesterday.”<br/>
<br/>
The attendant thinks about it for a second, weighing your request up carefully.  “Shore.  Zach’s Fish Fry,” he answers.  “Up a' road, take Fifth into town, left on Main. Yew can't miss it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks,” you say, tossing the attendant a dollar.  You gun the van into life and drive off.  In the rear view mirror you can see the attendant staring at back at your van.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn’t take long to drive into Cuthbert proper.  You pass a few shacks.  Then the road twists one last time and you find yourself in the town.  Your van bumps along the rough surface of the road, your bones juddering with each pothole.  The buildings here all have a drained and lifeless quality, as if all the colour has faded out from them.  Patches of debris strewn wasteland separate them, with little other than ugly brown stalks of grass growing in them.  As you approach the centre of the town, the buildings get a little less ramshackle, but they are never anything other than drab and colourless.<br/>
<br/>
Zach’s Fish Fry turns out to be a pale blue building with a big fish shaped sign hanging on the outside.  It creaks ominously as you step out of the van and onto the broken sidewalk.  You look through the large window on the side of Zach’s.  It’s an old style diner, with booths and stools at the counter.  It’s also almost empty.  A little bell rings as you enter.<br/>
<br/>
“Be wit’chew ina minute honey,” calls an old woman as you close the door behind you.  The waitress uniform does nothing for her withered and wrinkled figure.  “Oh there you are,” she says after limping over to you.  “Take any seat yew wanna.  Can I get’chew a coffee?”<br/>
<br/>
You look at the counter.  It’s not that it isn’t clean, not exactly…  There’s just a faintly odd feel about it, about the whole diner, that sets your teeth on edge  “That sounds great,” you lie.  Carl always was a great liar.  You take one of the counter stools and lean your elbows on it, propping up your chin in your hands.  You flash that smile at the waitress as she rounds the counter and lifts a cracked coffee jug.  She pours a generous serving into a chipped mug and hands it to you.  “Thanks,” you grin, taking a sip.  It isn’t as bad as you had feared.<br/>
<br/>
“Special’s ona board honey,” she says, handing you a faded menu.<br/>
<br/>
“What would you recommend,” you ask, smiling at her again.  She blushes a little and smiles back, revealing a crooked row of yellowing teeth.<br/>
<br/>
“The fish fry honey,” she replies.  “We’re famous for it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Then that’s what I’ll have,” you answer.<br/>
<br/>
“One fish fry comin’ right up,” states the waitress, jotting your order down onto a small notepad.  She pushes through a swing door and disappears into the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
You take another sip of the coffee and look round.  A few ugly faces furtively look away as your gaze falls on them, so you turn back round and look through the hole in the wall that lets the chef pass orders through for the waitress to collect.  He’s standing there, on the other side, the chef.  His gaze does not flinch as you look at him.  He stares back at you darkly, his monobrow furrowed.  It’s then that you see that he has a phone pressed up against his ear, an old fashioned looking plastic receiver handset.  You wonder who he’s listening to, and why it’s so important that he’s stopped his job temporarily to take the call.<br/>
<br/>
You are the first to look away, looking down at your coffee.  The mug is almost empty, and it seems as if you have drunk more of it than you thought.  You down the last of it as the waitress materialises by your side again.<br/>
<br/>
“Yew wanna refill honey,” she says, already pouring before you answer.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks,” you reply before taking another long draught.  “This is pretty good stuff.”  You put the mug back down on the counter as the waitress scurries off.  As you look around the diner again, everyone looks away without meeting your eyes.  What is wrong with the people here?  You push yourself to your feet to stand up.<br/>
<br/>
Your legs give way and you sink back to the stool.<br/>
<br/>
You try to prop yourself up woozily, but your legs have gone to sleep.  Your arms feel leaden and you can only move them clumsily.  The mug of coffee tips over as you accidently brush it with an awkward movement.  The hot brown liquid spills across the countertop as your arms start to give way too.  Your head bounces of the counter jarringly, but the pain seems numb and distant.  Have they drugged you, you wonder.  Don’t they realise that doesn’t work.  A wry smile forms on your face as you slip into unconsciousness.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
The total darkness of your inner mindscape welcomes you again.  The utter solitude, the freedom from any and all distractions, it is the closest you’ve felt to home since you woke up in the morgue in London all those months ago.<br/>
<br/>
Sulva looms large in front of you, bathing you in its radiance and reminding you that you are not <i>entirely </i>alone.  As you turn round, the constellations that mark your collections of <i>imago </i>swarm around you.  The star that represents Karl is faded and dull.  Not dead, but sleeping.  It is of no use to you now, not until whatever drugs the waitress gave you work their way out of Carl’s system.  The <i>imago </i>recedes from view graciously, making way for the others.<br/>
<br/>
They crowd at you, each one begging to be worn, but you push them away for now.  The waitress and the chef are probably dragging you away right now, hiding you somewhere in the back of the diner.  You settle to meditating patiently in your inner space, waiting for the chance to awaken.<br/>
<br/>
You awake with a start, sitting bolt upright and breathing raggedly.  It takes a few moments for your senses to process exactly where you are, but the first thing that hits you like a hammer is that you are <i>cold</i>.  Your breath fogs as it leaves your mouth and you shiver involuntarily.  This is a freezer, you realize:  A large walk in freezer.  Two large joints of meat hang on hooks beside you and shelves by the walls are filled with boxes of foodstuff.<br/>
<br/>
You suspect the meat isn’t beef…<br/>
<br/>
All the more reason to get out of here, you reason standing up.  Your body feels a little off, and your clothes don’t quite fit right.  It takes you a little time to realise that you’ve switched back to being Will Prescott of all people.  You don’t let that stop you from trying the door.  You aren’t surprised to find it locked.<br/>
<br/>
The lock seems sturdy and the door resists you attempts to force it.  You press your face against the little six inch square window in the door.  There’s nobody outside and you resign yourself to waiting.  The question is, do you play dead, or give your captors a surprise when they return.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121121211121221122211122112212111122221211222
author_id: collider
title: The Cox and the Comrade
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You decide your course of action, and walk up to the door. A single rap leads to an answer. You bring your cloak forward, enshrouding the room's occupant as she opens the door. <br/>
<br/>
Mary leans out, clearly confused as she glances up and down the corridor. She shakes her head, looks entirely uninterested in the cause of the sound, and begins to close it again. As you do so, you press your hand to her forehead, and slowly lower her inside, bringing the door to a close behind you.<br/>
<br/>
Mary's room is a mess, with a bottle of schnapps on a study table and revision notes stapled to the wall. It's a small space, and her clothes are piled up in a heap on the corner. Her wall planner has a steam of red crosses, peppered with blue dots. You pull off Paul's trousers, spare gym trainers and pants as you lay Mary down on her bed, grasping her imago in your minds eye and cloaking yourself in it. You feel your body shrink, watch as your perspective of the room grows until everything seems just slightly larger. You grip your shirt, and pull it off, Mary's pert breasts impeding your progress. You turn to her small sink and mirror, and lean over, studying your reflection. You're now a stunning young woman – 21 years old – with long, golden hair and a lean, healthy face that could get men to do anything for you. <br/>
<br/>
You slip a smile across Mary's pouting lips as you place your hands on her chest. Mary <i>already has</i> had men do anything for her. You step away, and start undressing your unconscious double. Time to play on the rowing team...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
You've spent the afternoon trying to get into Mary's head as much as you can. It's wildly different to how you imagined. For starters, Mary isn't English – she's American, here on a scholarship program studying Health Science. She's not academically gifted, but it's a subject she excels in, happily taking pretty much every vitamin supplement on the market already, and her sporting prowess has certainly helped. Cambridge doesn't offer sports scholarships, in theory she's here on merit. She and her crew – half of whom are American or Canadian rowers with a long sporting pedigree – know that's a load of shit.<br/>
<br/>
The bad news is that, as far as the mystery of the dream is concerned, your new guise knows nothing at all. Mary's life is rowing, study and finding guys in bars. There's nothing occult or mystical about it, nothing strange at all. No links to the girl opposite, either; Mary's passed her in the hall a few times, they've exchanged smiles, but although Mary's offered a 'heya' once or twice, she's never received much more response than a shy squeak. She doesn't even know her name. <br/>
<br/>
<i>That girl, Mary's mom would say, wouldn't say boo to a goose.</i><br/>
<br/>
Although you haven't gained any answers to your dream, you decide sticking in out as Mary isn't a bad idea. In fact, once you work out how to bring her round again, you'd say she's a perfect candidate for your three day assignment. You can keep her in 'your' room (Mary doesn't bring anyone back to the dorm, even in her wildest party moods), and just live life to the full as a beautiful, active college girl. She's from upstate Michigan and her parents are well off, though when she's challenged she likes to claim she's from Detroit and worked her way up. Aside from a few training days before the Boat Race next week (which effectively, for you, comprises sitting in the back of a boat and taking Mary's cue when to yell), her life is going to be a lot of fun. But, before you can enjoy it, you have a few errands of hers to run tonight. There's a crew meeting to discuss the race tonight. Mary's very much “one of the lads” as far as the crew are concerned, much as Claire was in the fire house. If you're going to be Mary, you have to live her life as she would. Although perhaps you won't get quite so friendly with the now-opposite sex.<br/>
<br/>
You tie up your golden hair again, pull the Scrunchie to form a ponytail and don a hooded jacket. Then, making sure your door is locked, you slip out the college gates. Cambridge is a relatively safe city, Mary's memories tell you, and she doesn't fear the dark. You're a woman of five foot two, but your personality insists you can kick the ass of anyone who attempts anything.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Except unnoticed shapeshifters who can put you to sleep with a touch</i>, you remind yourself.<br/>
<br/>
The square is almost empty, the sun fading as people head either to the city's bars or their halls of residence. <i>Almost </i>empty. Hal's cronies are gone, but he's still there, sat by the freakish clock, picking apart what looks like an elastic band he's wrapped intensely on his thumb. <br/>
<br/>
Mary's spirit groans as you spy that lunatic. She's at her wit's end with him and his freak followers. They've been protesting now for two days. The clock has become their picket line, with this unkempt freak - Mary doesn't know or care what his name is - as ringleader. She's been eager for a confrontation for days, and without his support he's exposed to the full Dunsdale barrage, usually reserved for oarsmen who fuck up the stroke. You clap your penetrating blue eyes on him, square your shoulders and stride over.<br/>
<br/>
"You!" Mary's accent cuts through the empty square. Hal twists his head to look at you, his posture unnaturally stiff as he turns.<br/>
<br/>
"End the class system oppression and its warriors!" <br/>
<br/>
Your jaw stiffens.<br/>
<br/>
"You leave my fucking crew alone you little fruit bat! Don't laugh. Do not fucking laugh. Do I look like I'm kidding? Stop fucking smirking. We've got days of prep until the race and all you're doing is harming our chances!" Mary's hand shoves hard against Hal's chest, pushing him back in your perfect impersonation of pint-sized fury. Hal laughs as you drive at him, stepping up against the wall, arms raised in surrender. He doesn't even try to resist, finding the entire show of force strangely hilarious.<br/>
<br/>
"Violence!” He cries. “Witness, brothers and sisters, how the elite employ violence to defend their riches!"<br/>
<br/>
"Riches?" Mary's thick accent spits the word back at him. "I was born in Detroit, fucknuts. Motor City. You seen 8-Mile? Roads it's got, rich it fuckin' isn't." A complete lie, but one that suits your<i> imago.</i><br/>
<br/>
Hal laughs at your outburst, your eyes coming up only to his chin. He looks down at your aggressive glare, and almost immediately the smile fades.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Good,</i> Mary would think. <i>He's got the message.</i> You wonder if this is how Lester or, in her own way, Chelsea felt.<br/>
<br/>
Then Hal's expression changes, gaining focus. He looks down like he's disassembling you in his mind, as if he could peer thought to your innermost thoughts. You know he can't. He can only see Mary staring back at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Oppressor." He finally blurts out, a little muted.<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head and back away. "What the fuck's your name, freak? I'll report you."<br/>
<br/>
That seems to delight his ego, and that maniac grin reappears. "Henry Swann. Please do."<br/>
<br/>
“ I fucking will. The Boat Race is fucking sacrosanct at this university. So why don't you fuck off?” You turn off, shaking your head, Mary's ponytail flicking behind you as you leave the lunatic alone. You open your mind's eye, looking for a clue as to how Mary would handle the situation. She'd report him, no question; her blood is raised, bubbling with fury. <br/>
<br/>
But that would make her late for the boat crew meeting. And that seems to be at the heart of this mystery. It's not something you want to miss, especially given the supposed consequences of your dream...</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121211212111212211222111221122121111222212112222
author_id: collider
title: The Puppet
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Ah, if it isn't our esteemed cox? Grab a chair, Mare." Dawes beckons to a cheap plastic chair in the boathouse, next to the blackboard. Phil Dawes is a rowing monster: 6'10" of pure muscle that made him an award-winner in Canada. He's the best on your team, and, Mary's thoughts add, an incredible lay. You shake your head, planting your small frame down. <br/>
<br/>
"You going to tell me what this is about?" The race meeting isn't scheduled. You run this team, with a rule of iron. Dawes has overstepped his bounds. <br/>
<br/>
"He already has," Ben Keys says, next to you. "You're just late."<br/>
<br/>
"Eat my dick, Keys." You shrug and raise your eyebrows in angry expectation. Dawes chuckles, and raises his hand to hush the room. <br/>
<br/>
"All right, boss. Calm yourself and listen to this. What if I said I could guarantee we win?"<br/>
<br/>
"Bribery?" You groan. That can't be what the dream was about, could it? Why would you picture the mystery girl? All you'd have for your trouble is Mary's beautiful form.<br/>
<br/>
"No. Guess again."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not 12. Just tell me." Come on, asshole, you think, you inner frustration a reflection of Mary's face. The more you impersonate her, the more Chelsea Cooper you feel. Chelsea Cooper with a sports streak.<br/>
<br/>
Dawes giggles. "Oh no. Keep guessing. I can give us an advantage that money cannot buy."<br/>
<br/>
Your curiosity soars as Mary's ire rages. "You're taking steroids? You dumb fuck? Is that what you're telling me? Do the words 'urine sample' not mean anything to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just tell her," Graham Lundesky says. The tallest man on the boat, edging seven foot, he's usually the quietest. Obviously he wants to get this over with.<br/>
<br/>
"All right, all right." Dawes stoops, and reaches into his pocket. He fumbles for a moment, and then pulls out a strange, small symbol. It looks old, its metal greening and notched. It's a cross, with strokes tapering toward the centre, and the top stroke curved into a perfect circle. You recognize it almost immediately from pulp novels and ancient Egyptian exhibits. It's an ankh. <br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" Mary's voice sighs, exasperation perfectly concealing your piqued curiosity and concern. This is what the Moon led you to. This is arcane. <br/>
<br/>
"It's called the Key of Thoth," Dawes says, rolling it in his hands. "I obtained it. Doesn't matter how. This little tool here is magic. The best kind of magic. The <i>winning</i> kind of magic. <br/>
<br/>
"Is this a joke?" You scoff. You know it isn't.<br/>
<br/>
"It's real." Keys says.<br/>
<br/>
"Totally real." Lundesky adds. <br/>
<br/>
"Real," Dawes echoes.<br/>
<br/>
"And what," you keep your tone level and disbelieving, "does the 'key of Thoth' do?" Mary's instincts tell you they're messing with you. It's the only explanation. "Does it make us fly? Give us propellers? Speed us up on the Surrey side?"<br/>
<br/>
Dawes shakes his head, his face sincere. "It gives us a puppet. And the puppet does all the work."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" <br/>
<br/>
"You need convincing. I get that." Dawes' voice is chill and slow. "So we're going to prove it to ya. Like I said, Mary, we're all in this."<br/>
<br/>
Alarm bells start to ring. Mary doesn't realize what that means, but you do. You ready yourself to fight, expecting the attack to materialize. It never comes.<br/>
<br/>
"You know that girl opposite your dorm room?"<br/>
<br/>
"What? Mouse-bitch?" You chew over the phrase in your Michigan accent. Dawes nods. <br/>
<br/>
"Yah, her. We need her."<br/>
<br/>
"Say what?"<br/>
<br/>
"We need her. She's the puppet. The incantation is very specific. It has to be a virgin. You know many virgins? And I don't mean virgins before you're done with them."<br/>
<br/>
That brings a laugh. You shake your head, offer a withering stare and flip the bird. <i>What the hell is this? Are they going to sacrifice her?</i><br/>
<br/>
"He's right," Keys pipes up. "We checked."<i> Checked what?</i> This mystery is only getting deeper.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you need a virgin for?" you ask. Dawes' grin is pure malevolence. <br/>
<br/>
"You'll see. But first we need her hair. And that's where you come in."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">***** </div><br/>
<br/>
You can't believe you're doing this. This is the same kind of occult tests that Blackwell lured you in with, hairs and dollar bills. It was a slippery slope. You know this is evil, you know this is wrong. And yet you're doing it, helping them, because deep down you know that it's the only way to find out the truth. You could, of course, stun Dawes and take his<i> imago</i>. That would let you figure out the cult instantly, and then take it down in once smooth stroke. <br/>
<br/>
But you're going to stick with it as Mary. Dawes and Keys obviously want to tell you what their scheme is. And even with your limited <i>Stellae</i> experience, you know whatever the 'Key of Thoth' is, it's dangerous. It needs to be dealt with. The moment you know the intent of this cult, you're going to alert the others. Call Kali. Call Rick. Call anyone who can help you destroy this and protect the strange mystery girl across the hall. <br/>
<br/>
For now, though, you play along. You arrive back at your dorm room a little after dark - deliberately slipping into the other entrance to Wyndham to avoid the freak Hal Swann. You don't head to your room. Instead, you walk up to the mystery girl's door.<br/>
<br/>
She opens it, looking at you with surprise. She's still smothered in her jumper, and the light burning at her desk shows she's been studying all night. You glance in at the impossible neatness of her domain.<i> Wow, Mary's mind thinks. Definitely a virgin.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Hey, how you doing?" You smile. She looks at you like she wants to run away.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh...hi."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm Mary. I live opposite?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." The girl doesn't seem to speak much. In fact, she barely manages more than a squeak. <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, so... my faucet is bust? I was wondering if I could get a cup of water?"<br/>
