# chapters

path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111114112121111211122122255
author_id: rugal
id: TSV2P7JTC
title: A Class Divide
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Kelsey Blankenship, Sydney McGlynn... your girlfriend wants you select a color. That color corresponds with somebody that your girlfriend will then use to date you. Because she wants to be with Will Prescott but Will can't be with Sydney McGlynn and he certainly can't be with Kelsey Blankenship so it will be someone else entirely. Oh sure, inside it'll still be the girl who you've found yourself falling for, the headstrong beauty fascinated by the occult and, somehow, fascinated by you. But the face and the appearance will belong to someone else. Someone who is likely much more fitting.<br/>
<br/>
Who would that be? Well, you've got some guesses. Jenny Ashton or any of the other names that you'd presented to her. Maybe it's Cassie Harper, the exhausting chatterbox who you share a few classes with. She'd be a safe bet as would a few other girls you share classes with. There's a part of you that hopes, just a bit, that she's chosen somebody like Mia DeWitt, the spitfire bohemian who sits next to you in second period.<br/>
<br/>
But you have to pick a color first. Each one connected to a name and you have no idea who. Maybe you'll get lucky or maybe Sydney will mess with you and suddenly you're dating one of the rougher looking girls from the basketball team or something.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Pretty fucking complicated</i>, is what you half want to write back but of course that'd be dumb. Anyway, you're probably overthinking things and your thumb is already over the "P" on the keypad so whatever, screw it.<br/>
<br/>
<i>purple</i>, you send.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oooh, that's a good choice! ;)</i><br/>
<br/>
That intrigues you but again, maybe she's just messing with you too. <i>who is it?</i> you ask.<br/>
<br/>
<i>You'll see.</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>is it someone you can get tonight?</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>Maybe maybe not</i>, comes the reply.<br/>
<i>We'll talk about it tomorrow. Meet me for lunch?</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>sure. where?</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>Milagro? Kelsey goes there a lot.</i><br/>
<br/>
You agree to it, if only for the chance to see Sydney, and the two of you decide to meet around one o'clock since "that'll be just after the lunch rush" your girlfriend says. The conversation ends and you're left with the rest of the night ahead of you to fantasize, wonder, and guess about just who she's picked out to be Will Prescott's girlfriend. And of course, you can't shake the feeling that she's messing with you but she told you earlier to trust her and so far she hasn't given you a reason not to.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Milagro Beanfield Warehouse is a small downtown cafe that sits close to Keyserling University. You've never been as it has something of a reputation. Not a bad one, no, but a good one. Good for a certain clientele, at least. You enter the cafe and are immediately struck by the decor, both modern and with a South American bent. The people inside wear nice clothes, or the type of odd-yet-fashionable ensembles that easily tell you who they are.<br/>
<br/>
Musicians, artists, poets, and activists. If you're young and hip and perhaps a little well-to-do then this is the place you come to for lunch or brunch or to sip coffee while talking about some obscure band or the ills of the world. It's the kind of place that you can definitely see someone like Kelsey popping into but you? Dressed sloppily in cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and a ratty baseball cap sitting on top of messy hair?<br/>
<br/>
You're very aware that you don't fit here at all and it's making you self-conscious. The barista who takes your order is a pretty young woman with striking lavender hair and you think you catch her smirk at you a bit as you nervously place an order for "regular coffee." As you sit and wait you just know that people there are eyeing you, wondering who this dweeb is and why he's here. You can feel their eyes on you as your name is called and you go back up to grab your coffee and sit back down.<br/>
<br/>
And after all this time, Kelsey has yet to show up. It's quarter past one now and she's nowhere to be seen and you're completely out of place and everybody in here knows it. Then, as if to confirm your worst nightmare, a voice suddenly cuts into your thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
"You look like you don't belong here," comes a silky smooth voice.<br/>
<br/>
You look to see who's talking to you and almost do a double take. It's a girl, maybe around your age, standing on the opposite side of the table. She's willowy with skin that's not quite porcelain but neither is it peaches and cream. Her straight, chocolate colored hair, runs down to her shoulder blades and offsets the skin. Skin that you can see a lot of as her shirt, tight and short, shows off much of her midriff and visible abs. Whoever she is, she certainly keeps herself in shape.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asks. She stares at you with large, dark doe eyes that seem to convey a number of thoughts at once. She's looking at you with amused judgment. Shes expectantly waiting for an answer. She probably won't accept "no," either.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, sure," you answer nervously. "I was probably about to go myself so feel free."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" the girl bluntly asks as she takes a seat.<br/>
<br/>
"Um, because someone asked me to meet them here but it looks like they're not showing up," you answer. "And, y'know, like you said I don't really belong here."<br/>
<br/>
"And that's reason enough to leave?" she asks skeptically. "There's no rule that says you can't be here."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I know, but, uh, look at me! You can tell I'm out of place!" you protest.<br/>
<br/>
But she simply gives you a terse smile. "Yes, and that's how I noticed you," you states. "Looking like that in a place like this causes you to stand out. It makes you unique. It makes you <i>interesting</i>."<br/>
<br/>
"Interesting, sure," you say nervously. "But still, I really was supposed to meet someone and it doesn't look like she's showing up so..."<br/>
<br/>
"She?" the girl replies curiously. "A date?"<br/>
<br/>
"A da—!?" you begin to exclaim. "Uh, no probably not. She's, um, the type of girl who wouldn't be caught dead with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why not? Do you <i>know</i> Kelsey Blankenship!?" you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"We share a class."<br/>
<br/>
You blink at that. "Wait, so you go to Westside?" you ask dumbfounded.<br/>
<br/>
"Mhm."<br/>
<br/>
"Well it's, uh, weird that I don't know you considering that you're... um," you sputter. "Well, I don't know a lot of people I guess. Well, I do but, uh... shit. I'm Will. Will Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Angelique Cartier," the girl says as she extends a hand and her smile seems to warm a bit. "And you certainly seem interesting."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When this gorgeous girl extended her hand inviting you to grab it, you decided that you couldn't leave. She clearly wanted you to keep her company and you found it very hard to turn down a girl as gorgeous as this. You wonder again why, if she goes to Westside, you've never seen her since she, well, stands out. She's gracious enough to clarify a bit.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm from D.C. originally, Bethesda to be specific," Angelique explains. "I only moved here a few months ago after my dad accepted a job out here on the recommendation of a friend of his."<br/>
<br/>
"Where at?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Some contractor called Proteus," she answers. "My dad's friend is the Representative for this place and I guess pulled some strings with them to set my dad up with a VP job there when he decided to leave the DoD." She lets loose a small laugh. "Quite a thing to have sprung on you when you come back from Germany, no?"<br/>
<br/>
It hits you that this Angelique girl is operating in a totally different world from you. "Wait why go to friggin' Westside then instead of, I don't know, St. Xavier?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
She dismissively rolls her eyes "Private school kids like that are fake and boring," she answers. "They always attempt to act like they're so smart and cultured. But try asking them to come out to a production of Othello or La Bayadere and you get blank stares," she complains.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, uh, sure, I totally get it," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't but that's fine. Everyone is wearing masks and playing roles but those types take it to a completely different level." She looks at you and then gives another terse smile. "You, though, seem interesting. You're too open to hide anything even if you wanted to."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" you respond dumbfounded.<br/>
<br/>
"Mhm, that's part of what made you so attractive to me, Will. You're earnest and easy to read." Something in Angelique's expression changes. A devlishness that begins to seem familiar. "And you really like books."<br/>
<br/>
"Sydney?" you ask as realization hits you.<br/>
<br/>
With that Angelique's demeanor changes completely, losing the gracefulness and elegance that she seemed to be radiating. "I had to drop a few hints, I guess," she snickers.<br/>
<br/>
"How did you get, uh, whoever? I've never even seen her before."<br/>
<br/>
"Well she's new, like me," she says as she leans forward with a smirk. "Plus she's a junior."<br/>
<br/>
"You decided the best girl for me is a junior!?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that a problem?" she asks as you begin to feel toes and a foot spider up your leg. "Rich, beautiful, popular, desired by everyone but oh no, she's a year younger than you. Is that really a dealbreaker."<br/>
<br/>
"N-no!" you exclaim. "But, uh that other stuff you said... that's why I couldn't date 'Sydney' in the first place!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know, so I'm giving you another chance," she tells you. "We're going to try again with a girl that Kelsey finally managed to get to come out to her house last night and finally managed to convince to come out to one of her gatherings tonight."<br/>
<br/>
"A gathering at Kelsey's?"<br/>
<br/>
"You were Amanda, you should know about them. "Kelsey's been trying since the start of the year to get me out there and I've finally agreed to go." She then leans forward and clasps her hands around one of your own. "And I'd love to show off my new boyfriend to that arrogant bitch and her friends. What do you say?"<span class="obibmjbSO"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111111141121211112111221222551
author_id: rugal
title: From Pauper to Proper
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>Yeah, you know about those gatherings seeing as you went to one on the very same day that you'd become Amanda. And that's exactly why your immediate feeling at the thought of going is of reluctance. Being around all those AP snobs and with the possibility of Mansfield and Lisa being there, it all feels a little too much. If you thought that you were out of place in this coffeehouse, then you'd <i>really</i> be out of place Kelsey's. And maybe your girlfriend picks up on that because you feel her squeeze your hand a little harder.<br/>
<br/>
"It'll be fine, Will. I'll be there," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Along with Kelsey and Amanda," you say glumly.<br/>
<br/>
"They're under our control."<br/>
<br/>
Right, of course they are, you know that. But even still... "They can't, like, praise me or whatever though," you state. "I mean, that'd be massively out of character for them wouldn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're not going to praise you though," Angelique counters to your confusion. "They're just not going to say anything about it. That's what we'll tell them to do."<br/>