<br/>
The girl looks at you for a moment, before nodding timidly. As she turns, she exposes that flame-red tangle of ginger hair. It's easy with Mary's cat-like instincts to get the scissors up, cut a curl off, and pull your hands behind you. <br/>
<br/>
The girl turns, as if she's noticed something. You continue to smile insincerely, the same smile Mary uses every time she visits her grandfolks. The girl looks uncertain for a moment, then heads into the room. A moment later she returns with a cup of water.<br/>
<br/>
"Here you go," she mumbles, avoiding eye contact. You smile your perfect, white-tooth smile. <br/>
<br/>
"Thank you, so much."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
"Just wait. It'll be worth it." Dawes is stood on an old milk crate. You're in the basement of Wyndham college, down in a damp cellar that's used to store students' junk.  Tonight, it's a little different. The nine of you are spread out in a semicircle, all facing the door. In front of you, a candle burns, wax drizzling down its side. You are all standing upright (posture, it seems, is important), and waiting patiently. <br/>
<br/>
"Wait for what?" You're still uncertain as to the point of the ritual, other than pure evil, of course. You gave the lock of hair to Dawes, as he requested, when this strange gathering began.<br/>
<br/>
You're pretty sure the candles are just for effect, but the ritual - the problem - was as clear as day. One by one, the crew members cut their thumbs, and pushed it against the ankh. You, as a non-rower, were not permitted. Instead, you simply watched as Dawes took the lock of hair, and wound it tight against the ankh and said, simply, "Come". You've all been waiting since. <br/>
<br/>
"Wait for...<i> that</i>." Dawes indicates to the door. <br/>
<br/>
Standing there is the mystery girl. Her eyes are rolled up into her head, her movements strange and loose, her steps shambling, as she walks into the room. She looks deep in a trance, lost to the world as if she were drugged. Her head rolls to one side, then another.You're reminded of Saratoga Falls all over again.<br/>
<br/>
The girl stumbles to the centre of the room and comes to a halt. She seems to wait. <br/>
<br/>
"Dance," Dawes commands, simply. The girl begins to sway, hypnotically, to and fro, her arms bending and writhing to muted music.<br/>
<br/>
"She does whatever we say?" Tim, first oar, asks uncertainly. Obviously he's an unbeliever too. <br/>
<br/>
"She's our puppet. Completely. She'll do whatever we tell her, while I hold the ankh. Think of it like a remote control." Dawes laughs as he says the words.<br/>
<br/>
"Take off that little number then, sweet tits," says another of the oarsmen, Ding. The girl stops dancing immediately, and begins to lift up her nightdress.<br/>
<br/>
"HALT!" The girl stops at Dawes' sharp command. "No," he insists. "She has to be a virgin. And the purer the better. I don't want anyone getting any ideas. You'll see everything you expect tomorrow night. When we perform the ritual. When we win the race before we even hit the Thames."<br/>
<br/>
You feel somewhat relieved at that. Your hand was all ready to cast a sigil. You wouldn't have stood a chance on your own, but you couldn't let them desecrate the girl like that. It's just wrong. Right now, you want to destroy them all, the sick fucks. But you wouldn't stand a chance.<br/>
<br/>
You wonder what you should do. The ankh is metres away. You could take it and run. It would destroy their plans, but the cult would escape. It would also save this poor girl from whatever fate. But if you hold back and wait to see what happens, you'll know far more. As Mary, you can ask all the questions you want, work out the extent of the cult, and then take action: either report it to the <i>Stellae</i>, or try and tackle it yourself.<br/>
<br/>
But that means holding your nerve, and resisting your natural instinct to fight. And it means forcing yourself to continue in this unsettling masquerade...</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121212
author_id: seuzz
title: Reflections on the Moon
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Well, if you think I need to," you start to tell the woman on the other end of the phone.<br/>
<br/>
"It's entirely your choice," Kali crisply replies. "I've told Joseph everything I can infer from the information he provided, which was copious. A trip to see me would, in all probability, merely confirm my analysis. Nonetheless, you are an interesting case, and you and I <i>will</i> meet sooner or later. If I arrange a flight for you tomorrow, it would merely be a case of the former rather than the latter."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd like to talk it over with Joe," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course. Just ask him to email or text me after you've decided." Her voice is very bright--if businesslike--and you can't help thinking that its owner must be very bright and lovely herself. <br/>
<br/>
You reluctantly hand the phone back to Joe. They talk only a little more before he hangs up and turns to you with a querying smile. "And so?"<br/>
<br/>
"Should I go see her or hang out here?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's your choice, like she said. Though if you're asking for my <i>preference</i>--" He chucks you on the shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
That little plea is enough to settle it for you; and you firmly put away the thought that you <i>ought</i> to stay in order to "keep an eye" on Joe. He claps his hands when you say you'll stay. "Awesome. By the way, what she said makes me feel a lot better about, you know, last night."<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>did</i> she say," you ask, hoping that the question won't seem nosy and that the answer won't be evasive.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the technical aspects are complicated, but the concept is easy enough to explain," he says carelessly, and hops up onto the kitchen counter. "Basically, it has to do with different planets conferring different prodigies. Oh, by the way," he interrupts himself. "That's the word we like to use. 'Prodigies'. Not 'powers' or 'magic' or shit like that."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"Doesn't make us sound so much like mutants or freaks in spandex." Joe shrugs. "Prodigies are things that everyone has, it's just that some people have 'em to a 'prodigious' degree. They don't make us different from other people."<br/>
<br/>
This strikes you as a distinction without a difference, but you just nod and ask him to go. "What was I saying?" Joe says. "Oh. Different planets, different prodigies. So, f'rinstance, I've got Viritrilbia--that's our name for Mecury--as one of my influences, so I'm really good at languages. Frank is influenced by Malacandra--that's Mars--which makes him a fighter."<br/>
<br/>
You've learned you need refreshments when Joe lapses into "lecture mode," so you draw a couple of sodas from the refrigerator.<br/>
<br/>
"But different people can be under the influence of the same planet while still having different powers or degrees of them. Like me and John Reilly. We're both pretty funny guys, if I say so myself. But he can pick up languages a lot fucking faster than me. He went to Nepal one time. Crossed the border not knowing a word of the local lingo, and came out a few weeks later talking like a native. I can't do that. On the other hand, you give each of us a violin, and he'll attract cats while I attract conservatory scholarships.<br/>
<br/>
"It also depends on the influence of the second planet. Again, Frank and Rick Bredon are both Malacandra. But Frank has Lurga--that's Saturn--as his secondary influence, while Rich has Eldibria--that's Neptune. Malacandra plus Lurga means Frank is a lot like an old Templar knight: part monk, party mystic, part bad ass chivalric fighter. Malacandra plus Eldibria? Rick's a skunk. Picture Mickey Rourke in a Hong Kong guns-and-meat-cleavers caper." Joe laughs and shivers simultaneously.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, that's the background to what she said about you. You're linked to Sulva, we can all see that, and that's a <i>rare</i> alignment. It and its properties are not as well understood as the others. But based on what happened last night, it appears you've got a strong line on its <i>reflective</i> properties, which I didn't even know it has."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean by 'reflective'?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, apparently Sulva is associated with mirrors. This seems to mean that Sulvans can pick up some of the qualities associated with the other planets. You know, like the way the moon reflects sunlight? The mask probably helps." He points at your face. "Those things <i>are</i> mirrors, in a sense, holding images of other people. That mask you're wearing mixes my image and Frank's. Kali thinks it might amplify your own natural, imitative tendencies." He shrugs. "So you've picked up a little something from me. My ability to get people to talk <i>honestly.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You mull this: a longish explanation ending in something not far from what you started with.<br/>
<br/>
But Joe has one more thought to add: "And there's the way you outwrestled me last night," he says wryly. "You picked up a little something from Frank as well." He laughs. "Probably he'd have handled this little discovery with more grace than I did."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You talk some more, though Joe becomes more evasive. "There's no reason to get in a panic," he emphasizes, "but Dad will definitely want Kali to put you on her couch. There's the whole fact that we can't figure out your second planet, for instance. If that's another property of Sulva--the Moon <i>would</i> be associated with eclipses, doncha know--it's not one our science has discovered." He starts to add something else, then hesitates. <br/>
<br/>
"We've been at this for thousands of years, the Stellae have," he mumbles, mostly to himself, it seems. "But there's still a lot we don't understand. We didn't even know about Kenadandra until eighty years ago, for instance," he adds cryptically. You ask him to tell you about the Stellae and their history, but he waves you off. "Reilly's the guy for the history lessons," he says. "He likes to talk even more than I do, and he's better at it, and would make it a lot more interesting." <br/>
<br/>
After that, the conversation returns to the new mask and to the continuing investigation. "You still want to check out Westside, huh?" he says thoughtfully. "There's a couple of ways we can do that."<br/>
<br/>
"I can't go back as myself. As Will Prescott, I mean," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
"No, if you could do that we wouldn't even be here having this conversation." He points at you. "You could enroll as Sue Durras here."<br/>
<br/>
"Why did you call me that," you demand.<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Hardy Boys reference. They don't have a kid brother, you know, but they do have a cousin. Girl named Sue." His grin is wicked.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'm not enrolling at a school that has guys like Lester the Molester or Jason Lynch under the name 'Sue'!"<br/>
<br/>
"So spell it S-I-O-U-X. That's the obvious solution. The kid in that old Johnny Cash song was an idiot."<br/>
<br/>
That does sound plausible, until you remember Shep Tsosie, who would kick your ass hard if you showed up claiming to be one-sixty-fourth Cherokee or something. "And like I said last night, we don't know how long I'll be there. Especially if your dad decides he <i>wants</i> me to go see Kali."<br/>
<br/>
"So you wanna <i>replace</i> someone out there," Joe says quietly.<br/>
<br/>
"Frank replaced Justin Roth for a few days."<br/>
<br/>
"Frank replaced <i>you</i> replacing Justin Roth for a few days," he retorts. "We'd need Dad's clearance for something like that. Come up with a way of doing it that doesn't hurt anyone." <br/>
<br/>
You hang your head and think. Joe continues to talk. "There's also the matter of what <i>I</i> do. We <i>could</i> split up, and I could stay at Eastman. Or we could stay together, with me following you to Westside. I could switch schools." He falls silent, and you wonder if he'll voice the alternative. He does: "Or I could also replace someone."<br/>
<br/>
"I could replace someone and <i>you</i> could enroll as Sue Durras."<br/>
<br/>
"At a school that has guys like Lester the Molester and Jason Lynch?" he retorts in a voice that is not his own. "Fuck that!"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that what my new voice sounds like?" you ask. He nods, and you wince. It sounds bodiless. <br/>
<br/>
"We could strip the golem shell out of the Prescott mask and you could step in as my old self," you suggest. Joe's eyebrows arch in appreciation of the suggestion, but the phone rings before he can reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Ho boy, Dad again," Joe says as he looks at the number. "International House of Handsome Teenage Boys," he answers. He laughs at whatever his dad says. "Yeah, I know some girls I'd <i>love</i> it if they poured boysenberry syrup all over me!" He turns bright red at the reply, and a rictus-like grin spreads over his face. There's a little more joshing before the conversation turns serious. It's a long talk, too, as Joe, in an uncharacteristically business-like way, lays out the various proposals for pursuing the investigation, and describes their investigative pros and ethical cons. You linger, fully expecting you'll have to get on the line.<br/>
<br/>
After an hour, Joe gives a quiet "Thanks, Dad. Love you too," and holds the phone out to you while staring at it. You start to take it, but he switches it off with a faint smile and puts it on the counter. "Well, that was unexpected but in hindsight entirely predictable."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" you ask, and your stomach drops.<br/>
<br/>
"He said he talked to Kali, and between the talk with her and the talk just now with me, he said he thinks he's got a pretty good handle on the situation and what should be done."<br/>
<br/>
"And what's that?" You want very much to sit down, but lock your knees so you won't buckle at what sounds like will be very bad news.<br/>
<br/>
"He says that you're now in charge of the investigation," Joe says, and he does a pretty good job of hiding most of the resentment he must be feeling. "He says you don't have to consult with him on anything, for permission or advice, practical or ethical." Your jaw drops. <br/>
<br/>
"He says that we can do whatever you think is best. He will only want a report when it's done."</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212121
author_id: seuzz
title: The New Boss
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Jesus, Joe!" you explode. "I-- I--" He just looks amused as you stutter. "I don't know how to run an investigation! <i>You</i> need to be in charge!"<br/>
<br/>
"Dad's in charge," he says. "And if Dad says you're in charge, then <i>you're</i> in charge."<br/>
<br/>
"But I don't know what to do!"<br/>
<br/>
"You can always ask me for advice."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, that's true.</i> His observation calms you down considerably. "Okay, so what do you think we should do?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe just purses his lips; his eyes glint.<br/>
<br/>
You groan. "Don't be like this. I don't know enough to--"<br/>
<br/>
"You know everything I know," he says. "We've talked over the case. Hours and hours of talk. Once we get started, I'll be full of advice. But as for the overall plan-- Look, I've told you what I think, and you've offered your own opinions. <i>You</i> make the decision. I'll be with you a hundred thousand percent."<br/>
<br/>
You feel terribly guilty, of course, and that by itself almost drives you into saying that you'll do what he wants and stick to investigating Eastman. But as you look at him--and the mad gleam in his eye--you realize that would be a double mistake. <br/>
<br/>
Something  tells you that Westside is the place to be looking. That third guy Joe mentioned: Maybe it seems like he wasn't involved in the accident that felled his friends, but he went running; and your own experience tells you that when you've got a mask it is very easy to run away from bad things. And second: Joe wouldn't respect you if you gave up and just went along with his opinion.<br/>
<br/>
You pace slowly about the kitchen, head down and arms folded; you can feel Joe's eyes on you. "We'll go to Westside?" you finally say, and can't keep it from coming out like a question. "We'll get the stuff that you found at Eastman, and we'll go to Westside, and we'll see if the pieces fit together? Does that seem like a good idea?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe snorts, and you wilt. <i>Dammit, this is awkward.</i> You are <i>not</i> used to being in charge. "Who was that third guy?" you ask in a quiet voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Scott Bickelmeier. Football player."<br/>
<br/>
You nod. "I know him. I mean, I know who he is--"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay then," Joe says. "So Westside it is. How do we get in?"<br/>
<br/>
You swallow at the way he seems to be pushing you, even as you're just thinking aloud. You chew at your thumbnail, then shrug. "We've already got someone on the inside there. Will Prescott--"<br/>
<br/>
And then it hits you, with full force: You're not "Will Prescott" anymore, and you never will be again. You can never put that mask back on, and even outside a mask you will have to be someone else because the role of "Will Prescott" will be taken by someone--or something--else. <br/>
<br/>
And with your bizarre elevation to being in charge of this investigation: Well, if you're <i>anybody</i> now, you're the third "Durras brother." <br/>
<br/>
You suppress a wry smile. <i>Or maybe you're now the third Stooge.</i> <br/>
<br/>
Either way, you suddenly have the odd feeling of slipping like a peg into an unfamiliar but not uncomfortable hole.<br/>
<br/>
Because maybe "Will Prescott" didn't have the gumption to be in charge. But you've a new face and you'll have a new name, and you might as well try to make a new start with them. And one way to start is by sloughing off your more rabbit-like tendencies.<br/>
<br/>
"We use Will Prescott to get back in," you repeat more firmly. "We don't want to hurt anybody if we can help it. But I can't play that part anymore." You look up to find Joe grinning. "Do you mind taking over as Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll do what you tell me, and no, I don't mind. Not if you don't mind me being inside your head and all."<br/>
<br/>
"But I'm not Will Prescott anymore," you tell him, and surprise yourself anew at how easily the disclaimer comes out. Joe blinks, and with still more surprising ease you find yourself fluidly explaining what you mean.<br/>
<br/>
Joe's eyes glint brightly as you talk, and when you're through he puts his arm around your neck. "That's a pretty impressive display of contextual self-awareness," he says quietly. "And suddenly Dad's decision makes a lot more sense to me." You wait for him to explain, which he does with a sidelong glance. <br/>
<br/>
"You're having to learn how to be a new person. You're just getting started, but the sooner and the harder you work, the faster and easier it will be." He leans in close. "That's how come Dad put you in charge, I see now. He can see over horizons and around corners and past unturned pages. He knows what's happened to you and what needs to happen to you. And the best thing he can do is to make you grow into your new role as quickly as you can. I'll help if I can," he adds. <br/>
<br/>
He pulls you close. It's awkward, but you embrace him back. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay, now that we got the gay stuff out of the way," Joe says, and he pushes you roughly back. "So I'm gonna be Will Prescott. Who are you gonna be?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess I can go as this new guy. How long would it take to get me enrolled?"<br/>
<br/>
"A couple of days. Rick can fake up the documents you need." He cocks his head. "It would be faster, though, if, uh, Joe Durras transferred. Frank will probably have to withdraw from Eastman, and it would be a good cover if Joe transferred at the same time. So you could go in as me."<br/>
<br/>
You've already had the awkward, emotional scene, so you decline to make another one over this trusting suggestion, and only nod. <br/>
<br/>
Then another thought occurs to you. "But if 'Joe' stayed at Eastman, he could continue to investigate there."<br/>
<br/>
"True," he says in a tone that suggests he had the idea first and was waiting for you to catch up. "Playing me at Eastman would keep you busy. You could retrieve that box. And it would keep us together even while we were apart, in a way. I was opposed to us splitting up. But if we're playing each other I'd be with <i>you</i>, inside your old self at Westside, and you'd be with <i>me,</i> playing me, at Eastman."<br/>
<br/>
It sounds like a genuine and intelligent offer and not just a sop, so you agree to give it a test. If it seems not to work, then later on you can transfer to Westside. <br/>
<br/>
"I'll call Prescott," you tell Joe, "and get him out here now so we can make the switch. And I guess we can get you copied into that mask you made." Joe bites on his smile.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake the next morning feeling disoriented. <i>Something is different.</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh yeah. <i>You</i> are.<br/>
<br/>
You shut off the alarm and throw off the bedclothes and will the morning wood distending the front of your pajama bottoms into wilting. You drop to the floor and do some long and enjoyable stretches and crunches and a few push ups. Frank should be fixing breakfast in a few--<br/>
<br/>
Oh, but Frank's gone to see Dad. There won't be any awkward phone calls, at least; Joe called Dad back last night, just before he stepped into Prescott's mask, and told him where he'd be, so if anyone wants to talk to your partner they will be calling on Prescott's phone, not the one at this house. You grimace as you stand and twist at the waist, stretching your back muscles; Frank wouldn't be happy to know that someone else is taking over for his "brother," so Joe has left the impression that a golem will be covering for him in his absence.<br/>
<br/>
You boil up a couple of eggs and drink a glass of juice, and while the eggs are cooling you take a short, shirtless jog around the neighborhood; the air is very cool but not cold, and you feel happily invigorated when you get back. The eggs are good, but they'll be better tomorrow after you've made a store run to extend your splurge with condiments like Tabasco sauce. <br/>
<br/>
Wardrobe? You slap on a t-shirt because you'll have basketball practice first period, but you pack your kit with slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a corduroy jacket. The girls love you in your casual-formal look.<br/>
<br/>
Frank took the truck, so you have to wait out down at the end of the street for the school bus. You catch yourself lightly humming an old German chorale--"Jesus Christus, unser Heiland"--then grin and switch from the melody to one of the madder counterpoints old Johann Sebastian wove around it. Fuckin' Johnny B. <i>Perelandra-Kenandandra,</i> though no one knew about the latter at the time. Twenty kids, hundreds of students, thousands of compositions, and he <i>still</i> found time to put down a couple of werewolves and a French vampire-slash-organ virtuoso. "Boop-deep, boop-deep, boop-deep, <i>dah</i>-dah-dah-dah, <i>dah</i>-dah-dah-dah, <i>DAH</i>-dah-dah-dah," you sing aloud as you mount the bus steps, then shift into a less-eccentric "I like to move it, move it, move it" as you dance-jerk your way down the aisle. You drop into a seat next to Amy Rhodes and nudge her lightly in the arm. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," you croon in a silly voice. She smiles tightly, turns a little pink, and looks out the window.<br/>
<br/>
You're a goofball all day: taking a basketball to the face during practice; singing "Dem Bones" during biology class; mislabeling the American legislature as "bi-caramel" in social studies. And all the time you're doing this, your mind is working furiously at the angles on the box in the sub-basement.<br/>
<br/>
Harrison Sawyer is the kid in the coma. With your knowledge of masks, a trip to the hospital to give him a close examination might pay big dividends. On the other hand, there's that box. Joe and Frank kept quiet about it; maybe you should make a public ruckus over it.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121211
author_id: seuzz
title: Belinda and What She Said
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Following the Sawyer thread means going to see his sister, Belinda, who is a freshman at the school. So when classes end you thread your way through the crowded halls to the freshman wing. She's talking to friends with her back to you as you approach, and you stand patiently behind her with a faint smile on your face, waiting.<br/>
<br/>
The Asian-American girl she's talking to spots you quickly, and smiles up quizzically. Belinda looks over her shoulder and gives a little start. Her puzzled expression clears up as she looks past you. "Hi Joe. Waiting for Shawn?"<br/>
<br/>
You glance back, to see Shawn Gregory--fellow senior and member of the basketball team--slowly approaching with his arm around Sarah White, his freshman girlfriend. "Nah, I was looking for you. How's your brother doing?"<br/>
<br/>
She turns a little pink at this display of solicitude, though it is not as brazen as it might seem: Joe, as part of the investigation, had already talked to her about the accident, and had even been over to her house. But still, her eyes fall at the reminder of the tragedy. "No change in his condition," she murmurs. "They're talking about bringing some people in from Johns Hopkins to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hi Joe!" Carrie Carmichael, blonde and venomously effervescent, inserts herself between you and Belinda. She grins up madly at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, hey, Chrissie," you reply. Her face falls at the "mistaken" name. You ignore this reaction, but envelop her in your arms and pull her close, gently pressing her face against your chest with an open palm on the back of her head. She goes very stiff for a moment, then relaxes and clasps you tightly back. With her carefully shut up this way, you look over her head and continue talking to Belinda. "John Hopkins? Is he like a famous doctor or someone?"<br/>
<br/>
"University," she says. She looks at Carrie with ill-disguised distaste, and the girl behind her rolls her eyes. "They're, like, specialists in--"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I was talking to my dad about your brother last night," you interrupt. "He's not like a doctor or anything, but he has some friends out at the VA hospital who've seen some crazy shit with head injuries and things? You know?" You gently rock Carrie back and forth, as though lulling her to sleep, and her grip on your torso tightens. "Think maybe we could get together after practice--I gotta go in a minute--and you tell me some more about it?" You lightly stroke the back of Carrie's head.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, sure, I guess," Belinda says. She looks from you to Carrie and back a few times with an expression that combines vexation and puzzlement. It's like watching someone trying to find an adverb inside a math equation. <br/>
<br/>
"Durras, what are you doing here?" Shawn's voice comes from over your shoulder. "Haven't you got enough girlfriends in the senior class?"<br/>
<br/>
"You can never have enough. Some day they might be rationed," you laugh back at him. Then, to Belinda: "Do you mind sticking around, or should I meet you at your house?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can call my mom to pick me up later." The girl behind punches her hard in the shoulder. "I mean--"<br/>
<br/>
"Cool. Meet you in the library, then? Four-fifteen?"<br/>
<br/>
She hesitates fractionally, then agrees. You put your hands on Carrie's shoulders and gently push her back. You don't meet her eyes, though, but gaze around distractedly. "Has anyone seen--"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh. There she is.</i> The space around your heart tightens. Monique, Jonathan Straussler's girlfriend, at her locker. Joe's been watching her from a distance the past few days. She's still wearing black t-shirts. Disposing of Blackwell, Joe's instincts tell you, is even less important than getting Jonathan's mask back, so that the Jonathan-shaped hole in his family's and friends' lives can be filled back up again, even if it is only with a golem.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Basketball practice is a fun, hard-fought thing, but you don't lose yourself in the running, the jumping, the dunking, the stealing, and the trash talk so much that you forget to extend your investigation. You drop a few references to Straussler into the talk, to prompt others into volunteering if they've heard anything new, but your hints provoke nothing interesting. On your way to the library for your meeting with Belinda you check your phone and find a text from your partner, saying he'll be at the house around six to talk and compare notes.<br/>
<br/>
Belinda, to your relief, is alone at a table, and she smiles brightly as you slide into a seat opposite her. "You look like you're holding up well," you say, and smile broadly at her. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, while there's life there's hope," she shrugs. "That's what my dad says. But what does <i>your</i> dad say?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your room's a disaster, clean it up. Oh, you mean about the doctors?" She doesn't laugh at the jest. "Like I said, they're VA guys. They've seen a lot of head injuries, guys exposed to toxic shit. Dad's kind of fascinated by that stuff. He watches these gross shows on cable TV. You were saying there might be something to do with chemicals in your brother's accident?"<br/>
<br/>
Her expression turns grim. "It's that stupid company he was working at. I told you Sawyer got fired? They said he was drinking, but my parents are thinking maybe he was exposed to, like, toxic waste and stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"That would suck, but didn't it happen out here on school property?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't know how it would work. But yeah, him and some friends were at the school when he just fell over in a coma. <i>They said,</i>" she adds in a tone heavily freighted with skepticism.<br/>
<br/>
"What were they doing?" <br/>
<br/>
Joe has already had this conversation with her, and you don't expect her answer to be any more enlightening, and it isn't. "I don't know. No one could get a straight answer from them. It was all, just, 'We were sitting around talking, and he just fell over.' They pumped his stomach, you know, and there wasn't anything in there."<br/>
<br/>
"No head injuries?" She shakes her head. "Were they playing around with anything, like chemicals?"<br/>
<br/>
"If they were, they won't admit it." Her expression darkens, and she leans in close. "My parents are thinking of suing that company. They had a lawyer over at the house, and they were talking about the accident. The lawyer said that might be the only way to get any real answers."<br/>
<br/>
"That still wouldn't tell you what happened when they were out here at Eastman."<br/>
<br/>
"Except it might. It was all kind of confusing, but the lawyer said that the company would have to-- Oh, what's the word? Something about getting his friends to talk about what happened. But under oath."<br/>
<br/>
"Depose them?" Too late you forget that Joe plays the "dumb blonde" act at Eastman, and Belinda gives you a funny look. "I watch lots of <i>Law and Order,</i>" you lamely explain.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I think that's the word. It's like, we can't get his friends to talk, but the company could. If we sued them."<br/>
<br/>
"That would be a mess," you reflect aloud. And then you stop cold, and a tingle runs up your back. "Who are these friends that the lawyers would be deposing?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Dude, this life <i>sucks!</i>" Will Prescott shouts from the other room. The front door slams, and he trudges into the kitchen. "If I'd known it was going to be like this--"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be such a whiner," you snap back. You wipe the knife against the bread, spreading the last of the peanut butter, and toss it into the sink without looking up at him. You rip a huge bite from the sandwich.<br/>
<br/>
"I think I have a right to-- What are you doing?" Will asks as you, thrusting your hand before you, push him steadily back into the living room, and shove him onto the couch. "The fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks dopey, with that hair sticking out every which way and the thin arms thrusting from the oversized t-shirt. He looks even dopier as his jaw falls open when you plant a heavy foot on his crotch. <br/>
<br/>
"How come <i>I'm</i> doing a better job thinking with your brain than you ever did?" you demand. <br/>
<br/>
"What the--?"<br/>
<br/>
"I had a long talk with Belinda Harrison after school today," you tell him. "Apparently you were too busy ogling her tits during your first interview to actually hear what she said. Or to hear the things she <i>didn't</i> say. She's cute, but if Frank was here--"<br/>
<br/>
Your partner flushes. "If you're going to pretend to be a better version of me, you could try to be <i>nicer</i> about it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay," you shrug. "How was your day?"<br/>
<br/>
"It sucked! Everybody hates you. It's that--"<br/>
<br/>
"If I'm going to pretend to be a better version of you, you can remember that <i>that</i>--" You jab a finger at him. "Isn't me anymore."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine." He rolls his eyes. "Everybody hates <i>Will Prescott,</i> then."<br/>
<br/>
"With good reason, probably. He was a fuck up and he came to a bad end." You relent enough to add: "But he met some guys who helped him out, and he's really grateful to them."<br/>
<br/>
The guy on the couch turns a shade that combines green and purple, then shakes his head. "I don't know how to role-play this, because I don't know who you're being. But you're in charge, right, so: Remember that hex Blackwell put on you? It's fucked things up so much that I can't get close to anyone to talk to them. This is a fucking <i>useless</i> disguise." He crosses his arms and frowns belligerently up at you.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121212111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Mystery of the Twins
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You close your eyes and scratch an eyebrow. "Yeah, alright, then maybe we can talk about maybe letting you make a change," you sigh. "Or maybe we can get this case polished off tonight and you won't have to worry about it anymore."<br/>
<br/>
Will gapes. "You got a break?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe. Sawyer Harrison. Who was with him when he went into that coma?"<br/>
<br/>
Will looks at you warily. "Taylor Mitchell. You know that. That's what the police reports said."<br/>
<br/>
"And what did Belinda Harrison say when you talked to her?"<br/>
<br/>
"Same thing. You know that too." You cock an eyebrow, and his mouth twists up. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Did she say 'Taylor Mitchell' or did you just assume she said it because you were paying more attention to her ah-woo-gahs--" you mime cupping some big breasts--"than to her words?"<br/>
<br/>
Will turns a bright red. "Fuck you."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay, I know what it's like." You drop onto the couch with a sigh. "I was looking at her today through these things--" You point to your eyeballs. "And I did wake up with your erection this morning--" <br/>
<br/>
He punches you hard in the balls. "I see you didn't pick up my prodigiously fast reflexes," he snorts as you hunch over with a gasp. "If Frank had tried to cock punch me that way, I'da been in the back yard before his fist was halfway there."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you gasp out. "Would it make you feel better if I told you it was a lovely erection that left me feeling inadequate at the memory of what I used to have?"<br/>
<br/>
"Depends on what you did with it. I'll tell you that I did a full immersion Will Prescott act today, and that included--"<br/>
<br/>
"Lalalala, I don't wanna hear it. Will you stop being mean to me if I stop being mean to you?" <br/>
<br/>
Will nods curtly.<br/>
<br/>
"Good. Okay, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, because I don't actually remember <i>what</i> Belinda said when you first talked to her. And besides, it only came out today when she started talking about lawyers."<br/>
<br/>
Will blinks. "No wonder Frank always hated my reports. Apparently I never made any sense."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. "Sawyer got fired from Salopek," you say, speaking slowly. "They said he was drinking on the job. His parents think maybe he was accidentally huffing toxic fumes. They're thinking of suing. They talked to a lawyer, Belinda told me today, and the lawyer pointed out that Salopek would blame it on whatever Sawyer was doing at Eastman the day he fell into the coma. That make sense?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I've watched a couple of <i>Law and Order</i> marathons." He rolls his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that would not actually displease Sawyer's parents. You see, they've never liked the police reports. Sawyer's friends weren't really very clear in those reports about what they were doing that afternoon. Sawyer's parents can't get the kids to go on the record, under oath and cross-examination. But if they sued Salopek, then Salopek, to defend itself, <i>would</i> put them under oath and cross-examination."<br/>
<br/>
Will's brow crinkles. "Who are these friends? And the word should be 'friend', not plural, 'cos Taylor Mitchell was the only one with Sawyer. And they can't cross-examine him because he's dead."<br/>
<br/>
"You think Sawyer's parents don't know that?"<br/>
<br/>
Will's eyes pop. "You're saying--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Taylor Mitchell wasn't the only one there. Scott Bickelmeier was there too. It's not in the police reports, because he took off before the paramedics arrived, and when the paramedics were questioning Taylor at the scene, he apparently covered it up to protect his friend."<br/>
<br/>
"But Belinda and her parents know about him? How?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because a few weeks after the accident, Scott Bickelmeier made a special trip to see Belinda, to express his condolences. He told her that he'd been there too, and that he was really sorry. But--" You grimace. "He's not real inclined to go into details on what they were doing when Sawyer had his accident." <br/>
<br/>
Will lets out a low whistle. <br/>
<br/>
"And that ain't all," you continue, and rise from the couch to fetch the yearbook you'd been studying in the kitchen. "There's another twist. Take a look at this," <br/>
you say as you open the page you bookmarked. "It's from their junior year. What do you see?"<br/>
<br/>
He sucks in a sharp breath. "I see a guy who's supposed to be dead. I also see another guy who looks just like him. Sean, huh?" He taps the page. "I didn't know--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, Taylor had a twin brother. So what do we know?" You lean back and clasp your hands behind your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Bare evidence, shorn of theorizing?" Will says. He pulls at his lip and stares hard at the wall behind you for a solid minute before speaking.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, Sawyer Harrison, Scott Bickelmeier, and one of the Mitchell twins were at Eastman when Sawyer fell into a coma," he says. "Scott runs off before the paramedics get there, leaving Mitchell to take the fall. Then Mitchell has a fatal accident. Everyone says <i>Taylor</i> Mitchell--the one on record as being with Sawyer--was the twin who died. This has the very convenient consequence of leaving no witnesses to Sawyer's accident to be questioned." He sucks on his lip. "Then Scott and Sean-- No, wait-- Then Scott and the <i>remaining</i> Mitchell twin move to Westside." <br/>
<br/>
You suppress a wince as he cocks his head. Joe is as sharp as ever, but the act of thinking looks very painful on Will Prescott's face. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"You tell me, because we're thinking with the same pair of brains."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, in that case you're not suggesting anything. You're only pointing out that the world thinks Taylor Mitchell died, but that the world still contains someone who looks an awful lot like Taylor Mitchell."<br/>
<br/>
"Evidence that is consistent with the death of Taylor Mitchell and the survival of Sean Mitchell," you say. "Which is what everyone has been theorizing. But it is also--"<br/>
<br/>
"It's also evidence consistent with the death of <i>Sean</i> Mitchell," he says for you, "and with the survival of <i>Taylor</i> Mitchell, who is now <i>conveniently claiming</i> to be the Mitchell twin who wasn't with Sawyer at the time of his accident." He looks up at you keenly. "That's a real cynical hypothesis."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "We don't have to give it that coloration. Suppose it was Sean who died, and it was just a horrible coincidence that it happened the same day that Sawyer went into a coma. Maybe Taylor saw the chance to hide, to escape the consequences of what happened to Sawyer. Or maybe he just felt a double-dose survivor's guilt? I mean, what if something happened to Frank, but you had a mask of him? What would you do?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'd take over for him in a heartbeat," Will gasps. "Of course. It would make the death less real, and we're not even real brothers, let alone twins. So maybe it would be the same with Taylor, if it was Sean who died." <br/>
<br/>
His eyebrows twitch. "Of course this is all just a lot of baroque hypothesizing. Simplest theory is still that Taylor died and Scott ran off. Still, it shows that you were right," he ends in a ragged sigh. "The answer is at Westside, not at Eastman. Me and Frank really fucked up."<br/>