<br/>
"And that wouldn't seem out of character?"<br/>
<br/>
Angelique leans back far in her chair, far enough that you can see her cross her legs as she clasps her hands in front of her. "It wouldn't," she confidently states, "because of Angelique."<br/>
<br/>
"What's that got to do with anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will, honey, did you not listen to anything I said earlier?" she asks. "Angelique's family is friendly with Fred Dayton. You know, the district's representative in the House? Having this kind of connection is important for a striver like her so she's going to do everything she can not to screw it up."<br/>
<br/>
"But still—"<br/>
<br/>
"Even if she wasn't under my control, the real Kelsey would grin and bear it. Angelique's family has more money and they're more well connected so Kelsey can't big league her like she can everyone else. Fuck she can't even big league someone middle class like Chelsea." A smirk spreads on her face at that. "She's tried a couple of times to invite Angelique out to her parties just to make that kind of connection. But she's so transparent that Angelique is always put off by it."<br/>
<br/>
It surprises you that someone, especially a junior, could seemingly elevate herself above someone like Kelsey like that. "Okay, so then how did <i>you</i> get Angelique to agree to see you?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Because I'm a lot smarter about this shit than Kelsey, duh. I dug around; you know, basic social media detective work. I saw what her interests are, offered to get together with her to talk about it. She was tepidly receptive which was all I needed and then after that... easy peasy."<br/>
<br/>
"You got into this girl's head quick so did you get her last night or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"Earlier this morning, before I got here," she replies. "But I decided to try putting on the band doohickey first before combining it with the mask. Doing it that way, I wound up getting everything immediately. I don't know what the difference is," she shrugs, "but it worked."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so then say I decide to go there with you. I'll still be out of place," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
"And that would be interesting, no?" Angelique replies teasingly. "But I get it. I can't throw you completely into the deep end. We'll have to work on building you up some, and I know exactly where to start."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Where to start turns out to be a trip to the Northgate Mall for Angelique insists that a makeover is just the thing you need. And the first thing she does there is take you to a salon for a nice haircut. You want to fight against it a little bit until she asks you if you're really so attached to something as insignificant as hair length.<br/>
<br/>
"Besides," she'd said as she'd pinched a bit of it, "look how messy it is. It only has length because you can't be bothered going to the barber I bet. And it looks sloppy because you can't be bothered to take care of it. So something shorter and easier to maintain while still looking nice is what you need instead of having this scarecrow straw sticking out from under your hat."<br/>
<br/>
You blush at that and want to argue some more but between both Sydney and Angelique both being fashionable and popular, you kind of feel like you're somehow being tag teamed by a single person and so don't fight back. She does, at least, help you pick out something that isn't super short but certainly looks nicer as it's styled into something fashionably messy.<br/>
<br/>
From there you're taken to a few clothing stores in order to find some better clothes. Although nothing too radical, she insists. "You still need to seem like you," she says, "just an upgraded version of you."<br/>
<br/>
But you walk away from the whole thing with some jeans, pants, a few long-sleeved and short-sleeved shirts, and even a couple of nice coats and a new pair of shoes. The benefits, you suppose, of having a girlfriend who is seemingly not only loyal but now rich. You'd gawked a bit when you saw the price of some of the first stuff you'd bought but Angelique had just casually whipped out a credit card and didn't even give the costs a second thought.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a drop in the bucket," she'd said as you were exiting the first store. "If I'd really wanted to blow money then I would have taken you to the Shoppes. But I don't think that's the place for you."<br/>
<br/>
It wasn't just on yourself either because she decided she wanted a new outfit for this evening herself. "How does this look?" she asked when she came out of the changing room. It was a simple outfit—an oversized loose fitting sweater with short and stylishly distressed denim shorts as well as small boots—but it looked great on her and you told her so.<br/>
<br/>
"It emphasizes my legs," she said which immediately drew your eye to them. She snickered at that. "You can look, I don't care. I do ballet so they're nice, long, and strong. It'd be a shame not to show off every once in a while."<br/>
<br/>
She'd then insisted that you grab some stuff to change into while she'd paid for her stuff and handed you a bag. So you complied going with the new shoes and what was in the bag: a pair of dark jeans, a white shirt, and a tan jacket. It's simple and the jeans feel tighter than you're used to and frankly you don't really get what's so better about it. But your girlfriend beams at you when you exit the changing room.<br/>
<br/>
"See? You look great!" she exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
"If you say so," you mutter. "So what are we going to do from here?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At Angelique's insistence it's decided keep it loose and just wander around the mall. You wonder aloud if that's a good idea since it means people are going to see you and to that she says nothing and just takes your hand in hers. You get the hint.<br/>
<br/>
"So, ballet?" you just find yourself blurting out as you walk.<br/>
<br/>
"Since I was in kindergarten, yes," she states. "I've done competitions and summer and winter programs in various places, like in Munich this summer." She lets loose a small sigh. "I was thinking of entering Princess Grace Academy to finish off my training."<br/>
<br/>
"Princess... uh, that sounds fancy. Where's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Monaco," she smiles. "I did their winter program earlier this year and loved it."<br/>
<br/>
You're once more bowled over. You could never see yourself in a fancy place like Monaco. Hell, you've never even left the state. There really is a gulf of class between yourself and Angelique... but it's not really her, is it? Maybe there's something to what Sydney did because she's falling into this girl's personality far easier than she had Kelsey's it seems.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a shame," she continues as she squeezes your hand harder and rests her head on your shoulder. "We've only just met, Will, but I really think I like you and in a few months we'll have to part. I don't know if I'll be able to bear it."<br/>
<br/>
You can't help but to laugh at that as that part is certainly more Sydney than Angelique. And it's nice, you think, to have this pretty girl be so into you like this. It's definitely intimidating but it feels good too. Which is why something you see gives you pause because near the food court you see two figures sitting down and having lunch.<br/>
<br/>
It's Caleb and Keith and from the look of things it seems like they've spotted you as well.<span class="flnfjlnngik3710"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111111141121211112111221223
author_id: seuzz
title: Preston Spinks
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>This is the placeholder for a poll. For details, see: "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/polls/item_id/2299621-BoM-Poll-2c-Will-Dates-Sydney-as-" target="_top" title="One in a series of polls to move the story forward.">BoM Poll 2c: Will Dates Sydney as ...</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/polls/item_id/2299621-BoM-Poll-2c-Will-Dates-Sydney-as-" target="_blank" title="One in a series of polls to move the story forward."><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>.<br/>
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path: 111131131111111111111111122111111112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Gangland Play
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There is already something Satanic about David Kirkham, so he seems like a natural first recruit to your Brotherhood.<br/>
<br/>
And he's the scariest of the assholes who tackled you.<br/>
<br/>
But how do you get him alone?<br/>
<br/>
"Leave it to me," Sydney says, and your heart stops in your chest when she says it. She glances around the school basement. "This is probably as good as any other place to do it."<br/>
<br/>
"Do what?"<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a look. "What do you think I mean? We'll need to find someplace for you to hide, though, while I'm busy with him."<br/>
<br/>
So that's the second horrible half of her plan: To tempt David Kirkham out and down into the school with some kind of promise, so you can leap out and ambush him with a mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have plenty of time to dread the trial to come, for it takes most of the evening for Sydney to track down (through friends) contact information for David Kirkham, and by the time she gets it the hour is too late (she deems) to make a play for him. <br/>
<br/>
On the upside, with nothing else to do on a Friday night, you do get to spend an hour with her in the cab of your truck, parked in the lowering dusk next to the school, embracing each other and exploring each other's mouths. It's slow and awkward work, but wonderful, with your breath and your joints creaking as you bend and twist to get at each other, to rub at each other, to bite at each other, and to breath the scent of each other. She groans under your caresses, and you're sure you're making noises of your own, but you're too intent on drawing her out.<br/>
<br/>
But that's all the fun you have time for. You have two masks ready to go, but you need to make some more memory strips, and you and Sydney spend the balance of the night making two more.<br/>
<br/>
You're woken early the next morning by your mother, who has some light chores and errands for you to run, but that's okay, for it's not until nearly two o'clock that you get a text from Sydney confirming that she's set up a time to meet Kirkham at the old school. Your fingers writhe as you wrestle with questions for her—<i>What did he say? What did you promise him? What is he expecting?</i>—before you answer with a perfunctory <i>ok.</i><br/>
<br/>
And though the questions still gnaw and bite at your soul when you meet her at the school, you're too tongue-tied to ask them.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, we should agree on some kind of signal," she says as she looks over the little hiding place that you've set up. It's a kind of three-sided box made of some small bookcases with loose boards laid over the hollow between them, and it's directly behind the conference table that you've been using as a makeshift operating table. You can curl up inside it; and at a signal you can emerge to surprise anyone who might be lying or squatting on the table. <i>Just be sure not to sneeze,</i> Sydney had said.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you should just say 'Now!'," you suggest. "Or you could call my name."<br/>
<br/>
"I could also just tell him to hold still and wait for it," Sydney retorts. She grabs you by the ears and gives you a hard smooch directly on the lips. "If this guy's as bad as everyone says—"<br/>
<br/>