<br/>
You grab him in a headlock and twist a hard knuckle into his scalp. "Fuck, we don't know that. I'm sorry I was pissed at you when you came in. Belinda really is a distraction. And she's not real smart, so probably she wasn't clear when she talked to you." You release him.<br/>
<br/>
"I shoulda got her to be clear," he mutters. "I'll have to tell Frank when I talk to him. He texted me, you know. He arrived at Dad's late this morning. The inquest will be tonight, and we'll talk tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Where are <i>you</i> gonna be?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks up at you in surprise. "Well, here, right?" He splays a hand across his chest.<br/>
<br/>
"You said Prescott's life is so fucked up he can't talk to anyone. We need to get close to Mitchell and Bickelmeier. You're no use as a pariah, and it'll still be a few days before I can get my new identity enrolled."<br/>
<br/>
Will cocks his head. "We've waited this long. We can wait for Rick. On the other hand, now that we're pretty sure what we're looking for, we could get it done so fast that we don't need to enroll you as a fake student."<br/>
<br/>
"But how are we going to get close to Sean and Scott to talk to them, what with you, uh, hexed?"<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know that they're affected by the hex," he points out. "And c'mon, Joe," he grins. "We're not a shy guy. We got no problem going up to strangers."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face. "It would be easier if we had a bridge. Someone already at Westside."<br/>
<br/>
"For me or for you?" He drums his chest. "You trying to save me from this act of altruism?" <br/>
<br/>
You hunch over, thinking hard, trying to weigh the options objectively, without being influenced by your sympathy for Joe, or the sympathy you feel (through his mask) for his desire for some "fun." <br/>
<br/>
"Either way, we might get this done by tomorrow night," you say slowly. "Either Joe Durras--either you or me--just make a cold call on Scott and or Sean. Or we stage a one-day hijacking of another life. At worst a two-day hijacking of two lives. Spare Rick and a lot of other people some unnecessary bother."<br/>
<br/>
Will throws his head back and laughs. "How about we both go as Joe Durras?" he chortles. "A visit from a set of twins might shake something loose." <br/>
<br/>
An interesting suggestion, and "fun" in a non-malicious way.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212121111
author_id: seuzz
title: Multiplying Masks
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"If we use a go-between, you'll have to polish up another mask tonight," you say, and your arms ache with sympathy when you think of the effort Joe will have to put into it. Your partner also grimaces as he returns your glance, then shrugs. The moment hangs as you weigh each other's reactions, and then by some unspoken agreement you both leap to your feet and head into the dining room.<br/>
<br/>
The kitchen clock shows a quarter to eight as you pass. "Fuck, we're not going to get it done in time to grab anyone tonight," you sigh. "Even if we knew who."<br/>
<br/>
"I can work fast," Will says. "If you buy me a couple of pizzas for afterward."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but it'll take me a couple of hours to get the mask and mind band made. And pizza's just junk food." You pull out the sheets that are already inscribed with the sigils. "I should burn these after using them," you remark. "It's dangerous leaving them around."<br/>
<br/>
Will watches with great interest as you mix the ingredients; he gags on the stench as you set fire to them and pour them over the concave mirror. "Want me to time you?" you ask after the mask is done. "One, two, three, four--"<br/>
<br/>
He vanishes in a blur, and the door to the bedroom bangs like a rifle shot.<br/>
<br/>
"Five, six--" <br/>
<br/>
Another hard crack, and he reappears. He collapses into a chair with a gasp, and his arm trembles as he holds the finished mask out to you. "Food," he says weakly. "And lots of it."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have to get it yourself. I've got a mind band to make." You start pulling out the new set of materials. He groans and slumps, and it is several minutes before he gets up with a sigh. "And no pizza, okay?" you tell him as he shuffles toward the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Who are you, and what have you done with the real Joe Durras," he grumbles back, and doesn't wait for a retort.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"If you've gotten yourself sufficiently refueled," you say, looking up from the band, which you are still inscribing with runes, "we could make another mask. In case you also want to, uh--" You point to his face.<br/>
<br/>
Will pauses in mid-chew. He's surrounded by Styrofoam containers holding the remnants of salads and breadsticks and soups and lasagna and spaghetti and cannoli and chicken parmesan; only the tiramisu remains untouched. He swallows. "What are you trying to do, kill me?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I think I'm trying to keep you from killing yourself. That stuff is fuel, and you should burn it instead of storing it away as fat."<br/>
<br/>
He sits back. "You really are getting into this 'boss' thing, aren't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just saying what you'd say if the situation were reversed."<br/>
<br/>
"Ditto. Actually, I'm kind of glad you're being the boss. I never woulda admitted it to Frank, but--"<br/>
<br/>
"I like being the irresponsible one," you help him finish, speaking in unison. He gives you the finger. "You don't want Frank saying 'I told you so,' if and when he comes back and finds out we've gotten up to absolutely no good. Like you ballooning up to three hundred pounds."<br/>
<br/>
"You know," he drawls back. "You don't need to make up another mask just for me. I can go back to being myself if you're going to be someone else. So, don't think you have to, just to save me from this shit life." He slaps his chest.<br/>
<br/>
"I might need you to help. Best to be prepared." You'd contented yourself with a second peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and study the remains of his feast with a mix of envy and bemusement. "Besides, if you make up another mask, and I <i>will</i> send you on a second food run."<br/>
<br/>
"Pizzas?" he asks hopefully.<br/>
<br/>
"What is it with you and Italian food? Frank's the dago."<br/>
<br/>
"Ain't no good German food in this burg." He glances over the table. "But you're right, I should burn the calories," he sighs. "If I'm hungry afterward I'll just get something from the pantry."<br/>
<br/>
"I hate to say it, but you should make it Prescott's pantry." You push aside the mind band and start working on another mask. "How are things at home, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Teh suck. I tried being good last night with your dad, but--" He makes a face. "School's fucked things up, and I've taken the attitude home, and it's just poisonous. Really, you're well off being out of it."<br/>
<br/>
You don't reply; it would seem like bad grace to say you're glad you fucked your life up so hard that you can't go back to it even if you wanted to. But he seems to understand. "It'll just be a golem taking it over again in a few days," he says quietly. "It's a good thing they can't feel anything." Actually, you're not so sure they can't; certainly they do a very good impression of acting like they do. But maybe it's a metaphysical question without an actual answer.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The plan had been for you to call up and challenge some Westside basketball player for a game of one on one, but the plan simplifies the next morning when Steve Patterson himself shows up at Eastman, albeit briefly, to everyone's surprise.<br/>
<br/>
"You guys all know this asshole," Ian grins as he slaps Steve on the back. "He's one of the Westside dicks who keeps us shitting in fear." There's silence from you and everyone else. "Well, starting next week," Ian says, and his eyes glint, "it's Westside that's going to be shitting itself when he trots onto the court, because he's moving over here!"<br/>
<br/>
The air freezes for a moment, and then murmurs of astonishment break out. You let out a rebel yell--a noise that draws Patterson's attention, and he returns your grin with a smile of his own. "He's only here this morning," Carpenter continues, "and when he shows up for afternoon practices it's only going to be to watch for the next few days. So let's show him he's joining the winning team, the team that's going to take the championship whether he joins us or not!" That <i>does</i> raise a roar from the other guys, and even Patterson laughs.<br/>
<br/>
Still, there's a tension in the air, and only a few guys push forward to clap him on the arm. You're the last, but you make sure you're the most enthusiastic. "Dude, you're, like-- Awesome!" You pump his hand hard. "You and me should make, like, a playdate for after school!" He murmurs something back, and you can't tell if he said "Fantastic" or "Fuck that."<br/>
<br/>
"Way to be a suck up, Durras," Brett Dutoit mutters after Patterson has retreated to the bleachers.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You put on your strongest show for him, and maybe it has impressed him, for Steve does draw you aside afterward and agrees to come over to your place at around five. You text your partner to be there so he can help you take him down.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the day passes without incident, though Will calls you at around four to say he will have to be late: his dad is being a dick. You are yourself also late, for you need to score a ride home yourself. Ian provides it, and the talk about Patterson is enlightening, though Ian can't explain the sudden move by one of Westside's stars. When you reach the house, Ian asks if he can come in. "Is Frank still sick?" he asks as you walk up to the front door. <br/>
<br/>
Illness has been the explanation for Frank's absence, but under the circumstances you will have to change excuses. "That's just a story," you say quietly. "Don't spread it around, but he had to leave town to see our mom. I don't know when he'll be back." You twist at the door knob as you put the key to the deadbolt; to your surprise, it opens without needing to be unlocked. You pause, then dismiss it. Maybe you only forgot to lock it this morning.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you find yourself distracted as Ian, once inside, cautions you about being careful around Patterson. "He really is an asshole," he says. "Don't get too friendly."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm friendly with everyone and everyone likes me," you shrug. Your eye wanders over the living room. Everything seems in place. <br/>
<br/>
"I know you don't take things personally," Ian says. "But if Patterson is true to type, well ..." He puts his hands on his hips. "You might <i>find</i> yourself taking it personally." He gives you a meaningful look.<br/>
<br/>
You thank him, and try not to be too obvious about hustling him out the door, but it's getting late. In fact, he's just left when Prescott parks out front, and you've barely got him inside when Patterson pulls up. "You get one of the masks," you tell Will. "I'll bring him inside, grab him from behind, and you slap it on him. Right?" He nods. From his expression you can't tell if he's thrilled at doing this or sickened by it. Maybe it's both.<br/>
<br/>
"Steve!" you shout as leap into the front yard, arms wide. "The man!" You shake hands again and exchange pleasantries, yours markedly more enthusiastic than his. "You should come in and say hi to Frank. He's been sick, but he wants to meet you too."<br/>
<br/>
But as you lead him toward the house your cell phone buzzes. Luckily, you pause long enough to answer. It's your partner, from inside the house. "Where's the masks?" he asks. "I can't find them."<br/>
<br/>
Something catches in your throat. You'd left them in plain sight on the kitchen counter. <br/>
<br/>
<i>The unlocked door--</i>.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121211111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Theft and Its Consequences
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"They should be on the kitchen counter. Aren't they there?" You waggle your finger next to your head, indicating to Steve that you're talking to a crazy man. <br/>
<br/>
"Nope, that's where I'm looking right now."<br/>
<br/>
"Dining room table?" Another negative. "How about the living room?" Steve has folded his arms and is looking at you now with a slightly vexed expression. "Okay, this is getting weird. I'll be there in a minute to help you look." You turn off the phone and look at Steve with pretended embarrassment. "Okay, here's the deal. Frank--that's my brother--is inside and he's puking his guts up all over the house, so maybe you <i>don't</i> want to go in and meet him." Steve looks amused and disgusted, all at once. "He's looking for the barf bags I bought him. I'm just gonna duck in a moment and help him look. Here--" You pull up the garage door and retrieve the basketball. "You mind warming it up for us?" He shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
You go in through the laundry room; Will spins as you enter the kitchen. "The fuck are those things," you exclaim. You stare at the counter: no, not there. Bewildered, you charge into the dining room. <br/>
<br/>
"They're not here, bro," Will says. "I even looked in the bedroom and bathroom."<br/>
<br/>
You put your hands on your hips. "Well, we can still knock Steve out. We can put the Sue Durras mask--I gotta come up with another name--put that on him, keep him quiet until--"<br/>
<br/>
"Rick is going with 'Chester Durras'."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You wheel on him. "The fuck are you babbling about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your new name. Rick needed one to make up those documents, so I told him to use 'Chester'."<br/>
<br/>
"Where did the <i>fuck</i> did you get 'Chester'?"<br/>
<br/>
"From 'Chet Morton'! You know, Frank and Joe's best friend in--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, for the love of Franklin W. Dixon, I don't care about that now!" You stomp into the bedroom; the sound of a basketball on concrete echoes through the window. "I wanna find those masks so we can take care of that six-and-a-half-feet of interlocking assholes in our driveway!" You yank open the wardrobe door. "Fuck! Where'd Sue-- Excuse, me, <i>Chester Durras</i> get off to?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't. Yell at me." You turn to find Will, very red in the face, glaring at you. There's flame in his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You hold up your hands in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry. I'm not yelling at you. Just assume I'm yelling at myself."<br/>
<br/>
"Considering who you look like at the moment, that doesn't make it any better."<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and pinch your fingertips together. "I am a firefly wafting on a light summer breeze in the warm evening air," you murmur. "I will accept with serenity and grace the fact that we have this very afternoon been robbed blind." You open your eyes to find Will staring back with a startled look on his face. "The front door was unlocked when I got home," you explain. "I didn't have time to look around before people started showing up. While I entertain Patterson, how about you look around and see what's missing."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah, save all the fun for yourself," he grumbles.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your abandoning him seems to have put a damper on Patterson's enthusiasm for the game, for he's brusque and uncommunicative all during your session, despite your attempts to jolly him along. In fact, it might be that he's allergic to the Joe Durras charm, for he seems to get colder the more you chatter inanely at him. "I hope you save your breath for moving up and down the court," he growls at one point as he blocks your progress with the ball.<br/>
<br/>
"Trash talk trash talk trash talk <i>hey!</i>" you yell, and try darting around him. But his arms are too long, and you don't have the extra spurt of speed Joe can use to juice his moves, and he sends you flying over the concrete as he smashes the ball from you; you look up stupidly from your back to see him make a basket with it. "It's like we're playing football with the wrong kind of ball," you grumble as you stagger up. He declines to lend you a hand. "So how come you're moving over to Eastman, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
It hardly seems possible, but he turns even colder. "Personal reasons. Or maybe I got Westside's team whipped into shape and need a new challenge." He snaps his teeth.<br/>
<br/>
Warmth spreads through your limbs, and you decide to stop fucking around. You play good and hard, and you flatter yourself that you're pushing him a lot harder than he'd counted on having to work. The count remains close and tight, but Steve is still in the lead when, twenty minutes later, Will charges out from the front door and hurries to his truck. "I got a call from my dad and I gotta go," he shouts, and darts Steve a quick look as he passes. "I left a list for you."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh heavily as he hops in the truck, and turn back to Steve. He has turned a very peculiar shade in the face, and his eyes are feverish as he looks back at you. "Guy we know, I think he goes to school with you," you lamely improvise, for you're quite certain Patterson knows who Prescott is. "We've been tutoring him--"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't care for your friends, Durras," Steve snarls. "And I don't care for you either." He hurls the ball at your head, so hard and fast you have to duck out of the way. He stalks to his car and roars off.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you can guess what that was about, at least, and you really wish your partner had <i>called</i> before running out of the house like that. Patterson was one of the victims of the hex that Blackwell put on Will Prescott, and of course he would react badly at seeing the horror that is Prescott emerging from your house. Relations with him are going to be really difficult now.<br/>
<br/>
But that's going to be the least of your problems.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was a short list that your partner left behind: "Two blank masks. Chester-Sue mask. Most of the ingredients for masks (not sure). Cash from kitchen drawer. Music player. Some clothes (unless u did laundry)." <br/>
<br/>
The music player, actually, is under the sofa in the living room, and the clothes <i>are</i> in the wash. But Will is right about the other items being gone, and you can add a few more.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it wasn't a home robbery," you sigh when you talk on the phone later that night. "Too many things like the TV got left behind. Whoever it was knew exactly what he wanted." Only the bare golem, still in the bedroom, didn't get taken.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it's pretty clear Blackwell is back in town," Will says. "We hit his place, and this is payback. And with two blank masks to play with--"<br/>
<br/>
"He'll have more than that," you say quietly, and wince at the headache that's forming at your temples and spreading inward. "I went through the trash on the table and in the garbage. He also got the sigils we used to make them. I knew I shoulda burned them."<br/>
<br/>
"Can he use them to make more?" Will asks, his voice filling with horror.<br/>
<br/>
"They're live, so yeah, he can. The trick isn't that <i>I</i> can use them. The trick is that I can <i>make</i> them. I could compile and write up our own copy of that fucking book, at least up to the point where Frank got."<br/>
<br/>
"And if he got into Chet's-- your new mask, he'd know everything we know," Will points out.<br/>
<br/>
"Actually, it'd be a real stroke of luck for us if he did that. Didn't I tell you? I put a golem shell inside it. Probably it would just put him in a coma, since there's no mind band attached to it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, at least we're safe there," Will says. "Oh, wait--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." You have to sit down, for your legs really do want to give out. "I made a golem shell, which means he's got the sigil for that, too. The only sigils he hasn't got now are for golems, but with that last spell he wouldn't need them. He could make up a little task force of four or five slaves, and use them while shuttling between hiding places. And by now--" You glance at the clock, which reads a little after eight. "There's no use looking for 'Jonathan Straussler' around town. He could have replaced anybody by now, and probably has."<br/>
<br/>
You listen to Will breathe into the phone; he's listening to you too. "We need to stay close to each other," he says in a low voice. "We need to make sure one of <i>us</i> doesn't get taken and replaced by him."<br/>
<br/>
"He might try making contact, first," you reply. "He can't know that we fixed Frank, and probably thinks or hopes that I'm still around trying to survive. That means he might go looking for Cindy or for you. Maybe even me. He knows I had a mask of you, and might gamble on finding me under your face."<br/>
<br/>
"He wouldn't call or reveal himself," Will says firmly. "If I were him, I'd get alone with the person and try taking their face off, make sure first of who or what I was talking to."<br/>
<br/>
He's right. "Then that means he'll try getting close to one of us, either through Westside or Eastman. And if we need to stay close, that means we need move into the same school."<br/>
<br/>
"Or the same house. I don't like suggesting it, but he might try moving into your family here."<br/>
<br/>
That's a revolting thought--Blackwell impersonating your father or mother or brother. It's scarcely less revolting to think of yourself defending them by impersonating one of them.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121212112
author_id: seuzz
title: Sleight of Hand
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Kind of a new thing for you, huh? Not being popular," you sardonically observe.<br/>
<br/>
Joe's lips peel back--an ugly look on the face of "Will Prescott". "There's not being popular, and there's being the most hated guy in school."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, c'mon."<br/>
<br/>
"People hissed at me in the halls! People wouldn't look at me or talk to me! Your old friends pretend I'm not there. Even Justin's giving me the stink eye!"<br/>
<br/>
"After what I did to him, I'm not surprised."<br/>
<br/>
Joe's face curdles. "And <i>I</i> get to pay the price. You don't--"<br/>
<br/>
"I know exactly what you're going through. Don't forget, you and Frank wanted me to return to that thing, and I had it on long enough to get some crappy memories out of it." <br/>
<br/>
You point to his face, and he hunches with a furtive frown. "But that's not really the point," he says hotly. "The point is that I was supposed to be using this thing to infiltrate Westside for us. Getting close to people, snooping around. I can't do that."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to. We can put this case to bed tonight, and you can go back to being that dumb guy all the girls at Eastman love."<br/>
<br/>
Will's jaw drops. "You found something today? Ha! I <i>told</i> you it's back at--" He grimaces as you press your foot into his crotch. "Yeah, okay, no one likes to hear 'I told you so'. I think <i>I'd</i> handle it with a little more grace, though," he adds. He flicks an eyebrow meaningfully.<br/>
<br/>
You flash a tight smile, and drop onto the sofa. "Stand up," you order. He draws back with a puzzled expression. "Stand up," you repeat. "Go on, stand up, put your foot on me where I had mine on you."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes narrow, and he complies only slowly. You shift a little, getting comfortable under the boot. "Like I said," you continue. "I talked to Belinda Harrison after school today. She told me that there were <i>two</i> guys at Eastman with Sawyer when he had his accident." Will looks startled. "Taylor Mitchell was one. Scott Bickelmeier was the other."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes harden. "She's confused."<br/>
<br/>
"Then she's very firm in her confusion, and so are her parents, and so is their lawyer, and if the legal situation develops as it is likely to, then Salopek Aerospace and <i>its</i> legal team will be very firm in <i>their</i> confusion. Because Scott Bickelmeier made a special trip out to her house to tell Belinda that he was there when it happened, and that he is very sorry about it all."<br/>
<br/>
Your friend's eyebrows wander independently. "What's this about lawyers and legal shit?"<br/>
<br/>
"The Harrisons are going to sue Salopek, it sounds like, alleging that it was toxic fumes or something like that that put Sawyer into his coma. To defend itself, Salopek would argue that it was whatever Sawyer and his friends were up to at Eastman that put him in the coma. To do that, they will have to depose the witnesses that were there. Sawyer is in a coma. Taylor is in a coffin. And where is Scott these days?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shoving me against lockers."<br/>
<br/>
That catches your attention. "Really? Oh, but never mind. If he's doing that, then he's at Westside, and that means that's where the solution to the mystery is to be found." <br/>
<br/>
You suck on a tooth. "I told you so."<br/>
<br/>
Will glares down hard at you, and his foot shifts. You brace yourself for a hundred and fifty pounds of pissed off Will Prescott to land on your nuts, but he just exhales heavily and drops onto the sofa. "I don't remember her mentioning Scott," he mumbles.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, to be honest, I don't either, and I got your memories." You drive a knuckle into your temple. "Maybe it happened after you talked to her."<br/>
<br/>
"So we talk to Scott. Tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
"Or to Taylor."<br/>
<br/>
"Let's not add necromancy to our arsenal of investigative techniques."<br/>
<br/>
"How about you get a bag of potato chips from the pantry? There's a yearbook on the counter. Bring it in too."<br/>
<br/>
Will raises an eyebrow, but gets up with a grunt and returns with a sigh, dropping the bag onto the sofa between you and holding out the yearbook. "Caleb and Keith are cold-shouldering you still?" you ask as you flip through it.<br/>
<br/>
"They're hostile. But at least they're not mean about it. Some of the others, though ..."<br/>
<br/>
"What about James Lamont and his friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"James is rude. Jenny gave me some sympathetic looks. Carson and Paul looked gun shy. Yumi jeered at me along with some other cheerleaders."<br/>
<br/>
"What about Scott? Did he really--?"<br/>
<br/>
"He jostled me hard today. If we go find him, I shouldn't look like this."<br/>
<br/>
"What if we go as twins, then?" You've found the photos you were searching for, and are quietly smiling down at them. <br/>
<br/>
"Ha. Having fun being me, huh? It'd be a hard thing to explain, though, if word got back to Eastman that Scott was seeing double when Joe Durras showed up at his house. I'm pretty sure he's still friendly with some of the guys there."<br/>
<br/>
"Who are his old friends? We can pretend we were talking to them about him, and we wanted to come say 'Hi.'"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, McIlroy, for one. But you'll have to go as-- Oh, that reminds me--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hold that thought. Going as twins might be just the thing if we go see Sean."<br/>
<br/>
"Sean? Sean who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mitchell."<br/>
<br/>
Will looks at you blankly, and then his face clouds over deeply. "<i>Mitchell,</i>" he says carefully. "Will Prescott knows the name, and I'm thinking of the face. And now that I <i>am</i> thinking of it--" <br/>
<br/>
You lay the yearbook in his lap and point to the photographs. <br/>
<br/>
"Fuck!" he exclaims, and closes his eyes. "What is this from, their junior year?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. It's sometimes hard to tell how much twins look like each other from their photographs, but--"<br/>
<br/>
"It's close though. I even saw him in the hall today, did a double take because he reminded me of someone. But the penny didn't drop." He raises his knee and puts his chin on it. "You think <i>Sean</i> might be mixed up in it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've done enough thinking today. You tell me what <i>you</i> think."<br/>
<br/>
He sniffs, and his gaze grows distant. "It's a very cynical hypothesis," he finally says.<br/>
<br/>
"What is?"<br/>
<br/>
"That it's Sean who died in that car wreck, and Taylor is hiding from the consequences of what happened at Eastman by pretending to be his brother."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you think he'd react if twins showed up on his doorstep?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. He'd be polite? But it might rattle him."<br/>
<br/>
"Rattle him enough to shake something loose?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, we don't have to <i>rattle</i> him to loosen his tongue." He gives you a veiled glance. "Either of us can do <i>that</i>."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd still like for both of us to go."<br/>
<br/>
"You couldn't keep me away."<br/>
<br/>
"Ditto. How is Will's relationship with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sean? I dunno, I only been there one day and I don't think it's changed since <i>you</i> was him last. But I'd rather go as twins. Or you as--" <br/>
<br/>
He snaps his fingers, but you interrupt before he can continue. "Actually, I wanna talk some more about what's going on at school. I wanna figure out a way of fixing that."<br/>
<br/>
"How come? If this mask is going back on a golem--"<br/>
<br/>
"I wanna make life decent for the golem. You've been complaining about what a shitty life it is. We should make it more pleasant for the thing."<br/>
<br/>
"Why? It's not even a real thing," Will objects. "It can't <i>feel</i> anything. It can only <i>pretend</i> like it's got feelings."<br/>
<br/>
"I wish I could be sure of that," you say. "I've been thinking. Are we really so certain there's nothing on the inside, that it's just a lot of very convincing mechanical pretense on the outside?"<br/>
<br/>
Will leans back. "Look, I can remember how 'Will Prescott' was acting yesterday, before I put the mask on. But I don't remember any <i>feelings.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and the funny thing is that I can remember how <i>you</i> were acting yesterday, but I don't remember the actual feelings either. But the mask wasn't sitting on any golem between now and then."<br/>
<br/>
He looks very puzzled. "You don't remember what I was thinking?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh sure, I remember that." You bounce up and down on the sofa, preening. "I'm Joe Durras, and I'm smart and sexy and everybody loves me! It's really cool being Joe Durras!" <br/>
<br/>
Yur partner's eyes narrow, and he slowly flips you off. <br/>
<br/>
"Do you remember what the golem was thinking yesterday?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"No. There weren't any thoughts. Except a very mechanical 'Go here' and 'Go there' and 'Do this'." He shrugs. "Programming."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face. "Which is an awful lot like what it was <i>like</i> being me on the inside."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I don't believe <i>that.</i> You used to daydream all the time. I don't remember the golem daydreaming. It's been watching a lot of movies. Pacing the bedroom." Dark amusement creeps into his eyes. "Jacking off."<br/>
<br/>
"And why would it do that if it wasn't <i>enjoying</i> it?" you cry, hoping to cover your embarrassment with a triumphant invocation of evidence supporting your thesis about the inner life of a golem.<br/>
<br/>
His amusement deepens. "Were you really enjoying it when <i>you</i> were doing it?"<br/>
<br/>
If he's going to use a cheap shot against you, you'll turn it against him. "If I wasn't, then my inner life was a lot like the golem's, wasn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Then I pity you. <i>I</i> enjoyed it immensely when <i>I</i> did it this morning."<br/>
<br/>
Okay, <i>that</i> stings. "You didn't!"<br/>
<br/>
"I did it, and I loved it," he gloats, and then turns smug. "It was a nice break from routine. I never do it when--" His face freezes. "You <i>didn't!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I kept in character too. Now, who are we going to go see? Sean or Scott?"</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212121121
author_id: seuzz
title: A Riddle Gets an Easy Solution
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"If we go see Scott," your partner says, "I will definitely be doing it outside this mask." He pulls at his face.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll be doing it outside that mask whoever we go to see," you retort. "But yeah, let's go see Scott. We <i>know</i> he's mixed up in it."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine. And you can go as-- Oh hey, I--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna go as myself. I mean, outside a mask. I wanna see if that hex is still on me."<br/>
<br/>
"Why wouldn't it be?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've been through a lot of changes," you reply. "I took a trip through a magic book twice, was a golem for awhile, now I'm all flipped around. Maybe it shook off. It would give us some kind of clue to work with, figuring out how the hex works and maybe how to lift it."<br/>
<br/>
"Aha!" he cries. You rear back, startled. "It's that being a golem business, isn't it?" He grins. "You <i>sympathize</i> with them!"<br/>
<br/>
"That has nothing to do with--"<br/>
<br/>
"Just start a special interest group, already. The National Association for the Advancement of Golem People. The N-double-A-G-P."<br/>
<br/>
You grab his face and pull.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
As you enter Bickelmeier's living room, Scott looks up at Joe with muted curiosity, and mumbles a warm greeting. Joe shakes his hand enthusiastically. "Dude, it's really great to finally meet you. I'm Joe Durras. Kevin and all the other guys have been telling me all about you, and I got tired of waiting for them to put us together, so I decided to crash in on you." He claps Scott on the shoulder and turns to you as he runs out of breath. "I'm over at Eastman, but I think you probably know Will here already."<br/>
<br/>
The smile fades from Scott's face as he turns to you. His eyes cool. He doesn't hold out his hand. He just nods and grunts. "Will."<br/>
<br/>
Well, at least it's not a hostile, horrified reaction.<br/>
<br/>
Scott turns back to Joe. "I used to go to Eastman. I just moved to Westside this year. But, uh--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you don't remember me," Joe laughs. "It'd be freaky if you did. I just started this year. Yeah, me and my brother just moved to town. It's a great place. Kevin and them--"<br/>
<br/>
"McIlroy, right? You on the football team?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, basketball. I wanted to try out for both, naturally--"<br/>
<br/>
Joe continues in this way, improvising chatter and drawing Scott out. You move quietly about the living room, watching Scott carefully out of the corner of your eye. He seems wholly taken by Joe, and even when you brush past him, to sit on the sofa, he only gives you a quick glance. And yet there's no mistaking the stiffness in his demeanor when he does deign to look at you. Mostly, it seems like he's trying to forget that you're there.<br/>
<br/>
But his discomfort is such that he stirs uneasily when you rise at Joe's suggestion to move "the party" to the backyard. "I'll run pick us up something to eat," you offer. Scott says that's okay--there's stuff in the pantry--but you're politely insistent. "Call me if you guys think of anything special you want," you say to Joe. "I'll be over at that Independent we passed."<br/>
<br/>
Actually, you just drive a few blocks down the street and park in front of another house. It seems best to let Joe have Scott to himself for awhile, and you'd like to think about his behavior and what it implies about the hex.<br/>
<br/>
It seems clear that it's still on you, but it's not operating at full force. You'd take that as a sign that it's weakening, but you're given pause by the memories of the slights that "Will Prescott" has suffered at school in the past few weeks--memories you picked up by putting the mask on after taking it off Joe. The main bullies--the Gordons and the Jasons and the Lesters--have been leaving him entirely alone; in fact the few times they've found themselves close to Prescott they have practically run away. They were the ones that handled the cursed money directly. <br/>
<br/>
At the other end of the spectrum are students who are clearly just playing along with Prescott's apparent unpopularity. Geoff Mansfield has been sneery and abusive, but he hasn't a horror of Will's presence, and when he's not maligning him to his face he's just coolly dismissive. But there are a lot of people in the middle--like James Lamont--who have no reason to be rude, but are, even when with friends (like Jenny) who are otherwise quite nice. Scott's reaction today suggests he falls into this middle group. People who dislike Will but are not afraid of him.<br/>
<br/>
You drum your fingers thoughtfully. You'd been inside Joe's mask for almost a full day, and you've just taken it off, so your brain still feels like it's racing hard, but it's a strain, and all the stuff he knows is well faded from your own head. So the thinking comes slowly and painfully.<br/>
<br/>
The hex attaches to you, but it also attaches to the mask. It doesn't affect you when you are under a mask. What is it that you and Prescott's mask have in common, that you lack when you're under a mask? <i>Your appearance.</i> Except that you and the mask are now mirror images of each other. <i>But that's only a cosmetic difference, as far as the mask is concerned,</i> Joe said. You and it still share the thing that prevents you from wearing it. <br/>
<br/>
Which is <i>imago.</i> The hex must attach to <i>imago.</i> It's the only thing that explains the pattern.<br/>
<br/>
But what explains the differing effects? You know why Gordon and Jason and those guys have such a strong reaction to you: They handled the money.<br/>
<br/>
No, wait, they <i>took</i> the money from you. But is it possible that the money itself has a residual effect, and that anyone who handles it will pick up a weaker version of the hex? <br/>
<br/>
You draw a sharp breath. If that money circulated through the school, it would spread the hex like a virus. Worse, if it circulated through the city, it would touch all kinds of people who would then conceive an irrational dislike of you when you showed up. You have to stifle a groan.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you don't know for sure that that's the way it works. The thing is to figure out how to detach the hex from your imago. You'll get back into Joe's mask, talk to him--<br/>
<br/>
Speak of the devil. Your phone rings. "You need to get back here," he says without waiting for you to speak. "Fuck, but this is incredible." His tone is gleeful.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
They're sitting with their backs against the fence, knees drawn up. Scott is very white in the face and staring at Joe. Joe has his hand on Scott's knee and is smiling warmly. They look up as you approach. Scott pales even more. Joe hoots. "Where's the yummables? You went to get yummables!"<br/>
<br/>
"Some asshole called, told me to get back over here."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah!" Joe nudges Scott. "I got another introduction for you."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you," Scott snarls, and his face suddenly reddens.<br/>
<br/>
Joe grabs him before he can rise. "I'm not giving you any shit, man," he says quietly. "I believe you. I saw. I took it off you. I had to put it back on because--"<br/>
<br/>
"What's going on," you interrupt. Outside Joe's mask, his playfulness is a lot more tiresome.<br/>
<br/>
Joe looks up at you, even as he grips Scott's wrist and puts an arm around his shoulder. "That box was the jackpot," he says. He looks at Scott. "Yeah, we found it, man. That's how come we came looking for you. That's how come I believe you. That, and I <i>did</i> get it off you."<br/>
<br/>
"It?" A little explosion seems to go off in your head. "It's not a mask you're talking about, is it?"<br/>
<br/>
Scott's eyes dart up at you. Joe nods. "It looks like Scott Bickelmeier, it walks like Scott and it talks like Scott. But underneath? This is Taylor Mitchell."<br/>
<br/>
You drop to your haunches and stare at him. <br/>
<br/>
He stares back, eyes glittering with fear and anger. "So you're mixed up in this too?" His mouth twists. "I coulda guessed. A fucking weirdo like you."<br/>
<br/>
That hurts. "I'm not a weirdo. Not like that," you say in a quiet, pained voice. "I'm just under a curse. Like you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I dunno, man," Joe says. "It's not really our business. Our job is to recover shit like the <i>Libra</i> and take out the trash like <i>Blackwell.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"And fix things like Lucy and Cindy?" you riposte. <br/>
<br/>
"Point taken, but there we could fix things. I don't know how to fix this. It's almost like it's fixed already."<br/>
<br/>
"Tell that to Taylor Mitchell."<br/>
<br/>
Joe winces, and covers his embarrassment by shuffling the papers on the dining room table. You're back at the house, discussing the afternoon's revelations. Poor Taylor--or Scott, as he has been having to be for the past few months--is at his own house, waiting to see what you and Joe will say after "thinking about it." <br/>
<br/>
You're also dying to know what you'll decide, because you're dying lots of little deaths trying to figure it out.<br/>
<br/>