She breaks off and gives you a hard look with her hand on her hips. "Do you <i>know</i> the kind of grief I was getting from Catherine and them last night when I said I was looking for this guy? Honestly, Will, you all should be embarrassed to have guys like him at your school."<br/>
<br/>
<i>We're too busy trying not to shit ourselves,</i> you silently reply. Aloud: "Didn't you have guys like that in Kansas City?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not at my school. But it was a magnet school for the gifted. The worst anyone ever did was leave their test papers face up so everyone could see their scores. But what's our secret signal going to be?"<br/>
<br/>
"What are you planning on doing with him?"<br/>
<br/>
She does a double-take at you, and frowns.<br/>
<br/>
"Honey." She rakes your bangs back, then grabs them. "Don't get jealous on me. Believe me, it's going to disgust me more than it's going to disgust you."<br/>
<br/>
That sounds like confirmation of your worst suspicions, and when she suggests the phrase <i>I've got something I really want to show you</i> as the signal for you to spring out, you truculently agree.<br/>
<br/>
<i>But maybe you'll scream for help first,</i> you find yourself thinking. Instantly, you are both ashamed and horrified.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Three o'clock—time for Kirkham to show up—comes, and you're watching through the basement window while Sydney waits in her SUV. (You walked from your house, so it's just her vehicle out there.) The minutes pass, and there's no action outside. Sydney checks her phone, and you tense—did she get a text from Kirkham? But she lays it aside and goes back to staring off into the distance.<br/>
<br/>
Ten minutes after three you hear the growl of a motor, and watch as Sydney looks up and over. The grill of a large pick-up truck hoves into view and jounces to a hard stop. The motor shuts off, a truck door opens—<br/>
<br/>
And half-a-dozen guys come boiling out, hooting and shouting.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Jesus!</i> you mouth to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham didn't come alone. He brought a whole posse with him!<br/>
<br/>
There's Brophy Maddox and Joe Thomason and George Mendoza; Tanner Evans; two burly assholes whose names you don't remember because they left or dropped out of school last year; and last of all, David Kirkham himself.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's face is white and her expression very tight as she climbs out of her SUV. The guys crowd up close—like feral dogs sniffing at potential prey—before backing off. You don't like the grins on their faces.<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham shoves Maddox aside and swaggers up to Sydney. He's showing off rounded muscles in a tight t-shirt and shorts, and he rolls the ever-present toothpick around in his mouth. The mirrored sunglasses turn his expression blank. He says something to her, but his words are inaudible, but his friends grin and nudge each other.<br/>
<br/>
You press up close to the window.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney relaxes—though it looks like she's forcing herself too—and with folded arms replies to Kirkham. He chucks his chin at her and says something back. A murmur runs through the crowd, and Sydney's eyes dart about.<br/>
<br/>
They light on you. She frowns.<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to realize it: She can see you through the window.<br/>
<br/>
Which means anyone else watching can see you too.<br/>
<br/>
But still you hesitate, wondering if you should rush up and out to help her.<br/>
<br/>
Even when she grits her teeth and looks away you're not sure how to read her signal. Does she want you out there? Or not? The blood pounds in your ears.<br/>
<br/>
Only when Sydney uncrosses her arms and relaxes back on her heels do you decide that she thinks she's got it under control, and step back into the shadows of the basement.<br/>
<br/>
But you've moved too late. The basement door opens and a voice calls out: "Hey!" You hold your breath in as your heart explodes. "Yo! Who—?"<br/>
<br/>
A loud burst of laughter erupts outside. Under its cover you scramble under the conference table and into your hiding place.<br/>
<br/>
Heavy footfalls sound on the creaking wooden steps; then shoes scuff across the concrete floor, and stop. Someone mutters. Wood creaks, and there's a crash, as though the ceiling has fallen in. Upstairs and outside, someone whistles shrilly.<br/>
<br/>
You peek out under the conference table, and can just make out the calves of someone's legs: bare and brown. They are turned away from you. As you steady yourself on your haunches, your hand touches the mask that you have at the ready.<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. It might be Kirkham there in front of you, but it probably isn't. But you pick up the mask and clutch it to your side. <br/>
<br/>
The feet shift, and whoever it is mutters again under his breath. </span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111121
author_id: seuzz
title: Manhandling Mendoza, Part 1
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Slowly, waddling along as quietly as you can on your haunches, you inch out of your ambush spot to crouch under the conference table. You shift the mask into your left hand and stretch out your right until it is bare inches from the other's ankle.<br/>
<br/>
When he steps toward the stairs, you grab him.<br/>
<br/>
Heels kick at the air as he stumbles and falls. You scramble out, and you've just time to see his expression of surprise before you slam the mask onto him.<br/>
<br/>
George Mendoza seems to deflate beneath you.<br/>
<br/>
Your breath scrapes and rattles; your heartbeat is bursting in your eardrums. You glance wildly around, but you have the basement to yourself. But the door is open, and daylight is streaming down the wooden steps.<br/>
<br/>
There's only one place to hide the body until ... Well, until you decide what to do with it. You grab Mendoza by the feet and haul him under the conference table.<br/>
<br/>
There's hardly room for the two of you under there, so you have to stretch out on the floor, sprawling halfway atop him with your face close to his. This gives you plenty of time to study him.<br/>
<br/>
George Mendoza has the face of a baby. Chubby cheeks, pouty lips, an upturned nose. His eyes, which are open and staring, are the color of black coffee; his coarsely chopped hair is the color of dark chocolate. He has a doughy, paunchy belly. But there are muscles in his arms, and he has the strong legs of a soccer player. There's just a trace of dark fuzz—peach fuzz, if that—on his upper lip.<br/>
<br/>
It was no part of your plan—yours or Sydney's—to get a mask of George Mendoza, let alone to impersonate or replace him with a duplicate. But replacing him is better than being caught down here by him and his friends. And someone who looks like George Mendoza should have little trouble getting close to David Kirkham any time he (or whoever is impersonating him) wants to.<br/>
<br/>
But do you have time to substitute yourself for him? It will be ten minutes at least before the mask is done with him; another ten to outfit yourself in it. Are those assholes outside going to stand around for twenty minutes without noticing that Mendoza has gone off? How long until they notice the door to the basement is open, and come down to snoop around?<br/>
<br/>
The minutes pass at an agonizing pace. A couple of times you think you hear Mendoza's name called out, and you perk up with a beating heart; a couple of times you clamber over him to peer up and out through the basement window to see how Sydney is doing. It's impossible to tell for sure, but she seems to be holding her own though still surrounded by a circle of toughs.<br/>
<br/>
Once, you think you see a shadow in the open doorway. But no one comes down.<br/>
<br/>
At last, the mask reappears on Mendoza's face. Carefully, you peel it off. You've got a bowl of the new goop already made up and at hand, and with trembling fingers you paint the inside of Mendoza's mask with it, then burn a hank of your own hair inside it.<br/>
<br/>
But you've had time to think ahead, and instead of putting it on yourself, you put it back onto his face. It disappears, like a flat stone slipping without a ripple under the surface of a pond.<br/>
<br/>
George Mendoza's eyes snap open, and he lifts his head.<br/>
<br/>
"Quiet," you murmur at him. "Don't say anything. Don't move."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes glitter and gleam, but he freezes. You let out a sigh of relief—first hurdle overcome; the duplicate is obeying you—but your voice shakes as you give him the orders you've been rehearsing in your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Get up. Go outside, go back to the other guys. Close the door behind you. If they ask where you've been, tell them you were looking around downstairs, but there's nothing down here. Don't tell them about me. It was empty down here, there wasn't anything except junk down here. Tell them you looked around and that's all that happened."<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips. "Do you understand?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," Mendoza croaks. But he looks and sounds doubtful.<br/>
<br/>
"Go with them when they leave. But go home, get your car, and come back here. Understand?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have to obey me?"<br/>
<br/>
An expression of loathing crosses his face. "Yes," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to do what I say?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"Good. Go on." You scramble back as he crawls from beneath the table. "Remember," you call out as he crosses to the stairs. "There's no one down here. Nothing happened down here."<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a dark, sullen look, then mounts the stairs and goes outside, pulling the door closed after him.<br/>
<br/>
Quaking all over, you crawl back under the table and into your hiding place, where you collapse in a nervous heap.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Mendoza's return must have set something off in the others, for you've not rested long before the sound of the door opening sets you jumping again. The stairs creak under footsteps. Then: "Will?" Sydney calls.<br/>
<br/>
You bump your head as you scramble out. "Are they gone?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Thank God." She's halfway down the stairs and frowning as you emerge. "What were you doing, playing hide and seek with that guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mendoza? Sort of."<br/>
<br/>
"You should've kept out of sight! It was all I could do to keep anyone else from coming down here." She puts her hand on her hips and glowers at the wall behind you. "Well, that was a belly flop."<br/>
<br/>
"Not totally. I got a mask onto Mendoza."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" Her brow furrows. "The guy who came down here? You copied him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. I turned him into one of those things. A pedi-whatits. Like your stepdad."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes pop. "You mean he's a—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"A <i>minion?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You hadn't thought of it that way, but you guess that's exactly what Mendoza is now. <i>Mendoza the Minion.</i> "Yeah, that's what I did. Hey, can we start calling them that now? Minion instead of pedi-whatever?"<br/>
<br/>
An open-mouthed smile spreads over her face. "You can call him whatever you want, Will! Oh my God! You turned him into a minion and sent him back out? That's brilliant!"<br/>
<br/>
You blush. "Yeah, and I told him to come back here after he shook his friends off," you add with a touch of pride. "I don't know when that'll be, but hopefully pretty soon. I figure we can use <i>him</i> to get to Kirkham, since— Hey!" Realization of what Sydney was going through finally punches its way through your swelling ego. "What happened out there? Are you okay?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm fine, Will." Sydney comes down the rest of the way and sags against an old bookcase. "What you managed down here makes up for it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what did those guys do out there with you? For awhile it looked like they were going to, uh—" You gulp.<br/>