"The problem is that Taylor Mitchell is dead," Joe says. "Or so the world thinks. That's different from Lucy and Cindy, who were just missing for a few days and then showed up again with amnesia. And besides, if we let Taylor take that mask off--"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't tell him how to do that, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course not. It's not coming off until we take it off. But if we let him take it off, then Scott Bickelmeier disappears. We can't make both families happy."<br/>
<br/>
"But what will make Taylor happy? You heard him. He hates being Scott, because his brother hates Scott."<br/>
<br/>
The corner of Joe's mouth goes up. "I don't suppose we could tell <i>Sean</i> what's going on." He looks up with a mischievous expression. "We could even make a mask for Sean, and they could take turns switching back and forth with each other."</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121211212
author_id: seuzz
title: The Trouble with Taylor Mitchell
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"That's a terrible idea!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not a terrible idea," Joe barks back with sudden heat. "I don't <i>have</i> terrible ideas. I have counterintuitive ideas. I have ideas inspired by a bad reading of evidence. Sometimes I have ideas so twisted they look like they were conceived by a corkscrew that fucked a spirograph inside a tumble dryer that was spinning in a centrifuge. But I do not. Have. <i>Terrible ideas!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Then you've just topped yourself, because <i>that's</i> an idea that combines all of the above."<br/>
<br/>
Joe jumps up with an oath and stomps into the kitchen. <br/>
<br/>
"We're supposed to get rid of the masks and shit, Joe, not make more of them," you yell over the clatter as he slams a pot on the stove. You catch sight of the mask-making sigil--which is lying on the table--and shove it back under the other papers. "And we're definitely not supposed to be telling <i>more</i> people about them. If anything, I'd feel better if we could erase everything Taylor knows about them."<br/>
<br/>
"I wish we could've erased everything <i>you</i> knew about them when we had the chance."<br/>
<br/>
You sit back. "That's cold, man."<br/>
<br/>
Joe's face twitches and his jaw works. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. That's just the kind of shit I'd throw at Frank."<br/>
<br/>
"I know. And I'm sorry I called it a 'terrible' idea. It's a neat idea. But to have them switching masks around-- Are you sure you're not just--" Joe turns a hard but measured glance at you. You take a deep breath. "Are you sure you're not just, kind of, projecting your own fantasies onto them?"<br/>
<br/>
He grabs the pot from off the stove, and for a moment you think he's going to brain you with it. "Maybe," he says. "But not the fantasy <i>you're</i> projecting onto me."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug with your hands. "So explain it to me."<br/>
<br/>
"They're brothers. Sean and Taylor. They're twins, even. You heard Taylor say how much he misses being with Sean, and with his mother. Think how much it tears up Sean to have his brother gone. If something happened to Frank--" Joe blinks rapidly. "Oh, fuck, after the couple of weeks, if something happened to <i>you</i>--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Joe," you grin. He glares. "I love you too."<br/>
<br/>
He stalks over, throws you out of the chair, and quickly pins you to the ground. "I wanna make it right for everyone," he yells. "For Taylor, for Sean, for Scott's family. Telling Sean what's going on, and giving him and Taylor the ability to switch back and forth--"<br/>
<br/>
"It doesn't fix things for their mom. She's still out a son."<br/>
<br/>
"So we leave things just the way they are?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. First, you get off me." He snorts and helps you up. "Of course, leaving things the way they are was <i>your</i> first idea. But how about we just take the mask off Taylor and let him go home?"<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be fuckin' awkward, having a dead guy show up without any explanation."<br/>
<br/>
"The world is full of mysteries. Like, what about that girl in that old cartoon? Anastasia?"<br/>
<br/>
He groans. "She pretended to have a story. What's Taylor story going to be?"<br/>
<br/>
"We'd have a week or more to come up for one for him. Or, I dunno. Lucy and Cindy had amnesia. Don't any of your colleagues have a line in induced amnesia?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't want to ask. And after what you told me yesterday about that lawsuit business--" He blinks. "Well, wait, that'll go away after we take care of Sawyer, won't it? Unless--"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure it will. I mean, like, no harm no foul, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm, now that I think about it-- You don't know lawyers." He makes a face. "I do. The one I know is a nice guy, but the law is even scarier than necromancy."<br/>
<br/>
"Zombie lawyers," you muse. "Now <i>that</i> would be a horror movie." You shake yourself. "But that's the law. Letting Taylor go back to being himself, having him and Sawyer plead amnesia or something-- We can even put Scott's mask on a golem, so that Scott stays in circulation. At least as far as his family is concerned. It leaves a mystery, but it puts things back to normal as much as we can."<br/>
<br/>
"Amnesia," Joe mutters. "It's an idea. I'll mention it to Dad when we talk. Oh, Frank texted me. He got in this morning. The inquest is tonight--" He glances at the clock. "Maybe going on right now." He shivers. "Yeah, we'll talk tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, come find me after school. Oh, and try to think of everything you know about <i>imago.</i>" He cocks his head. "I'm still trying to figure out what to do about Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Sawyer" is Sawyer Harrison, of course. The kid with Taylor and Scott that fateful afternoon at Eastman. <br/>
<br/>
It wasn't a complicated story that Taylor had given Joe, though he himself had been rather confused in trying to relate it. Basically, he, Scott and Sawyer--all of whom worked at Salopek--had found a mystery box and raided it for its contents, which included some masks and a notebook. Taylor and Scott had managed to copy each others' images into two of the masks and gotten them onto each other. Sawyer, trying on a third mask, had simply lost consciousness. Disguised as each other, Taylor and Scott had parted ways after hiding their loot, and the latter had managed to kill himself. <br/>
<br/>
It makes for a curious prelude to your own adventure, though one you hope does not anticipate in its foreshortened way your own fate. But if it's a mask on Sawyer, there is some hope that you can simply remove it.<br/>
<br/>
Prescott's truck is in the driveway already when Ian drops you off; Belinda was absent, or you would have just coaxed her into giving you a ride straight to the hospital. The door to the house is open, but no one answers your calls. Your partner isn't in the back yard either. You're standing in the dining room, frowning in bemusement, when Joe--done up again as your old self--comes in through the front door. "Oh, you're here," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"So are you," you retort. "In other breaking news, grass is green and snow is white."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I just got here. Had to stop to help a neighbor retrieve her dog. So, are we going out to see Sawyer now?"<br/>
<br/>
"I was thinking I should go out alone. We don't want you scaring anyone."<br/>
<br/>
"It's only at Westside," he sighs.<br/>
<br/>
"And it's bad enough there." You poke him in the stomach. "You scared the shit out of the school."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?" <br/>
<br/>
"I mean Steve Patterson. He showed up at Eastman today, for morning practice. He's transferring out there."<br/>
<br/>
"So let's switch. I'll go as me, and you put on your new mask. You've hardly used it!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm still dressed out as you."<br/>
<br/>
"Rock paper scissors?" he challenges.<br/>
<br/>
"Do I <i>look</i> like an idiot?" <i>Checkmate,</i> and his face shows it. "You can hang out here till I get back."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll have to, if you're taking my truck."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Yes, it's a mask on Sawyer, and it yields to your touch when you have him alone. He revives. There's no time to question him, though, for his family returns, and you quickly take your leave, not wanting to answer awkward questions of your own.<br/>
<br/>
After having a short conference at the house, Will returns home. He calls later with news about Frank. It was a hard session with Dad and Father Ed, but apparently he came through it okay. There is no news about whether he will be returning to Saratoga Falls, however. As for what to do about Taylor, Dad's reply is gnomic: You're still in charge and can make the decision. Induced amnesia is a possibility, though, and if you decide to go that route you will get the support that you need.<br/>
<br/>
"Taylor ought to have a say in it," Will tells you. "We should talk to him again, lay out the facts and the possibilities."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you say absent-mindedly. You're examining the mask you pulled off Sawyer; it has an odd design on its inner surface. "You wanna take care of that?"<br/>
<br/>
"He doesn't like me."<br/>
<br/>
"He likes you just fine when you're not looking like Will Prescott. You keep looking for an excuse to get out of the mask. How about you handle it tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
"But you'll come along. You can go as--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah." You drop the mask onto the dining room table. "It doesn't need to be both of us, though, and making a new introduction-- Well, it's just more work than necessary."<br/>
<br/>
You come real close to changing your mind the next day, though. Patterson shows up at morning practice again, and totally ruins it for you, as far as you're concerned. So much so that you invent an excuse for skipping afternoon practice. As you leave the main building after last period you finger the phone in your pocket. You could just take the bus home. Or you could have Will come pick you up. There's no reason you can't show up as twins at Taylor's house. It would be kind of appropriate.</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121212112122
author_id: seuzz
title: An Unexpected Visitor
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>As you walk up to the house, your eyes pop at the sight of the old Cadillac and the figure hunching by the porch. "Rick!" you shout joyfully. Rick Bredon--the Stellae's "private investigator"--squeezes a quick smile onto his unshaven face as you trot up. Greasy hair falls lankly to the bottom of his jaw. "What brings <i>you</i> out here, man?" He ignores your outstretched hand and holds up a white packet. "Cool! So what's the new guy's handle?"<br/>
<br/>
"Chester Morton Durras." He eyes you carefully. "You gonna be okay with that?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Chester Mor--?</i> You silently groan. <i>Of course.</i> "It's the name I gave you."<br/>
<br/>
"It's the name your partner gave me." He avoids your eye.<br/>
<br/>
You blink, and the penny drops. "How did--? Ah. Joe wouldn't have asked for the name. He knew it already." You grin and shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't try to pull any fast ones on me, <i>Chet.</i> Where's the kid?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's covering for me. It's complicated." You put the key in the lock. "You wanna beer?"<br/>
<br/>
He flicks a finger at the side of his mouth. "You got anything harder?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Beer's fine then."<br/>
<br/>
"BYO."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that your idea of a joke, or the kid's?"<br/>
<br/>
You punch your temple. "It's mostly one brain in here, so it's hard to tell. Come on in."<br/>
<br/>
You step into the foyer, but Bredon stands on the sill, and his eyes dart quickly about before he follows. "Don't mind me. It's a mannerism."<br/>
<br/>
"It's a technique. Kept you alive several years past your sell-by date, I hear." He shrugs. "You traveling light?"<br/>
<br/>
"Clothes on my back, fumes in the tank." He brushes quickly past you into the living room. Again, he takes it in with a glance. "Someone's a neat housekeeper."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not being lived in much. How about a sandwich?"<br/>
<br/>
"You should keep a small mess. Makes it easier to spot visiting mice. I've got a sandwich-shaped hole in me. No mustard, though." His cheek twitches and he crouches. "Suffered a little stress."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm talking about your partner, so you tell me." He brushes the carpet. "The kid only smokes when he's upset."<br/>
<br/>
"Pah! I told you I got Joe's brain in here, and you're freaking even him out. Yeah, we had a misunderstanding. Turns out I picked up a little something from him."<br/>
<br/>
"The kid plays it clean and straight, so it can't be an STD."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you're a riot. No, it turns out I'm a bit of a sponge." Brdon looks up at you. "That's your cue to ask if I lightened his wallet while carrying it around on my hip." He continues to stare. You hold out your hand. "Meet only the second <i>Stellae</i> in a century or so to have Sulva as an <i>ousiarch</i>." His hand is rough, calloused and dirty, and he doesn't return your grip as you shake it. "The moon's a mirror, and when it's at the right declination I can imitate some of Joe's own essential qualities. He kind of freaked out over it."<br/>
<br/>
"What's this <i>ousiarch</i> crack, Chet? You ain't been inducted yet, have you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not officially." You take a deep breath. "They've got me under observation. Ho boy, do they got me under observation. It's like the voyeur's annual gala ball, and I'm the pole dancer. I'll get you that sandwich." You feel his eyes on your back as you step into the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
You hear him shuffling around as you pull stuff out of the refrigerator: luncheon meats, mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato ... Your knuckles whiten around the knife as you spread the mayo on the bread. It was a bad idea to try snowing him at the start. You can practically hear the click of the billiard balls in his mind as he plays through all the angles: Why you made the pretense, why you're imitating Joe, what it means that you're Sulva. Well, he'd be making the deductions anyway, but you've made it a little harder for him, and for you, too. You're putting the stuff away when he pads softly into the dining room and leans against the bar. You rip open a package of potato chips, dump them on a plate, and add the sandwich. <br/>
<br/>
He glances up as you push it toward him. "So the kid's off being you, you said. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"And like I said, it's complicated."<br/>
<br/>
He lifts the top-most piece of bread and studies the insides of the sandwich. "I had a complicated case once," he mutters, and lifts the meat and then the lettuce. He lets it all fall. "A real mindscrew."<br/>
<br/>
"For the Stellae?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, for money. A case of insurance fraud." He picks up the top-most slice of bread, folds it in four, and takes a bite. "Couldn't make heads or tails of it. Looked kind of like an accident, kind of like a suicide."<br/>
<br/>
"You want some water? You look dry."<br/>
<br/>
"Never touch the stuff, you should know that, looking the way you do." He runs the back of his hand across rough, chapped lips. "But a Coke with rum, hold the Coke?"<br/>
<br/>
"No hard stuff in the house, I told you."<br/>
<br/>
"I was hoping that was another little deception. Then you'll be holding the rum, too," he sighs. You open the cabinet and set an empty glass in front of him. He just swallows the rest of the bread. <br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, that case. I needed a distraction, so one night I buy a jigsaw puzzle, five hundred pieces. Take it back to the motel room, break it open, have the edges done and most of a corner by two in the morning." He traces a ragged fingertip across the counter, illustrating. "I go to bed. Rough night. I was trying to stop drinking at the time." His breath gurgles. "Never again.<br/>
<br/>
"I wake up the next morning, feeling like crap, and the table's bare. I look in the box, and there's all the pieces, all broken up again. It looked like I'd taken it apart in the middle of the night. No memory of doing it, though." He picks up the sliced turkey, folds it, stuffs it in his mouth. "I go back to work on the case. Still can't make any headway. There's a girl mixed up in it. Ankle bracelet."<br/>
<br/>
"Nice."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but she was fat. Silly looking thing. Anyway, a few nights later I break open the puzzle again. This time I finish it. Sailboats," he snorts. "I hadn't even looked at the picture on the box. But I find a bunch of words scribbled on the finished puzzle. Whole paragraphs. The solution to the case, who did it, who the accomplice was, how it was done. All laid out nice and neat. Well, the solution was neat. The handwriting was a bastard to decipher. But I confronted them, and they confessed. Details perfect, even down to the ankle bracelet."<br/>
<br/>
"Shit, man. So, those words were like a manifestation?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, laundry marker. I had one in my kit." He swallows the tomato in one gulp. "I'd gotten up in the middle of the night, finished the puzzle, written out the solution, broken the puzzle up, gone back to bed." He claws rather than scratches at the back of his neck. "I'd gotten it all worked out, down deep. But I wasn't drinking, so it was all locked up. So I pulled that crap with the puzzle and the laundry marker as a way of telling myself the answer." He picks up the last piece of bread and sniffs at the mayo, then tosses it into the sink.<br/>
<br/>
"That's whack."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, that's me. And why am I telling you all this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Beats me. I already knew you were a badass."<br/>
<br/>
"'Complicated' don't scare me, Chet. Just give me the pieces." He turns dead eyes on you. "What's the kid up to?"<br/>
<br/>
You smile wryly. "I got a face under here, but it's left to right. It's a mirror image of my real face. I have a mask of me, it's my old face. But the way the masks work, I can't wear it."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because you can't disguise yourself <i>as</i> yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah. So people would notice the change if you went back, so you need someone to play you."<br/>
<br/>
"And Joe likes to play dress up anyway."<br/>
<br/>
Rick's mouth hangs open; it's like a gaping wound. "Yeah, I met his dad. That's all I'm gonna say, though."<br/>
<br/>
"I know all about his dad. You should know that, given the way I'm looking."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," Rick says. He stares over your shoulder. "He was a clever bastard." Then he looks back at you. "So where's the dummy?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
Rick's lips twitch. "No. You got a <i>thing</i> you can hang masks on, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, golems. You shouldn't call them 'dummies' if you don't wanna confuse me. We have one back in the bedroom, we confiscated it from Blackwell's collection. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just confirming a deduction. You're gonna hang the kid's face on it, right, now that you're set up with these?" He taps the white packet.<br/>
<br/>
"Probably."<br/>
<br/>
"Because the dummy ain't quite as understanding as I am."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean the golem?"<br/>
<br/>
He sighs heavily. "No, the kid's brother. Giuseppe. You've already told him you're using the golem to keep the kid in circulation, so you better--"<br/>
<br/>
"How do you--?"<br/>
<br/>
"An obvious inference," he says wearily. "Giuseppe wouldn't be okay with this game you guys are playing, so you did the switch after he left. You would have told him something to keep him happy, and the best way to do that is to tell him you've got a golem playing you. Or playing the kid."<br/>
<br/>
"But you didn't know about the golem," you say slowly.<br/>
<br/>
"It's the only way it makes sense, so I inferred you had one. And I'm not <i>asking</i> if you're going to switch the kid's face onto the golem, I'm <i>reminding</i> you what you need to do. Make the point to the kid when you see him. Hard."<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't you staying?"<br/>
<br/>
He pauses. "I could use a place to crash for the night."<br/>
<br/>
You feel Joe's own mind bridle, but really: It would be nice if Rick could help you locate Blackwell.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212121121221
author_id: seuzz
title: A Consultation with a Detective