<br/>
She waves her hands. "It's all good. It wasn't fun. Well, not until the end, and then I started enjoying it. Kind of."<br/>
<br/>
"You what?"<br/>
<br/>
"You just have to know how to bluff them, Will." Her chin goes up, and her smile turns smug. "Most guys like that have mommy issues, you know. You just have to talk to them in a firm tone, make them feel like they've forgotten their potty training, and then you can do whatever you want with them." She snickers. "Then I got kind of flirty at the end, sent them away feeling better about themselves than when they got here."<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>what?</i>" you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"So that guy's a friend of David's?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mendoza? Yeah. At least I guess he is, I always see him and—"<br/>
<br/>
And that's when you catch what she just said. <br/>
<br/>
She didn't call him <i>Kirkham,</i> which is what you and everyone else you know call him, what you think everyone calls him. <br/>
<br/>
No, she just called him <i>David.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Terrific," she says. "So we can use him to get into David's house? I mean, David will let him in if we show up there with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess." The way she keeps calling him "David" is like a repeated poke in the eye. "But wait. Us? Go with <i>him?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I mean, Will. One of us will be that guy, and— Well, I guess <i>you'll</i> have to be him. I'll have to go out separately."<br/>
<br/>
Now you feel like you're drowning. "You're planning on just showing up at Kirkham's house?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't shout, Will. What's wrong with that? We've been introduced now."<br/>
<br/>
The small hairs on your back rise. "Isn't that going to seem kind of funny to him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, we've been introduced. Besides, he thinks he's now got a chance with me."<br/>
<br/>
<i>"How did he get that idea?"</i> you shout.<br/>
<br/>
To her credit, Sydney winces.<br/>
<br/>
"So he tried getting pushy with me. Well, they all did, until I explained I wasn't going to be impressed with anyone who wasn't on his way to being an engineer or a microbiologist." She doesn't notice your flinch. "That shut most of them down," she continues, "but it turns out your friend David is taking some pretty hardcore math classes, and I told him that was actually kind of sexy. He thinks I meant it."</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111111211
author_id: seuzz
title: Manhandling Mendoza, Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So when you hook up with Kirkham," you start to say, but are interrupted by the crunch of car tires on the grass outside. You and Sydney hurry over to a window.<br/>
<br/>
A battered gray sedan has parked next to Sydney's SUV. "Is it your minion?" she asks, and the answer comes a moment later when the door opens and George Mendoza gets out.<br/>
<br/>
He looks tired and angry, and he glares around with his hands on his hips before catching sight of you and Sydney through the basement window. He flushes and trudges over to the door.<br/>
<br/>
You hang back, but Sydney hurries up to the stairs. "What's your name?" she asks him—bright and eager—when he appears at their head.<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking bitch," he snarls.<br/>
<br/>
"Will, make him tell me his name!"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you his name!"<br/>
<br/>
"Just make him!"<br/>
<br/>
"Tell Sydney your name," you order your minion.<br/>
<br/>
He licks his lips. "George Mendoza," he mutters.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney hops on the balls of her feet.<br/>
<br/>
"This is so great," she gurgles. "He looks so natural, so real, you can't tell the difference between him and—!" She squeals. "But he's <i>ours,</i> Will!" <br/>
<br/>
You still hang back—your girlfriend is in a weird mood—as she mounts the stairs with a shining smile. Mendoza draws back. Her hand darts out and she pinches his shoulder; he slaps her away. <br/>
<br/>
"Get into him," Sydney pants.<br/>
<br/>
"Get into him?" you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"Get into his rig, his mask! Do yourself up as him." Sydney scoops her hair up in two handfuls. "I want it to be <i>you</i> standing there, Will, looking just like him, talking just like him, looking at me the way he's looking at me now." She writhes. "Calling me dirty names 'cos you hate me. But it's really you, and you love me."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Wow. This girl is pretty goddamned twisted,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
But then, you already kind of knew that.<br/>
<br/>
You turn your gaze onto Mendoza. Paunchy, doughy, baby-faced George Mendoza, dressed out in cheap shorts and a thin t-shirt. It's not a happy idea, turning yourself into him. <br/>
<br/>
But it will just be until you get to Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
You crook your finger at Mendoza. "Get down here," you order him, then point to the conference table. "Get on there and take your clothes off."<br/>
<br/>
He pales. "Fucking kind of gay-ass shit is this?" he asks as he comes down the stairs, walking as though pulled by invisible ropes.<br/>
<br/>
You only turn to dig out the mask you made of yourself. When Mendoza is undressed and laid out on the table, you keep your eyes locked onto his head as you edge up to him and grab his face. Sydney grabs your arm with both her hands, and squeaks as you pull the mask off your minion.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake into a kind of thundering darkness. A pain like a migraine claws at the front of your skull, and you feel cold and grimy all over. You sit up on one elbow and grimace.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney is grinning at you from the far end of the table, beyond your feet. "Hey sweetie," she says. "I had the hardest time keeping my hands off you while you were out."<br/>
<br/>
You grunt, then flinch as your eye falls from her face to your gut. It's like a puffy pillow, and it gives like dough when—with loathing—you push your fingertip into it.<br/>
<br/>
The headache fled almost as soon as you raised your head, but you lay back down and stare at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
<i>George Mendoza, I've got your body,</i> you think. <i>Do I have anyth—?<br/>
<br/>
Oh yes. Jesus. There he is.</i> You shut your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose.<br/>
<br/>
It's like falling into deep, muddy water as the mind and memories well up around you and inside you. It's like you're drowning, like your sinuses and skull are sucking in a thick, oozing mess. You feel your own self wallowing under the weight of Mendoza's memories. You capsize and turning over, and the person who bobs up in your place is—<br/>
<br/>
You snap your eyes open.<br/>
<br/>
The new person is you. <i>Still</i> you, you would say. Is and always was you—Will Prescott. Only you're George Mendoza too. <i>Fuck you, Prescott,</i> you think. <i>If that's your name. Cocksucking douchey little loser.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." You raise up with a groan and a sigh. You brush the bangs from your face, and do a double take at the brown, stumpy fingers with the ragged nails. You clench a fist, and look at the muscles bulging in your smooth forearm and bicep. They're not huge, but they're bigger than the ones you're used to. "I'm here."<br/>
<br/>
"Mm." You look up sharply as Sydney slides in on you, pushing herself between your knees to put her face into yours. Your cock tells her hello. "Teach me to like this asshole," she tells you.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at her.<br/>
<br/>
Then you take her face between your hands and kiss her gently on the lips.<br/>
<br/>
George Mendoza, it turns out, is a shy and tentative lover. Sydney wraps her arms around you, and has to pull you in.<br/>
<br/>
The open-mouthed kissing doesn't last long, though. "This guy didn't brush his teeth this morning," she says as she pulls away.<br/>
<br/>
"This guy didn't know he'd be making out with you," you retort. "Eat you out instead?"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll talk."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck talk." You stroke her arm. "Lemme go home and brush my teeth, and then we can pick up again—"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I can just nibble on you." She dives in and bites at the side of your neck. You jump, and are too surprised to reciprocate before she pulls back out. "Come on, get dressed." She slaps you on the side of the stomach, which sets you jiggling a little. "I wanna see the full effect."<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd, uh, <i>I</i> go?" you ask as you paw at the rumpled pile of clothes that the real Mendoza left behind. "The kid who—" You make a face as you remember "Will Prescott" from Mendoza's perspective. A skinny little fucker with a rabbitty smile and frightened eyes, talking to you like he was your boss but looking like he wanted to shit himself.<br/>
<br/>
"Minion-Will?" Sydney asks. Her lips purse in amusement. "You sent him home. Don't you remember?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh yeah.</i> That was the rushed bit after you got your mask onto Mendoza. A blonde scarecrow sat up where the dark and dumpy Mendoza had laid down, and in a kind of panic—you'd not known where to look at him, and had looked around everywhere but at him—you'd ordered him to go home. Sydney had to call him back sharply and remind you that you should get undressed and give him your clothes first. You quickly peeled your things off and thrust them at him, then laid back and dropped the mask on while he was still untangling the wad.<br/>
<br/>
"Long as he stays outta my way," you mutter, then pause with Mendoza's briefs in your hand. "At least I hardly ever seen him around school."<br/>
<br/>
"You gonna stick around as this guy?" Sydney grins at you.<br/>
<br/>
"This guy has a name, you know," you retort. "George. Jorge if you're his aunt or an asshole at school." You pull on the briefs and pick up the burgundy-colored flannel shorts. "His friends call him Medroso."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Their stupid idea of a pun on 'scary'." <i>More of a stupid pun on "scaredy cat,"</i> you silently add with a grimace.<br/>
<br/>
"Is that what I should call you?" Sydney dimples.<br/>
<br/>
"Is this who I'm going to be?" You've got the shorts and the t-shirt on now, so you reach for the shoes. "I thought I was gonna be—"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have your choice." Sydney cocks her head. "We need ten of them. Don't you want Medroso to be one of them?" she asks with a smirk.<br/>
<br/>
You suck in your upper lip. "I was just thinking about Kirkham," you admit. "I was just gonna use fucking Jorge here to get up and personal with him."<br/>
<br/>
"He had all those guys with him. They could be our Brotherhood. Its core. Come on, Medroso, get your shoes on, get finished."<br/>
<br/>
You think about what she's said as you push your feet into the smelly sneakers and pull the laces tight. It's a lot of losers Mendoza hangs out with, with Kirkham the best of the lot. But Sydney was right, you now know firsthand with Mendoza's knowledge, the fucker's got a lot more on the ball than you'd care to admit, and a lot more than <i>you</i>—Will Prescott—actually have, God damn it. Taking AP math classes and science classes. Playing cello in the fucking orchestra, and good enough to take lessons from a university professor. Kirkham's best bud, Gary Chen, has got a lot on the ball too.<br/>
<br/>
You wince internally. <i>Chen.</i> The school's more or less official drug dealer. You're not sure how that works, but Chen has squashed any and all competitions, so that anyone wants anything on school grounds, they gotta go to him. Mendoza is a sub-dealer, along with Tanner Evans and Joe Thomason. With a slight shudder, you reflect that Sydney would probably really dig the idea of using the school's gangster underclass as your "Brotherhood." Start slipping something really awful into the weed supply?<br/>
<br/>
Plus there's the other lowlifes that Mendoza knows, the ones who are on the way to dropping out or who already have. The Joshua Calls, the Jeff Spencers, the Brian Heaths, the Rich Austins, the Oscar Cantus.<br/>
<br/>
You heave yourself onto your feet, and give a start when Sydney catches you in her arms.<br/>
<br/>
"So are you going to be my cuddlebunny?" she asks as she squeezes you. "Or are you just—?" She kisses you lightly on the lips. "Here long enough for a fling?"<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111113
author_id: seuzz
id: LDWHWGGKJ
title: Vengeance on an Ex-Friend
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>"So who's our target for tonight?" Sydney asks.<br/>
<br/>
You're driving home from school and squinting hard at the coagulated traffic on Borman Road—so many assholes trying to get home at the same time as you—so you don't answer her right away.<br/>
<br/>
Which is just as well, for it gives her a chance to drop a thought that startles you: "I mean," she says, "it's not like it has to be <i>Blake</i> that we do the thing to."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, lemme think about it," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
There's a lengthy silence, during which you almost run a red light.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not trying to take your mind off the road," Sydney says, "but what I meant was, we don't have to tackle Blake directly."<br/>
<br/>
You shoot her a quick glance. "Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because maybe we want to start with his friends? If we want to convert his friends at all. I mean, if we're going to use Blake, maybe we should also use them, so they'd already by a natural group. And maybe we should start with them. We could even start by turning his friends against him, if you really want to hurt him first."<br/>
<br/>
That's a point, but you're already thinking along different lines. "Well, we don't even have to use Blake at all," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney frowns. "We've got a mask of him already."<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, but you've already got a mask of Caleb, too. And if there's anyone you're really mad at, it's Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe it was Sydney's comment about "turning Blake's friends against him" that sent you hurtling down that parallel track. For as you brooded about Caleb, your anger welled up and boiled over with dark, vengeful fantasies. Did Caleb want Sydney for himself? <i>I can arrange that.</i> Did Caleb turn all your friends against you? <i>I can reverse that.</i> Has Caleb been trying to take everything from you out of butt-hurt pride? <i>I can take everything from him!</i><br/>
<br/>
"Will?" Sydney says. Her voice jolts you from your distracted reverie. "The light's green."<br/>
<br/>
You jerk back to attention—you didn't get honked at only because there was no one behind you—and gun the truck through the intersection.<br/>
<br/>
But you've made your decision, and free now of doubt and distraction, you can concentrate on your driving.<br/>
<br/>
And on Sydney. You feel a crooked grin unfold across your face as you turn to her.<br/>
<br/>
"You know, Caleb was really hot for you," you tell her, and reach across to palm her thigh. She twitches a little, but doesn't flinch. "How about we set it up so you and him can ... <i>explore</i> ... what might have been."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes widen.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," she murmurs, and she turns a little pink behind her grin.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The first thing is to take stock of your supplies, so you drive out to the elementary school. You've already got five masks made, but you suggest picking up more supplies anyway. <br/>
<br/>
Sydney answers with a wry smile. "Let the Brotherhood provide," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll get our recruits to buy what we need." She picks up one of the masks, and dimples at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Caleb hasn't got any money. The guy's dirt poor."<br/>
<br/>
"He can get it from his parents, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"His mom? That's how come he's dirt poor, she hasn't got any money either."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's only a couple of hundred— Hmm," Sydney interrupts herself.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you thinking?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing, yet. Just 'hmm.' A thought's trying to come. But go on."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't have anything else. So what are you thinking?"<br/>
<br/>
She chews on the inside of her cheek.<br/>
<br/>
"I still don't see any point in spending our own money," she says, "when we can get the Brothers to pay for their own recruitment." She glances around with a quizzical look on her face. "Where's that mask we made of your friend?"<br/>
<br/>
"Someplace. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't throw it away, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I told you, it's around here—" You peer around without immediate success, and clamber over a conference table to get to some shelves where it might be. "Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just doing a mask count." She starts ticking off her fingers. "Okay, the way I figure it, we've got enough here to make three recruits."<br/>
<br/>
"We've got five masks."<br/>
<br/>
"Sweetie, we need more than three to make recruits. I mean, if we're going to switch around and ... inhabit ... some of these." She smiles puckishly at you. "Isn't that the idea you had? That me and ... 'Caleb' ... could explore what might have been? I don't want to explore it with a magical department store mannequin."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Rrrhmmm!</i> That gets your motor going again.<br/>
<br/>
"So," she says, returning your grin with one of her own. "If you're going to swap places with Caleb, we need a mask of you to hide him under. And we'll need a mask of me—" She starts pushing the blank masks around on the table. "And of whoever I—" <br/>
<br/>
She breaks off, studying the masks, and does another quick finger count. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I counted wrong," she says. "We've got enough here for three recruits, along with Caleb." She looks up at you. "Between the four of them, I think we can afford to let them pay."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "Okay then."<br/>
<br/>
Her grin turns lopsided. "You still need to find that mask of Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
"It's around someplace."<br/>
<br/>
"Try to find it, Will," she chides you. "Besides, if you find it, we could go ahead and start ... exploring now."<br/>
<br/>
Your guts and loins try to explode outward, to wrap themselves around her and pull her close. But though you find the mask, you don't put it on.<br/>
<br/>
"Let's wait," you tell Sydney as you put an arm around her waist. "Let's wait until I— Until <i>he</i>," you correct yourself, "can get you in his bedroom."<br/>
<br/>
She squeals, and cradles the back of your head as she puts her lips to yours.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
 You and she spend some time that evening talking about what to do and how to do it. Being a longtime friend of Caleb's, you have a pretty good idea of what his daily and weekend schedules are like. Like you, he doesn't go out and about much, except with friends, and because his mother works six days a week he's often at home by himself. There's a good chance you could find him there.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe not. Having gotten pissed off at you, he might be out with Keith and Carson and James. And even if you did find him alone at home, you'd probably have to get violent with him—if he didn't get violent with you first.<br/>
<br/>
So Sydney suggests that she make the approach.<br/>
<br/>
"I could always just text him or call him and tell him I want to talk," she says. "I could tell him that I was talking to you and found out that I came between you guys, and that I want to talk to him about it."<br/>
<br/>
You agree that's a possible way of handling thing.<br/>
<br/>
"And then when I got in his house and got him relaxed, I could—" She picks up his mask and holds it front of her face for a moment before peering around it with a mischievous grin. "And then I'd text you, 'cos you'd be parked around the corner—"<br/>
<br/>
"We'd have to be sure his mom's not there," you point out. But she doesn't reply, and her face has gone blank. "Sydney?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Hm? Oh. Do you think we could do it tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
You grin. "You really can't wait to start 'exploring' things, can you? Should I be jealous?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be a goose. It's just that we've already got everything, so why are we waiting?"<br/>
<br/>
You pull out your cell phone. "I guess I could text him, tell him I—"<br/>
<br/>
"Let <i>me</i> do it, Will," she says, and she grabs your phone and sets it on the conference table, out of reach. "What's his number?"<br/>
<br/>
You kiss and smooch at her thigh while she composes and sends a text via her own phone. After she's done, she says nothing, but she also doesn't flirt back at you. So you're still kissing and touching her jeans with the tip of your tongue when she says, "Will, what would you say to having your best friend back?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" You look up at her from under your brows. "What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, having Caleb back as your best friend? All forgiving you for— Well, for nothing that's your fault, and being your best bud again and everything going back to the way it was. Except <i>I'd</i> be with you."<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be awesome," you agree. "Except that's never going to happen, and I'm pissed off at Caleb now too. And aren't we doing that now, basically? Isn't that the plan? Turn him into—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yeah. But you can't have your best friend back if you're <i>being</i> your best friend."<br/>
<br/>
You scootch back and look at her quizzically. "What are you saying?"<br/>
<br/>
She sighs.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing you'd probably want to go along with. Just a crazy idea. But I was just thinking, well—" She gets a pinched, embarrassed look before saying, in a rush, "That maybe <i>I</i> could be your girlfriend <i>and</i> your best friend both. I could put on the mask and be Caleb and be your best friend, and I could also be your girlfriend." She turns very pink.<br/>
<br/>
And you think, <i>Whoa!</i><br/>
<br/>
Because you're not sure what else to think. The idea that the gorgeous Sydney McGlynn would want to turn herself into the goofy Caleb Johansson is staggering, and seems like a waste. At the same time, though, you see her point. Sydney, who with her breasts and legs and silky hair and tender throat could be your girlfriend; and at the same time could be your <i>best friend?</i> That would be a way of getting the best of both worlds, wouldn't it?<br/>
<br/>
But for the moment you only say that you'll think about it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And you'll have lots of time to think about it, because Caleb texts Sydney back to say he's at the movie theater and will talk to her tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
"His mom'll be at home by herself now," Sydney muses. "Maybe we could start with her?"<span class="fngigffkfli3610"></span></span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111131
author_id: seuzz
id: ZMJHZQRFZ
title: Start with Caleb.