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"We're about where we can put the golem in for me," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"You got everything you need, Chet. I made sure of that. How about you put that new face of yours on?" Rick nods at the mask on the table. "The only thing we need is a--" He stops at your grin. "Ah, that's not your face, is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Finally caught you in a bad deduction," you grin. "My new face is in the bedroom."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I'll bite." He jerks his head at the mask on the table. "Who is <i>that</i> one for?" <br/>
<br/>
"It's not <i>for</i> anyone. I pulled it off a face today."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, did Blackwell show up?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not yet. And how do you--? Oh, never mind. We've been busy with something else."<br/>
<br/>
"You should have been taking care of the magician."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, this was a loose end we thought we could tie up. As for Blackwell, would you be willing to help us?"<br/>
<br/>
Rick shifts on his feet. "I need money, and if Charles has put the JV squad in charge--"<br/>
<br/>
"That's just it, he's put <i>us</i> in charge. He's put <i>me</i> in charge, man. Carte blanche for the newbie." You turn helpless palms toward the ceiling. "It's a fucking test. A <i>fucking test.</i> And I don't think there's any boundaries. Every time I push up against one he just erases the line."<br/>
<br/>
"That doesn't mean there's no such thing as <i>cheating.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Is it cheating to ask the guy who traced the <i>Libra</i> to Saratoga Falls for more help? Is it cheating to ask the guy who told us 'Go check out this guy Blackwell, he's the one who redirected the box' to put his nose to the ground again?"<br/>
<br/>
Rick digs at his ear with a thick finger. "Eh. I still need money."<br/>
<br/>
"And you'd get it. Oh brother, would you get it."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't hear anything about you guys winning the lottery."<br/>
<br/>
"No, but this now is a missing kid case. Blackwell isn't running around as himself. He's hiding out under the face of a high school kid named Jonathan Straussler. We find Straussler, we find Blackwell."<br/>
<br/>
Rick buries his face in the countertop and rubs the back of his head. "And there's money in it?"<br/>
<br/>
You lean close. "Straussler's dad owns a high-tech company. He's been on the cover of <i>Forbes.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Rick sighs deeply. "Then they already have agencies digging. They're not gonna hire me."<br/>
<br/>
"But you're better than them. You also have a better idea about what to look for. If they track him down to a cheap motel, they'll just find a fat old guy. But you'll know pay dirt when you hit it. <i>You'll</i> get the reward when we hang Straussler's mask on a golem and take it home to his folks."<br/>
<br/>
"There's no bringing the real kid back?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, he's in the bedroom." Rick raises his head. "Yeah," you say. "He's not coming back."<br/>
<br/>
He squirms a little more. "I still need money. Now."<br/>
<br/>
"We can carry you while you work. Dad gave me and Joe a bonus. I'll even make a run to the store for you." You jerk your head at the white packet. "Chet Durras in there. Does his ID say he's over twenty-one?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but Sue Durras is twenty-two."<br/>
<br/>
"Who is-- Oh, don't tell me."<br/>
<br/>
"Your fake 'fake ID'. You know, for a guy who says he's got the kid's brain in there with him, you're doing a piss poor job anticipating what he asked me to make for you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wind up giving him cash for gas and liquor, and he makes the run himself. When he gets back you tell him all you know about Jonathan. "Rich kid, probably got his own credit cards, probably his own accounts," Rick muses as he nurses a tumbler of Scotch. "He'll have traveled far, cleaned it out, laid a trail, be circling back. If he's coming back. Has he got any supplies that'll help him make a new disguise?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Last I saw him, he had Straussler's face, clothes, wallet, car, which is enough. He would have steered clear of his old place. It was enemy territory by that point."<br/>
<br/>
"He could have had stuff stashed in a secret place," Rick says. "His face and the boy's face would be dangerous to travel under. He won't have the car anymore either."<br/>
<br/>
"It's gotta be one of the two faces, though."<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know that." He casts flinty eyes at you. "The kid's good at theory, Chet, but we're looking for a tree, not a forest."<br/>
<br/>
You're still talking when the door opens and Will Prescott comes in. He blinks at you and Rick. "Hey," he says uncertainly. "So, uh--"<br/>
<br/>
"Cut the crap, kid," Rick says. "Your friend's an even worse con man than you."<br/>
<br/>
A grin breaks across Will's face, and he bounds up to hug Rick. "I need a shower anyway, so I don't mind getting your stink on me. I thought you were just gonna FedEx us the stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"That costs money, and I could get it to you quicker myself." He raises a glass to your partner. "To new looks. It's a change for the worse for one of you, but I'll be diplomatic and not say who." He tosses his drink back, and allows himself another quick smile--the second of the afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
"How'd things go with Taylor?" you ask Will. "I haven't told Rick about that."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's none of his business." Will joins you at the table by dropping into a chair. He picks up the mask. "Was this on Sawyer?" You nod. He turns it over. "A new design."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and I don't recognize it. But all's well that ends well. Sawyer's back among the living. Taylor?"<br/>
<br/>
Will glances briefly at Rick. "He's down with it. Kinda raised the idea himself. Said he'd like to forget the past few months."<br/>
<br/>
"We could get it done tonight," you say. "We could put Scott's face on the golem."<br/>
<br/>
"Or <i>I</i> could take over for Scott and we could put Will's face on the golem."<br/>
<br/>
"Or your friend could take over for Scott," Rick interrupts. "You be yourself, and you put <i>that face</i>--" He jabs a finger at Will. "--onto the golem."<br/>
<br/>
Will frowns at you. "I thought you said you didn't-- Oh, right, who's sitting at the table with us? But there's still the amnesia angle that needs solving. What do you say to that, Rick?" He waggles his eyebrows.<br/>
<br/>
Rick hugs his elbows with his hands. "Whoever this Scott fellow is, is he coming back?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, he's in even worse shape than Straussler," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Painful memory for this Taylor fellow?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. He also knows all about the masks."<br/>
<br/>
"Unh. You don't want to give him an excuse to find other ways of forgetting." He sniffs at his glass. "There any other reasons to give him a mind wipe?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's been missing for the past few months. Everyone thinks he's dead. Someone who looked just like him was in a car wreck."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah, the old Anastasia ploy. Well, if he likes it, okay. I can do it for you, even. Assuming," he adds carefully. "You're not being a couple of dicks and holding back <i>pertinent information.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You tell Rick all about Taylor and Sawyer and Scott and Sean. He barely seems to pay attention, and when you're done repeats that he can do it for you. "Let's get Chet set up first, though," he says. "You said that mask is back in the bedroom?"<br/>
<br/>
"Wardrobe," you say, rising. <br/>
<br/>
He gestures you to sit. "I'll get it. I wanna snoop. I wanna see that golem, too."<br/>
<br/>
After he's gone, Will grins at you. You slap him on the side of the head. "Chester! Fucking nimrod."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have to gain about forty pounds, too, before the name really fits," he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
"And 'Sue'!"<br/>
<br/>
His eyes pop. "Yeah! Let's see how he spelled it on the ID!" He grabs at the packet.<br/>
<br/>
"There's no mask back here, Chet!" Rick calls from the bedroom. You and Will look at each other, and run back to join him. Rick is staring into the wardrobe. The drawers are all open, and even the bedspread has been lifted from the floor. <br/>
<br/>
You pat the shelf. "I put it here and haven't touched it." You look at Will. He turns his hands palm up.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
A search of the house ensues. It's not to be found. Back at the dining room table Rick studies his fingernails and questions you. "Anything else leap out at you? Or not, as the case may be? Things that should be here but aren't?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the TV's still here," you start.<br/>
<br/>
His lip curls. "I mean anything that <i>he</i> would have taken. Blackwell," he adds when you say nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know it was him," you snap. "Maybe it was a down on his luck museum curator who thought he'd found an African curio." Rick continues to study his nails. <br/>
<br/>
"Cash from the drawer is gone," Will calls from the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
"I gave it all to Rick," you reply. "The mask is the only thing Blackwell could have found that--"<br/>
<br/>
You freeze, your eyes on the stack of paper in the middle of the table. With a beating heart you shuffle through it very carefully, sorting it out. "Leaving a mess for the mice to paw through doesn't do any good," Rick says carefully as he wets a fingertip and rubs a nail. "If you don't check the mess every time you get back to the house. What's missing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sigils," you quietly groan. "Sigils for making masks. For making mind bands. For putting golem shells inside of masks."<br/>
<br/>
"That sounds bad," Rick says. Will puts his face in his hands. "After we confirm that each of us is the person he claims to be," Rick continues, "the three of us are going to have to start being <i>very careful.</i> We can start by finding some hiding places of our own."</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121211212211
author_id: seuzz
title: Spot the Imposter
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You lean back uneasily. "You really think one of us--" <br/>
<br/>
You and Will exchange a glance; Rick continues to study his fingernails. <br/>
<br/>
"We've all been out of sight of each other since this robbery," he says. "Two of us have already confessed to not being the person they appear to be. My own appearance this evening was unanticipated by the other two. Tch. It's a mad, bad, sad world we live in." <br/>
<br/>
"Well, <i>I'm</i> all for taking off masks." Will starts to put his hand to his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on," you say. The other two shift their chins fractionally in your direction. "I also don't mind taking masks off. But taking a mask off knocks you out, or at least knocks you woozy. That would leave only two people conscious, and maybe one of them would have to deal with a fake." You glance between the other two. "I'm not sure I want to be left alone with--"<br/>
<br/>
"Then try it with me first," Rick says. "I'm not wearing a mask, so I'm not going anywhere. And I think I can handle any fakes that are still standing while one of you is off necking with Morpheus."<br/>
<br/>
You look at Will, and he nods. Rick smiles faintly and continues to bend over his fingernails as you grasp his face. It is rough and coarse, even at the temples, and the whiskers on his cheek scratch. You tug and tug, but nothing comes loose. "Is that all there is to it?" he mutters softly. "Huh. Now which of you--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on." You pull out a loose sheet of paper and a mechanical pencil and start to draw up a small sigil. "If we're going to be paranoid, let's be properly paranoid."<br/>
<br/>
"Nails?" Will asks, sucking in his breath. "Like with Frank?" You nod. "I don't think--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Let's be sure."<br/>
<br/>
They watch silently as you work; Rick seems especially intent on your labors. It takes you nearly twenty minutes to finish up the three copies of the sigil that dissolves binding spikes. "I don't know if this will knock anyone out," you say as you raise one. "But--"<br/>
<br/>
"What is it?" Rick quietly asks.<br/>
<br/>
"There are ways of binding a mask or other things onto a person so that you can't get them off. I don't think Blackwell knows about them. But I'm not gonna let you take the gold in the paranoia Olympics, Rick."<br/>
<br/>
He scratches behind his ear. "And you don't know if it will knock someone out," he muses. "That makes it tricky, doesn't it? Because what if it does?" He fixes his eye on you. "You don't want to be left alone with me, or with the kid over there."<br/>
<br/>
"To be honest," says Will, "I wouldn't want to go up against a fake version of <i>you</i>, Rick."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm flattered, kid. And since I like my title as Grand Master at Corkscrew Thinking, I'll toss it out that I'm not sure I trust <i>both</i> of you, let alone either of you."<br/>
<br/>
Three pairs of eyes shift across three faces. Then: "Oh, for fuck's sake," Will cries out. He snaps his fingers, and an instant later is bouncing two globes of light in hands.<br/>
<br/>
"Am I supposed to crap in my pants?" Rick asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Masks don't copy <i>essentia</i>," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Rick sniffs. "Good enough for the moment," he says. <br/>
<br/>
And then all the lights in the world go out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When they come back on, it's like you've popped to the surface of a very deep pool, and you gasp deeply and raggedly. You find yourself still in your chair. Rick is leaning against the table, his mouth covered by his fist; his glance is amused. Will is seated across from him, also leaning against the table with his head resting against a hand. You look wildly between them. "The fuck was that?" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, just Rick being melodramatic," Will says. "He's been having a lot of fun comparing your face and mine." You look down: Joe's mask is resting on the table. "Yeah, you didn't see it coming when he pulled it off you."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened while I was out?" You swallow.<br/>
<br/>
"Took some compromising pictures," Rick snorts. He picks up one of the sigils. "And how do <i>these</i> things work?"<br/>
<br/>
"You put them on your forehead-- Son of a bitch!" This time it was Will's whose hand you didn't see as he slaps the sigil over your nose. It felt like being struck between the eyes with a hammer. You clutch your forehead and look down at the table, onto which the scrap of paper with the sigil has fluttered. As the three of you stare, it blackens and turns to ash.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'm satisfied that Chet is who he says he is," Rick says. He looks at Will. "Kid?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'd rather you go first," Will says. He moves slowly this time, and puts a second scrap to Rick's forehead. The latter blinks at it sticks there, and then it flutters to the table and withers in an invisible flame.<br/>
<br/>
And then Rick reaches across the table to pull the Will mask from Joe. He wobbles in his chair and then falls backward. While he's slumped in his chair, Rick puts the last scrap to his forehead, with the same results as before.<br/>
<br/>
"Was that really necessary," you ask him. "I mean, the trick with the balls--"<br/>
<br/>
"Actually, I figured if anyone was the fake it would be him," Rick says. "If you were trying to pull anything you wouldn't have mentioned losing those sigils. Trust psychology over parlor tricks." He sighs and gets uncertainly to his feet. "I need another drink. Shoulda had a couple before we started playing. We coulda got through it faster."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Trust, you suppose, has been re-established all around, so you speak freely when Rick asks you to describe the various <i>Libra</i> spells you have at your disposal. He stares at the table as you describe them, and only occasionally looks up at Joe for confirmation or explication. When you're finished, he grimaces. "How intimate have you been with the <i>Libra,</i> Chet? I mean," he asks when you ask, "how much have you handled it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not a lot. Blackwell took it back from me not long after I got it. He didn't let me see much of it."<br/>
<br/>
His eyebrows arch. "That's it? You picked up all this just by reading it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will--" Joe catches himself and smiles at you. "Chet had a few adventures with it." He looks at you. "Tell him about how you wound up--" He holds up a hand and flips it back and forth.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, yeah, there was that." You tell Rick about how you turned into a golem for awhile, and of Blackwell's theory that you passed <i>through</i> the <i>Libra,</i> and of how you think you passed through it <i>again</i> while undergoing this left-to-right transformation.<br/>
<br/>
Rick then grasps your hands and sets them side by side, palms up, on the table. He lays his own palms over yours, and makes a face. "The sigil you made earlier," he says. "Think of it. Concentrate on it. Visualize it."<br/>
<br/>
You swallow, and as you press your attention on it your hands begin to burn. You flinch, but Rick continues to press down, keeping you from pulling them back. You look at Joe in alarm, and he leans in with a concerned expression of his own. "Keep your hands just like that," Rick says, and then pulls his own hands away.<br/>
<br/>
You gasp as you glance down: the sigil is inscribed across your palms in fiery symbols. Rick runs his tongue inside his cheek, then lays a blank piece of paper atop your hands. The sigil appears on it, and your hands cease to burn. When he lifts the paper, your palms are clear and unsinged. He takes a lighter from his pocket and burns the sigil with a sigh.<br/>
<br/>
"You said you could write up a new copy of the <i>Libra,</i>" Rick says when you ask what is going on. "You don't have to. You <i>are</i> a copy of it, Chet."<br/>
<br/>
"How?"<br/>
<br/>
"That trip you took. Kali and the kid here say you're a Sulva. Got reflective properties." He points at your face. "One only has to look at you to see you're now almost a perfect mirror."<br/>
<br/>
"What does that mean?" you ask in a voice that slightly trembles.<br/>
<br/>
"For now, let's just say it means you don't have to leave any dangerous crap around," he says, and slides the few remaining sheets of paper around on the table. "I'm sure that sigil you were holding was live. You got supplies to make up some of those new masks?" You and Joe nod. "Then let's get started."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Rick is right: The sigils you can bring up in your own hands work just as well as the ones you'd been laboriously copying, though you have to flinch a little when Joe pours the burning mixture over the mirror you balance in your hand. Even the mind bands are quick work, since you can use the same trick to quickly imprint the runes onto the metal strips. Joe grumbles at having to polish up three masks, until Rick suggests using a power buffer. Your partner gives you a murderous look when he realizes how much work and sweat he had wasted in polishing up the masks you had made.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, along about ten o'clock, you have the masks done. Now comes the moment you hadn't been wanting to tackle. "Blackwell is going to be looking for you two," Rick says. "We need to be close to where you currently are. That means some of your friends, Chet. Schoolmates. Maybe even family."<br/>
<br/>
You wince. He's probably right.</span></div></div>


path: 112211111112221122111122212121121121211221212122
author_id: imaj
title: A U-Turn Is Proper Leadership, Right?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Jesus, Joe!" you explode. "I-- I--" He just looks amused as you stutter. "I don't know how to run an investigation! You need to be in charge!"<br/>
<br/>
"Dad's in charge," he says. "And if Dad says you're in charge, then you're in charge."<br/>
<br/>
"But I don't know what to do!"<br/>
<br/>
"You can always ask me for advice."<br/>
<br/>
True. "Okay, so what do you think we should do?"<br/>
<br/>
He just purses his lips; his eyes glint.<br/>
<br/>
You groan. "Don't be like this. I don't know enough to--"<br/>
<br/>
"You know everything I know," he says. "We've talked over the case. Hours and hours of talk. Once we get started, I'll be full of advice. But as for the overall plan-- Look, I've told you what I think, and you've offered your own opinions. You make the decision. I'll be with you a hundred thousand percent."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh loudly.  You know Joe is trying to make you feel guilty and, worse, it’s working.  He’s set on staying at Eastman, despite your misgivings – there are definitely leads at Westside that you need to look at.  On the other hand, what easier way would there be to win Joe’s loyalty to his new ‘boss’ than giving him what he wants.  You can always gently steer him to Westside later on.<br/>