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>This is the placeholder for a poll. For details, see: "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/polls/item_id/2322174-BoM-Poll-Vengeance-on-an-Ex-Friend" target="_top" title="Pick a path for the story going forward.">BoM Poll: "Vengeance on an Ex-Friend"</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/polls/item_id/2322174-BoM-Poll-Vengeance-on-an-Ex-Friend" target="_blank" title="Pick a path for the story going forward."><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>.<br/>
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path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111132
author_id: seuzz
id: PSJ4C7B9L
title: Start with Caleb's mother.
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>This is the placeholder for a poll. For details, see: "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/polls/item_id/2322174-BoM-Poll-Vengeance-on-an-Ex-Friend" target="_top" title="Pick a path for the story going forward.">BoM Poll: "Vengeance on an Ex-Friend"</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/polls/item_id/2322174-BoM-Poll-Vengeance-on-an-Ex-Friend" target="_blank" title="Pick a path for the story going forward."><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>.<br/>
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path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111133
author_id: seuzz
id: K9PKLSKVV
title: The Friends We Make Along the Way
chapter_content:
<div><div style="padding:0px;margin:0px;"></div><div> <span>"Caleb's <i>mom?</i>" you exclaim. You feel yourself blanch. "Are you serious?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," Sydney says. "Why not?" Her grin deepens. "It would really fuck with him, right? If his mom—" She doesn't have to finish.<br/>
<br/>
You rake your hands through your hair.<br/>
<br/>
"And you know, there's other advantages! I mean, you say she hasn't got any money, but she's got to have <i>some,</i> and we could use it. Also, it would give us a base. Almost like a secret headquarters." She taps her grinning teeth with a fingernail. "It's just her and her son, right? Then we'd have a house where we wouldn't have to hide or do anything in secret. Where we could have our meetings and our—"<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, you see the advantages, even with only the partial picture she's giving you.<br/>
<br/>
But—<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," you mutter. "I kind of feel like <i>mothers</i> should be off limits." You flinch hard at the thought of someone doing that to your own mother. "I mean, how would you feel," you ask, "if someone did that to <i>your</i> mother?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney suddenly turns very red, and leaps to her feet.<br/>
<br/>
"That's not fair, Will," she snaps. "That's different. And you might as well say," she adds, wheeling to glare at you, "that we shouldn't do <i>any</i> of this, because what if someone did it to us?"<br/>
<br/>
Well, she has a point there. And yeah, if you were being consistent, you'd just give up the whole plan now, and maybe even burn the book. <br/>
<br/>
But of course you're not going to go that far.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you're not willing to go along with her on replacing Caleb's mom with a <i>pedi-whatsis.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I just feel like it's a step too far," you insist. "With Caleb's mom. I'm not saying <i>all</i>, uh, parents, or even moms, should be off-limits. Just— Well, just in this case." You flinch under Sydney's hard stare. "It makes it feel <i>too</i> personal."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney stares at you a moment, then relents.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, sweetie, we won't do anything you don't want to." She comes over and fumbles with your hands. "You're helping me out, you're doing what I want to do. But I'll let you pick the people." She smooches you lightly on the lips. "You'll be in charge of picking who we ... initiate." <br/>
<br/>
She palms the sides of your hips, and your cock, already rising, stiffens to full attention. <br/>
<br/>
"You're making <i>me</i> happy," she says in a breathless voice. "So it's my job— Mm!" She kisses you. "It's my <i>pleasure,</i>" she corrects herself, "to make <i>you</i> happy!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So it's not going to Caleb's mom, and tonight it's not going to be Caleb. In fact, it's all for the best that you got distracted, because you realize only now that you do not in fact have everything you need to pull the switches off. You still need to make a couple of those metal doohickies that copy brains, for yourself and for Sydney. So you spend the balance of a late evening working on one. She makes one too, and you end by gluing them (still blank) into two blank masks.<br/>
<br/>
Then, that night, after you've gone to bed, you lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. You keep thinking of something Sydney said while talking about Blake: <i>We could turn his friends against him.</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>Why not do the same thing to Caleb?</i> you muse. Yes, "recruit" him for the Brotherhood. But ruin his friendships first, make him feel persecuted and hated the way you feel. <i>Then</i> drop the axe on him!<br/>
<br/>
You must really be mad at him, because you fall asleep smiling at the fantasy, and you wake Saturday morning determined to do it.<br/>
<br/>
Your dad is inordinately pleased to see you up and about so early, and rewards you by giving you some chores. You've nothing else to do until you hear from Sydney, and it will be for the last time, so you don't even give him a dirty look. You do have to text Sydney, when she texts you, that you'll be busy until about noon, and so she says that she'll put off seeing Caleb until you are free. That's when you call her, to talk while spraying down the windows outside.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I think I wanna change plans a little," you tell her over the hissing spray of the hose. You're catching a lot of back-spray, too, and are mildly drenched. "I don't wanna start with Caleb, I wanna <i>finish</i> with him. I mean," you continue when she asks what you're thinking, "I wanna start by recruiting all my other friends first." <i>My ex-friends,</i> you remind yourself grimly. "And then make them all turn against Caleb. Like you were talking about maybe doing with Blake. Then the last thing is, they all get together and they grab him and bring him to us, and <i>then</i> we convert him, last of all."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," Sydney murmurs. "You really want to make it like a horror movie, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"My fucking life's a horror movie," you retort. "I wanna make Caleb feel it too."<br/>
<br/>
"We can do that," she says. "But I already texted him back to say I want to meet him."<br/>
<br/>
"So cancel."<br/>
<br/>
She's silent a moment.<br/>
<br/>
"No," she says when she resumes, "I'll go see him anyway. I told him I wanted to talk him into forgiving you so we can all be friends."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't wanna all be friends!" you growl.<br/>
<br/>
"Sweetie, don't put up a roadblock every time you come to an intersection. Let's just see what happens."<br/>
<br/>
So you tell her to do whatever she wants. You yourself press on with your own plans.<br/>
<br/>
That means getting at least one of your own ex-friends to see you, alone, so you can make a switch. You start with Keith: <i>Hey,</i> you text him, <i>can we meet up and talk?</i><br/>
<br/>
An hour later, after you've finished the chores and cleaned up, you have not heard back from him, so you send a similar text to Carson Ioeger: <i>Hey meet me and talk about stuff?</i> And when that elicits no answer, you text James Lamont (the least likely of the three to get back to you): <i>Meet someplace to talk about things?</i><br/>
<br/>
But it's all still in a state of suspension when Sydney texts you at around three, asking you to come meet her at Potsdam Park, by the river. That's a little weird, and it fills you with some trepidation, but you agree.<br/>
<br/>
"So, I spent, like, an hour talking to Caleb," she says as the two of you lean against the railing that separates the river walk from the river below. "He's mad at you."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know. So we go ahead and do the thing, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he's mad at you, but he also sounds open to reason."<br/>
<br/>
You snort, maybe to cover up the surprising jolt of regret you suddenly feel at having broken things up so badly with him. "There's no fucking way," you bluster, "that I'm—"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, just listen, Will. Yeah, he's mad at you," she says as you sullenly hold your tongue. "But I told him how it all wasn't your fault. That it was my fault, that I—" <br/>
<br/>
Her smile turns tight and a little secret.<br/>
<br/>
"I told him I just fell really hard for you. I told him you kept trying to get me to look at him, 'cos you knew he was interested in me, but I wouldn't listen. I told him that you and me made this connection, and that you were too embarrassed to tell him because you knew he'd be hurt."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah yeah,</i> you think. <i>The obvious story.</i> Aloud, you say, "Did he fall for it?"<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't 'fall for' anything, Will," she says with a roll of her eyes. "You know it happens to be the truth. You did just happen to get between him and me, and you and me did just happen to make a connection."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but I was <i>trying</i> to get between you and him," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
Her smile turns wry, and she reaches out to grab the side of your stomach. It's a tickle-spot, and you flinch hard, which makes her giggle.<br/>
<br/>
"And that's how come we got connected, sweetie! I wouldn't have looked at you a second time, except you wanted me to look at you so bad, so I gave you a chance." She edges closer to you, which arouses you hard. "And you <i>hooked</i> me."<br/>
<br/>
She puts her hand behind your head and draws your face down to hers for a slow, wet kiss.<br/>
<br/>
Then she releases you. "And we don't tell him <i>that.</i> Just the part that makes it sound like my fault."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. "Yeah, okay, so is everything good between us? Me and Caleb, I mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Pah! So what was the fucking point—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think we could <i>make</i> it good."<br/>
<br/>
"How?" you ask with no little skepticism.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, hear me out. I don't think we can just tell him that you and me made a 'connection'. That'll just make him jealous, and he'll still be mad at you and not want to be your friend. I think we need to tell him <i>how</i> we made a connection. What the connection is." She lifts her eyebrows meaningfully.<br/>
<br/>
Your feel your blood run cold. It's a long moment before you can speak.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean," you say, "that you want us to tell him about all this stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't <i>want</i> to do anything, Will. I told you last night, all of this is up to you. As long as we make a Brotherhood. I'm just telling you, if you want to be friends with Caleb again, we should let him be a Brother. A real one, not a fake one.<br/>
<br/>
"And if you don't just want to spring it on him," she adds with a sudden smile, "we don't even tell him who we are! We recruit him under some other aliases! And if we tell him it's us, we only tell him later."<span class="fmjfeemjgh3710"></span></span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Body Swapping as a Solution
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So what does the new spell do?" Sydney asks again after you've not answered her for a minute.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it's complicated," you stammer. Almost you tell her what happened to you at school today. But instead you postpone the topic, at least for now. Maybe she'll come up with an idea that'll help you out without even knowing that you've got a problem.<br/>
<br/>
So you tell her that it uses most of the same stuff that you used to make a golem and that you used on her stepdad: flammable powders and liquids, a few special extra ingredients. As for cemetery earth, it only calls for a spoonful, and there are no human sacrifices. "But it's still a lot like the last spell," you conclude.<br/>
<br/>
"How?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well—"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a long, rambling, and confusing explanation you stammer out, and not until you're at the elementary school, where you can show her the paste you made and a mask, do you get clear on what you think is going on with the magic.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you say, "you know how we turned your— how we turned Nicholas into a golem?" Sydney grins and nods. "Well, I kind of think that's not really the way it worked." Her eyebrows go up. "What if it just, like, encased him inside a golem? Like dipping him in bronze? What if it doesn't go all the way through, I mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean if we hit him with a sledgehammer, maybe we could get him out?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe." You scratch the back of your head; you'd not thought of it in quite that way. "Not that I want to try."<br/>
<br/>
"You wouldn't. Me, I'd <i>love</i> to break his face with a sledgehammer." She snickers. "But go on."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, so, what that spell basically does, I think, is it encases him inside of a shell. Then you put the mask on top of the shell to turn him into someone else. Like Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
"Why do think that?"<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos of this stuff." You point to the paste, which is the color of tar. "You put it inside a mask. Then, the way the book seems to describe it, if you put the mask onto a person, it turns him into that other person. But he acts like the way your— Like Nicholas did. He doesn't know he's the other person. He just thinks he's the person who was copied into the mask. So it's just like the other spell, except that instead of having to do it in two steps—the shell, then the mask—you just have to do it in one. 'Cos the shell is already inside the mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh!" Her eyes light up.<br/>
<br/>
"But it's reversible, too. You take the mask off, and the shell comes with it, and the person turns back to normal. That's why I think it's only a shell that's been poured over Nicholas. To make something a mask can stick to. Only in this case—"<br/>
<br/>
"What if we don't want to turn them back to normal?" she interrupts.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "I guess you leave the mask on them. The spell doesn't say anything about a time limit.<br/>
<br/>
"Can I try doing the translation myself?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Be my guest,</i> you reply with a gesture.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney concurs with your translation, but she still wants to test it out; and she's confident enough in the translation that she consents to be the test subject. "Put it inside one of the masks we've got," she says as she starts to strip. "I'll put it on, and we'll find out what happens when you put it on and take it off." <br/>
<br/>
You try to argue, but she just gives you a look as she continues to pull her clothes off as you fumble for Caleb's mask. You sit with your back to her as you apply the new paste to the inside of the mask. You then set a hank of your own hair into the mask and set it aflame. It burns for only an instant, and the interior of the mask turns the same color as a golem. Sydney looks vastly amused when you turn around to hand it to her, but she says nothing about your obvious embarrassment at her nakedness. She lays back on the old conference table and drops the mask onto her face.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb appears in her place, and his eyes instantly pop open. He glares at you. "Jesus," he says. "You again. You're even worse than the headache I got."<br/>
<br/>
"Sydney?" you ask, but he ignores you as he sits up with a sigh. "Sydney?" Caleb crinkles his eyes at you. "Sydney?"<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you going on about now, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
You peer into his eyes. "What's your name?" you demand. "Where do you live? What's today's date? Who was our English teacher our freshman year?"<br/>
<br/>
He snorts out his answers, getting correct marks on all except the date, claiming he has no idea what day it is but hazarding that it might be ... Friday? September 26? (It's Wednesday, October 8.) He also punches himself in the balls when you order him to. His mannerisms are entirely Johansson's too, not at all like the girlish ones he showed when Sydney had his mask on the last time.<br/>
<br/>
It takes your girlfriend several minutes to wake up after you've removed Caleb's mask from her. You cover her with her clothes as best you can, and ostentatiously take a seat with your back to her while perusing the next spell in the book. In fact, your eye takes in none of it, for you're entirely preoccupied with searing your imagination with a memory of what you saw when she had her clothes off. Suffice it to say that her breasts, butt, bush, and all the parts in between measured up to the standard set by the rest of her.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you want me to leave while you get dressed?" you ask when you hear her groan. "Are you cold?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. I'm cold," she says, "but you can stay. God, I feel like I got hit with a two-by-four. What happened?" She yawns.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you remember?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will you look me in the face, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
You turn, to find her frowning at you. Then her gaze goes distant, and her brow furrows.<br/>
<br/>
"I remember you dropped the mask on me," she says. "And that's all."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't remember me talking to you? Asking you questions? Telling you to punch yourself in the balls?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, none of that." Her nostrils flare. "Lemme get dressed and you can tell me about it."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It doesn't take long to relate, and her eyes are shining thoughtfully when you're done.<br/>
<br/>
"You know what this means?" she says. "We don't have to make any more golems. We can just replace people with copies and stock our Brotherhood that way!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, sure, that's something we could do." <br/>
<br/>
"Because I'd been assuming, you know, that we'd just make up ten golems and get a bunch of masks, and just turn them on when—"<br/>
<br/>
She catches herself, and hides a titter behind her hand.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, <i>activate</i> them, and <i>then</i> turn them on—"<br/>
<br/>
You smile tightly. Normally you'd be the one making lame sexual innuendos, but you're still shaken by the afternoon's events.<br/>
<br/>
"—and just use them for the rituals before turning them off again. But <i>this</i> way we'd have the Brotherhood right there in school with us!"<br/>
<br/>
She cocks her head. "But maybe you'd have a problem with that?"<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath. Before this afternoon you might have. But now you've got a reason of your own for going down that road.<br/>
<br/>
"No. I'd be up for that. In fact, we could swap ourselves with those other people. We were talking about putting on masks of other people so we could—" You lightly stroke her arm, and she grins and shivers at your touch. "This way we could <i>be</i> those people even inside the school."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Will!" Sydney grabs you and kisses you hungrily.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You take her home, then go home yourself. After eating supper and doing your homework, you invent an excuse for leaving the house, for you know that Sydney's plans will require plenty of gear. You already have five masks in various stages of completion, but you will need more memory strips, so you hike out to the elementary school to make some more. As you finish two more memory strips, you ponder ideas of your own.<br/>
<br/>
The only one you can come up with, though, is that you assume the identity of Blake O'Brien while Sydney takes her choice of schoolmate to be your—that is, Blake's— girlfriend. You figure that Blake is the immediate cause of today's incident, and that if you (as him) can get the others to leave you alone by taking another girlfriend, then that might get them to leave your doppelganger alone.<br/>
<br/>
Though if that doesn't work, what the hell: "Will Prescott" would just be a fake.<br/>
<br/>
You have your cell phone with you, so you answer when Sydney calls. "So I've been thinking about what we're going to do. Is there any group of people at the school you'd like to be?" she asks. "Like, guys on the football squad, or in the chess club, or who hang out together at parties all the time?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm still thinking about it," you temporize.<br/>
<br/>
"Because I figure there's two ways we can do this. We can make the Brotherhood all with people who hang out together, or we can, like, mix and match a lot of people who basically don't know each other. Make our Brotherhood a real menagerie!"<br/>
<br/>
She keeps saying "Brotherhood," but the word "coven" now pops into your head.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121
author_id: seuzz
title: Group Activities
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're too shy and humiliated to say anything about the day's events at school, so much so that you're too tongue-tied to directly suggest Blake or any of his friends as potential replacements. But you might be able to nudge her in that direction.<br/>
<br/>
"A group thing sounds like a good idea," you mutter. "That way there's nothing suspicious, you know, about people hanging out. You have ideas?"<br/>
<br/>