<br/>
You pace slowly about the kitchen, head down and arms folded; you can feel Joe's eyes on you. "Back to Eastman?" you finally say, and can't keep it from coming out like a question. "I mean there must be things there that you missed.  And I have a gut feeling that’s where Blackwell ended up too. Does that seem like a good idea?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe snorts and you wilt.  <i>Dammit, this is awkward</i>. You are not used to being in charge.  “Things we missed,” he repeats, making it clear what he thinks of that idea.  “We were pretty thorough.”<br/>
<br/>
<i>If this is what leadership is like</i>, you think, <i>you can stick it</i>.  You have the feeling that Joe is going to complain no matter what you decide, and in a flash of insight you realise that he prefers it that way.  “It’s not an insult,” you say, holding up your hands in a placating gesture.  “It’s who you are,” you improvise.  “New guy shows up at school and starts asking a lot of questions, people are going to close up.  And I bet you didn’t use that lie detector thing much either.”<br/>
<br/>
“I said it was rude,” glowers Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“So there’s probably a lot of stuff that you weren’t told,” you continue.  “That’s what I mean, you didn’t miss things, people just didn’t tell you everything.”<br/>
<br/>
“And you know how to fix that,” asks Joe, an odd expression on his face.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, I do.  There’s bound to be people at Eastman that are gossips,” you explain.  You suddenly find yourself thinking of Cassie Harper, who sat next to you in Math back at Westside.  “I mean, they’d go round asking questions all the time and no one would think anything of it.”<br/>
<br/>
“Are you saying you want to use the mask you made,” asks Joe, a little too keenly.  “Are you really sure that’s what you want to do?”<br/>
<br/>
“It would only be temporary,” you reply.  “Just for the length of the investigation.  Just long enough to find out the missing facts.  Then we let the person go with nothing more than a bad case of amnesia and a missing week or two.”  Joe nods but you feel that the only person you are succeeding in convincing is yourself.  “Who are the gossips at Eastman?”<br/>
<br/>
Joe thinks for a moment.  “The Rumourati,” he replies.<br/>
<br/>
“The… uh… what?”<br/>
<br/>
“I know,” says Joe with a shrug.  “Adam Weishaupt would be rolling in his grave.  If he had one after what the <i>Stellae </i>of the time did after they caught up with him.”  As with all Joe’s cryptic references, you find yourself staring blankly at him.  “You’ve got a long way to go before you’re half the straight man Frank was,” he continues in a hurt tone of voice.  “It’s this bunch of girls that keeps a tight lid on all the gossip in the school.  You know, now that I think about them, it’s surprising we found out as much as we did.”<br/>
<br/>
“Girls,” you ask.  “Just girls?  No guys at all?”<br/>
<br/>
“What,” smiles Joe.  “You scared of having boobs or something?  Fifty percent of the populace manages with them every day.  And I was just thinking how a nice pair of boobs would brighten up the house a little.”  He snickers for a few moments.  “There’s a guy called Lawrence Farmer that tries to play too, but the girls keep him shut out, so you don’t want him.”<br/>
<br/>
“He might not be that bad a choice,” you argue.<br/>
<br/>
“Also, he’s clearly gay as hell,” explains Joe.  “And I’m getting a vibe from you that you wouldn’t enjoy that.”<br/>
<br/>
“How can you be sure he’s gay?”<br/>
<br/>
“The planets don’t lie,” explains Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“So one of the girls then,” you concede.<br/>
<br/>
“Great,” says Joe with a dazzling smile.  “I got one in mind that would be perfect.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s the one with he biggest boobs isn’t it,” you ask with dreadful certainty.  The look on Joe’s face is all the answer you need.  “Look I don’t want her.  I want one of the less visible members,” you add, putting your foot down.  Joe’s face falls.  “I’m in charge here, aren’t I?  I’m telling you to get a low profile Rumourati girl so nobody pays too much attention to me asking questions as her.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yessir,” says Joe with a snappily sarcastic salute.<br/>
<br/>
“Now I feel sorry for Frank again,” you mutter.</span></div></div>


path: 1122111111122211221111222121211211212112212121221
author_id: imaj
title: Southern Discomfort
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You are idly flicking through the television stations when Joe returns from school the following afternoon.  You hear the front door open and the sound of two voices talking to each other.  One is definitely Joe, the other a girl.  “Is that you Joe,” you shout, unwilling to move yourself from the couch you are lying on.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,“ comes his voice loudly.  “This way,” you hear him say more quietly.  You crane your neck to look as he enters.  “This is… uh… my cousin Sue,” he says to his companion, for you have chosen to wear the mask that combines Joe’s and Frank’s faces.<br/>
<br/>
If his companion thinks anything of your name, she says nothing about it.  “Hi, y’all,” she greets you, with an obvious southern twang.  “I’m Tina.”<br/>
<br/>
You examine the girl that Joe has brought you.  She’s pretty rather than beautiful, a slender girl next door with modest curves.  The light spray of freckles across her nose makes her look cute and her generously proportioned lips smile with genuine warmth.  Her best feature, without a doubt, is the bright flame red hair which is tied back into a loose ponytail save for a few errant strands at the front that frame her face.<br/>
<br/>
Her clothes are modest too:  A simple pair of blue jeans over dark brown boots.  A sleeveless white blouse with a conservative neckline that hints at the presence of her breasts without revealing anything.  There is a flash of silver at her neck and you spot a small cross hanging from a necklace.  Her exposed arms are pale and slim with, gain, a smattering of freckles.  You notice that the bangles on her wrists are the same shade of blue as her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<i>She’ll do</i>, you think.  “Hi Tina,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“Can I get you a drink,” Joe asks Tina.<br/>
<br/>
“If you have a coke that would be fine sugah,” she replies.<br/>
<br/>
“Get me one too cuz,” you add.<br/>
<br/>
“Get yourself a drink,” laughs Joe as he walks into the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
“So Sue,” says Tina, taking a seat opposite you.  “That’s an unusual name.”<br/>
<br/>
“Lots of girls are called Sue,” comes Joe’s voice from the kitchen.  You groan.  “Oh, you mean like for a boy.  Yeah his parents are weird.  Lucky for him, he’s come to stay with the intelligent side of the Family.”  Tina titters.  “I’m going to teach him everything I know.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not going to take long,” you mouth silently at Tina, who breaks into a wide smile.  “I better go get my drink otherwise he’ll forget,” you say more loudly, slithering off the couch.<br/>
<br/>
You walk through to the kitchen where Joe, unsurprisingly, has gotten a drink ready for Tina and himself only.  You grab him by the shoulder and turn him round to face you.  “Get back in there and make with the….” you whisper.  You don’t finish the sentence, instead miming placing a mask on your face.<br/>
<br/>
“You happy enough with that one then,” he whispers back conspiratorially.   “Boobs not too…” he gestures expansively with his hands.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” you reply, narrowing your eyes.  “At least I don’t have to worry about a boyfriend or anything.”  Joe raises his eyebrow so you explain.  “She’s got one of those chastity pledge rings on her finger.  Cross on her neck too.  I’m guessing she’s religious or something.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe laughs loudly.  “Y’all okay in there,” shouts Tina from next door.<br/>
<br/>
“Sue just said something funny, that’s all,” Joe shouts back.  “You’ve got a lot to learn about girls Will Prescott,” he whispers at you.  “That just means when she does hook up with a guy its going to be raw and dirty.”  You look at him levelly.  “Want to bet on it,” he adds.  “You’ll see once you get inside her head.”<br/>
<br/>
“Just get out there and get on with it,” you hiss.<br/>
<br/>
Joe sniggers as he opens one of the kitchen drawers and pulls out a blank mask from it.  He stuffs the mask into the band of his trousers at the back and grabs the drinks and walks out.  <br/>
<br/>
You lean on the worktop and wait.  There is a quiet murmur of discussion, some muffled sounds then finally Joe calls you.  “It’s done.”<br/>
<br/>
Tina is slumped over in her chair when you come back in.  Joe is already disrobing her.  “I’m not sure I approve of you looking inside her clothes like that,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
“What,” he asks with a frown.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, I mean, it’s going to be my body in a couple of minutes.  I’m not sure if I like the idea of you having seen me naked.”<br/>
<br/>
“Who’s to say I haven’t seen her naked already,” replies Joe with a sparkle in his eye.  “Girl has the hots for me I’m telling you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Look, ughh…” you begin.  Joe smiles lasciviously.  “Yeah, whatever.”  You dive into the cushions of the couch and pull out the golemized mask of yourself.  It will keep the real Tina out of the way while you pretend to be her.  When you turn back round, Tina is completely naked, her clothes sitting in a neat pile beside her.  “Did you just use your super speed thing to undress her?  Is that even?  God, I really wish I’d gone with Frank now.”<br/>
<br/>
“No you don’t” smiles Joe.  “We’re having fun.  That the mask of you?  Give it over.”  You throw the mask to Joe underarm and he catches it deftly.  He waits silently beside Tina till the blank mask resurfaces from her.  “Don’t think I’m going to get used to seeing that, makes my stomach turn.”  He gingerly lifts the blank off Tina’s face and passes it back to you.<br/>
<br/>
Joe places the golem mask on Tina and the naked duplicate of your real self sits bolt upright.  “This is just a little too kinky for me boss,” it says quickly.  Joe sniggers.  Again.<br/>
<br/>
“Just get upstairs and get dressed,” you snarl grumpily.  Then it’s back to the kitchen with the new mask of Tina.  You pull the jar of sealant from its hiding place in a cupboard behind some peanut butter.  <i>Not a mistake I want to make</i>, you think.  You lean on the worktop as you place the finished mask on your face, struggling against the overwhelming tiredness that passes over you in waves.  Your vision clouds for a second and your breathing is laboured but you manage to retain consciousness.<br/>
<br/>
You let out an involuntary grunt as you start sifting though Tina’s memories.  Joe, it seems, was right.  Tina has been with a couple of boys, despite the fact she still insists she wants to save herself for marriage.  At least she feels guilty about it, and that she let Joe kiss her a couple of times on the way over here.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That she let Joe kiss her a couple of times on the way over here.  Fuck.</i><br/>
<br/>
“You owe me ten dollars,” says Joe, suddenly beside you.<br/>
<br/>
“I <i>what</i>,” you ask, spinning round to face him.<br/>
<br/>
“That was the amount I decided our bet was for,” he replies.  “She does have the hots for me. I can tell by the look on your face.”<br/>
<br/>
“You mean the one of disgust,” you snark back.<br/>
<br/>
“My feelings are all hurt now,” he says, looking at you with puppy dog eyes.  “Make them better for me.”<br/>
<br/>
“We’re not doing this for a cheap thrill,” you say through gritted teeth as Joe starts to run one hand along your hip.  “I’m just becoming Tina for the investigation.”  You push Joe’s hand away.  “And stop that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Are you sure,” he replies.  “If you’re acting against her nature then it might make people suspicious.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes I’m sure,” you reply.  “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go and get undressed…  I mean dressed in her clothes.”<br/>
<br/>
Joe grabs your hand and massages it gently.  He has a point, almost.  There’s a strong vote from Tina’s personality to stay with Joe for a while.  Not to go all the way, of course, just to have a little make out session.<br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, you have a nagging feeling that using the masks to make out with each other is not what Joe’s dad had in mind when he put you in charge of the investigation.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11221111111222112211112221212112112121122121212212
author_id: imaj
title: The Rumourati Revealed
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You push Joe away.  “Strictly platonic,” you say, mimicking Tina’s accent.  “And that’s what me <i>and</i> Tina think.”<br/>
<br/>
“But it sounds so sexy when you say it like that,” pouts Joe.  <br/>
<br/>
You bat him away with a gentle swipe.  “We just talked,” you reply.  “That’s what Ah’ll tell Alyssa when she asks tomorrow.  And she will ask.”  You give Joe a peck on the cheek as you slide past him.  “Ah guess Ah can say we kissed a little, but it goes no further than that you rogue.”<br/>
<br/>
“This would never have happened if you’d let me pick Maddy,” calls Joe after you as you walk out and pick up Tina’s clothes.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
“So what happened,” asks Maddy as she bustles close to you following morning.  You regard Tina’s best friend as she hooks one arm around you and starts leading you down the hall.  You can see why.  Joe would find it difficult to look past her breasts, which are easily the most generous pair at Eastman, but she’s just as pretty as Tina.  “Tell me everything.  Alyssa’s going to want to know anyway.”<br/>
<br/>
“Nothin’ happened,” you blush, impersonating Tina’s character perfectly.  “We had a little talk is all.  Maybe a little kissing and all too.”<br/>
<br/>
“With Joe,” says Mandy, peeling herself away from the wall she had been leaning on and joining you at the other side.  The bubbly blond grabs your other arm and steers you and Maddy into an empty classroom where the rest of the Rumourati members are gathering.  “Just kissing?  Seems like such a waste.  I’ve seen him take his shirt off after basketball practice.”  She licks her lips.  “Mmmm, mmmm,” she coos.  “I’d like to get my hands on those abs.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ignore her,” snarks Maddy as you enter the classroom.  The rest of the Rumourati are there already – hatch faced Lisa, mischievous Natalie and innocent and naïve Summer.  Only Alyssa, the leader of the group, is missing.  “She just wants to have a boyfriend she can outsmart.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve outsmarted plenty of boys,” says Mandy hotly, breaking off and sitting on top of a desk next to Natalie.<br/>
<br/>
“Kindergarden class doesn’t count Mandy,” says Lisa, rolling her eyes.  She’s a sharp one and from Tina’s memories you know her position in the group is mostly about Alyssa keeping tabs on her.<br/>
<br/>
“I think it’s good that you and Joe have hooked up,” pipes up Summer nervously.  Lisa looks round at her sharply and Summer’s expression wavers.  “It is good, isn’t it,” she asks, unsure of herself.<br/>
<br/>
“It is good,” confirms Alyssa as she confidently strides into the room as if she owns it.  She sets her book back on a desk and pulls out notebook and pen.  Very deliberately, she opens the book and starts taking notes.  Lisa’s head immediately snaps back round.  “I think it’s great that Joe’s settling down with you Tina, you’ll make a great couple” she says.  You feel your cheeks flush again with the complement, but in the back of your head you translate the words from Alyssa-speak to mean <i>that’ll stop the horny fuck from making any more waves</i>.  “You make sure he stays settled down,” adds Alyssa, addressing you directly before turning to Natalie.  “Nats, I want you to make sure everyone knows the good news about Tina and Joe.”<br/>
<br/>
“Even the basketball team,” asks Natalie.<br/>
<br/>
“<i>Especially </i>the basketball team,” snaps back Alyssa.  She takes a second to compose herself before continuing, giving Natalie a bright smile.  “I’ll talk to Ian personally, but make sure they all know the good news.”<br/>
<br/>
“How is the team managin’ since Jon Straussler disappeared,” you interrupt.<br/>
<br/>
“What’s that got to do with anything,” asks Alyssa, staring at you.<br/>
<br/>
“Ah was just thinkin’ about it,” you say, quickly looking at your feet.  “Joe said Frank was going to be away for a while, so Ah wondered if it was going to affect them.”<br/>
<br/>
Alyssa smiles brightly.  “Thank you Tina,” she says, writing down something in her notebook.  “I’ll talk to Ian about that too.  The big game with Westside is coming soon and we’ll need to be at one hundred and ten percent if we want to win.”  She stops for a second before muttering something under her breath.  “And wipe the smug smile off that snake bitch Chelsea Cooper’s face,” she says so quietly that you can barely hear it.  The members of the Rumourati look at one and other.  Lisa smirks.<br/>
<br/>
Alyssa sighs and flicks over a page in her note book.  “Next point:  Legacy.  Maddy and Mandy, I want you to talk to some of the Freshmen today.  I’m looking for girls that have the best interests of Eastman at heart, just like we do.”  Everyone nods at this statement – the Rumourati is a public service after all.  “Keep an eye out for the selfish girls too.  I’ve already got one name that needs to be gently reminded of how we do things here:  Carrie Carmichael.”<br/>
<br/>
“I think I know her,” says Maddy.<br/>
<br/>
“Good, have a word with her,” replies Alyssa.  “Nothing major, just a friendly chat.  And keep an eye on her.  Let me know what happens.”  With that she closes the notebook and puts it back in her back.  Belatedly, you realise you’ve been holding yourself tensely for the last few minutes.  You slip back into Tina’s persona, animating it with little effort, and relax.  “That’s all for this morning.  I’ll see you at lunch.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Instead you catch up with Joe at lunch, meeting him by his locker.  He turns and grabs you by the hips, just as you thought you were sneaking up behind him.  Joe tries for a kiss but you turn your head in time and it ends up as a chaste peck on the cheek.  “Ease up their sugah,” you say as he tries again.  “Take it nice and slow.”  Joe starts to say something but you place your finger on his lips.  “Walk with me darlin’?”  <br/>
<br/>
You slide your arm around his, pulling him away before he has a chance to answer.  After a few steps you turn into an empty side corridor.  “Hey Joe,” you say, discarding Tina’s personality like a used rag.<br/>
<br/>
“How are you settling in,” he asks.  “Found out anything?”<br/>
<br/>
“Other than that Alyssa runs her friends like some kind of military operation, not much,” you reply.  “I mentioned Straussler’s disappearance in passing and she didn’t seem happy.”  You pause for a second to delve through Tina’s memories.  “But I think she’s tense about the game with Westside that’s coming soon.”<br/>
<br/>
“She’s going to love it when she finds Frank’s left town,” says Joe with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, I told her,” you explain.  “I don’t think I’d want to be that Ian Carpenter guy when she gets to him.”<br/>
<br/>
“Lot of unresolved tension with those two,” explains Joe.  “I think half the team hopes they’d just get a room.”<br/>
<br/>
“But Alyssa thinks the team captain and head cheerleader dating is too much of a cliché,” you say, lifting the insight direct from Tina’s thoughts.  “And too much like Chelsea Cooper and Gordon Black at Westside.”<br/>
<br/>
“Carpenter’s mentioned them,” shrugs Joe.  “Makes it sound like they deserve each other.”<br/>
<br/>
You give you life at Westside a brief consideration.  It seems so remote now, so you just shrug.  “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you,” you say.  “The guy in the coma…”<br/>
<br/>
“Sawyer Harrison,” interrupts Joe.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, Sawyer,” you reply.  “I was thinking of looking at that angle again.”<br/>
<br/>
“We covered everything there,” says Joe defensively.<br/>
<br/>
“Ah think Ah could find out more,” you say, easing back into character.  “Alyssa’s friends carry a lot of respect around here.”  Joe nods reluctantly.  “Who should I talk with first?”<br/>
<br/>
Joe gives your question a few moments thought.  “His sister, Belinda.  She’s a freshman here.  I think you should check out the Straussler disappearance though.”<br/>
<br/>
You give a surprised Joe a kiss on the lips, briefly exploring his mouth.  “Remember who your dad put in charge sugah.”<br/>
</span></div></div>