"Some," Sydney replies. "One's that are kind of obvious, though."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" <i>Like the football squad?</i> you hope. <i>Or using one of the masks we already made?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Which is why I want to think some more about it. I just wanted to check in with you, see what your intuition says. It's <i>our</i> project, you know. What I mean is, you should come up with ideas of your own."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Sure." But before you can work up the nerve to say, <i>How about the football squad? Or Blake and some of his friends, seeing as how we've already got a mask of him,</i> Sydney starts chattering again about how great it will be to have your own Brotherhood—one right inside the school!<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's Friday, so thank God you only have to get through one more day at school before the weekend, when with luck you'll be able to prepare for some body-hopping that will get you away from Blake and his friends. (Or into them.) Sydney picks you up, and she bubbles with anticipation all the way on the drive out. Your hopes rise as she says that some of the sports teams would be naturals. "They all hang out anyway, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." Then, as casually as you can manage, you add, "Like the football squad. They're always going off and getting high together. No one would think it weird if a bunch of 'em, you know, went off together to do something."<br/>
<br/>
"They'd have to take some girls with them," Sydney says. You're cheered by that observation, until she adds, "So it couldn't be the football guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" You almost give yourself whiplash as you swing around to stare at her.<br/>
<br/>
"Because there aren't any girls on the team. There's not even a girl football team." She glances over at you. "If we do a team it should be a co-ed team. The swim team or the tennis teams. The track team. Oh! Catherine and Fred and some of their friends would be perfect! Can you imagine Catherine—!" She giggles, but doesn't finish the sentence. "If not a co-ed team, then members of boys and girls basketball squads, or the baseball and softball teams. Like that. So it makes sense that they'd be together."<br/>
<br/>
You don't argue, and only grunt that that it does make sense.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've parted with Sydney in front of the gym—she has a P.E. class first thing—and are nearing your locker when again strong hands are laid on you. You're thrust through the crowd, and a punch to a kidney slams you face first into a locker. Your knees buckle, but the hand supports you as you're wrenched around. You sphincter loosens to find David Kirkham grinning into your face.<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham is a little smaller than you, but he's compact and strong. He rolls the ever-present toothpick about in his mouth beneath the ever-present shades.<br/>
<br/>
He puts his face close to yours so that he can make himself heard without lifting his voice over the mutter of the crowd.<br/>
<br/>
"I hear you're getting fucked these days, Prescott." His voice is soft, but there's a hard rattle in it, like the scales of a serpent sliding over stone. "Wanna tell me about it?"<br/>
<br/>
Your shoulders rise in a weak shrug. It's never a good idea to talk back to David Kirkham—one of the most fearsome bullies at Westside—but it's an even worse idea to say or do nothing when he address you.<br/>
<br/>
"You're not sure?" His grin widens. "What kind of a pussy-sniffer doesn't know if he's getting fucked?"<br/>
<br/>
Now you just swallow. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to do you a favor, Prescott," he hisses. "I'm going to <i>ride</i> you." He tightens his grip on your collar. "I've seen that girl that you don't know if you're fucking or not. Oooh! If I was with her, she's know she was getting fucked. I'd fuck her into a coma then fuck her back out of it. But I was saying I'm gonna do you a solid."<br/>
<br/>
He puts his face so close to yours you can smell the cinnamon on his breath. <br/>
<br/>
"Starting Monday I'm gonna fuck you up every day, in front of her. Give you a chance to prove to her that you got balls big enough for her. You got balls big enough for her, don't you? She <i>inspires</i> you, doesn't she?" He punches you again. "So I'm gonna let you <i>show</i> her how much she inspires you. And as an <i>extra</i> favor, 'cos I like you so much, I won't pull any my punches."<br/>
<br/>
He drops you, and sniggers as he pats your chest. "So get ready for a good show on Monday, Prescott. Play it like your life depends on it." With another hissing laugh, he melts back into the crowd.<br/>
<br/>
You run into the nearest bathroom and throw up.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You can't say anything to Caleb in first period about your run-in with Kirkham. Not that Caleb could do anything about it except grumble sympathetically. But telling him would involve telling him about your new relationship with Sydney, and you've yet to figure out a way of breaking that to him.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't even get to have a normal conversation with him. He is very white in the face, and when you greet him he just folds his arms and stares at the front of the room with glittering eyes. "Caleb," you say. "Caleb, man, come on!" Even when you wave your hand in front of his face he just turns the color of Antarctica and stares straight ahead.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is the matter with Johansson?" you ask Keith when you fall into the desk in front of his in second period. "The son of a bitch went all last period ignoring me."<br/>
<br/>
"It's pro'ly on account of your being such a backstabbing asshole," Tilley replies. He leans back, turns his cap brim-side front, and pulls it down over his eyes. "Can't say I blame him," he adds as he lifts his cell phone to block his view of you.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you talking about?" But with a sinking heart you can make a pretty good guess.<br/>
<br/>
"What you think I'm a'talk about? What's her name? Girl wanted to get to know Caleb only you got to her first?"<br/>
<br/>
You grip your desk and glare. "What are you talking about?" you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"You know exactly what I'm'a talk about, motherfucker. Girl comes on to Caleb, you sling a lot of shit at him so he don't come back at her, you pick her up and walk off with her instead. Not fucking cool, man." He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. "Not fucking cool."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, first of all, who told you some girl was coming on to Caleb? And second, what makes you think I'm—"<br/>
<br/>
But the words falter and die. You've never been good at bluffing. Obviously Caleb would have told Keith about Sydney, and about how you talked him into ignoring her; and just as obviously word must have spread back to the two of them that you and her had started going out.<br/>
<br/>
"I tell you one more thing," Keith says, "and then I start talkin' to you like you was a wall. As in, I ain't talkin' to you ever again." You can't help rolling your eyes at Keith's attempt to sound "ghetto." "You better go lookin' for some new friends, 'cos you ain't findin' none where you been findin' 'em b'fore. An' that includes Carson and James." He whistles. "Ain't no one cool wit' what you done to Caleb. You gonna find 'em all <i>cold.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So that's how you wind up sitting with Braydon and Christian at lunch time. Oh, you went looking for Carson and James and Jenny. But Caleb and Keith were already with them, and when Carson saw you coming he just yelled, "Go fuck yourself, Prescott!" Jenny shot him a very dirty look, but you slunk away.<br/>
<br/>
You don't have anything to say to Christian and Braydon, you just want some company as you eat, and you're content—insofar as one can be content while super-heated magma is roiling your brain and stomach—to listen as Christian tells Braydon what he missed at yesterday's gaming session. And at the previous day's gaming session. And the gaming session before that.<br/>
<br/>
But when Braydon coolly informs him that "I don't think I've been since Monday," Christian explodes. "You know, instead of carrying your goddamn half-giant around because you're too lazy to animate him," he says, "I'm just gonna tell the guys we're leaving him in the bog."<br/>
<br/>
"What'll you do when I do come back?"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Are</i> you coming back?" Christian leans forward to glare at Braydon from under a sharply cocked eyebrow.<br/>
<br/>
"Eventually. You're not kicking me out of the group, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
Christian sighs deeply. Then he catches you watching them. "You ever do any role-playing, Prescott?" You shrug. "Come on out and take over running Braydon's character until he's sick of snogging with Gillian."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have to replace me permanently in that case," Braydon smiles.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That could be arranged,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So I've got some more ideas," Sydney tells you on the drive home from school. "It's Friday night, but we should get started. Skip the parties."<br/>
<br/>
You'd be up for that, and ask her what her ideas are. "I like the team idea you talked about this morning," you add.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know why I didn't think of it last night," she says, "but instead of taking over part of the sports teams, we could just take over one of the after-school clubs. Like the A Cappella Society, or the Trivial Pursuit Club. Or—" She titters. "We could change schools. Take over the kids at the Christian school. Wouldn't that be sick?"</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111211
author_id: seuzz
title: Good Sports
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There's no time to waste, as far as you're concerned: The sooner you're out of your shit life and into someone else's, the happier you'll be. You'll also be happier if some of the jocks who pulled you outside are among the victims, but you'll settle just for being on a par with them. So:<br/>
<br/>
"Let's keep it simple," you tell Sydney. "Let's take over one of the sports teams."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a sidelong look, and dimples show in her cheeks. "What?" you ask her.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing," she says. "It would serve you right if we took over the girls' basketball team.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart goes sideways in your chest. "Is that what you want?"<br/>
<br/>
She laughs. "I don't <i>want</i> anything in particular, Will," she says. "Except to do this thing and to do it with you. So don't feel like you have to make me happy."<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure what she means by that, but you can make an educated guess, and it leaves you burning with embarrassment: She thinks you want to turn yourself into some chiseled jock in order to impress her. You remind yourself to keep the discussion firmly focused on who would be "best" from the point of view of your "Brotherhood-to-Be" when you talk it over with her.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney drops you off at the elementary school to get started on things, then leaves to run errands and to pick up some supper. It's barbecue that she brings back, along with a few other things. None of them are ingredients for more masks or memory strips, though, and you'll need supplies if you're going to make enough masks for her plan, as you explain to her as she starts cutting up cardboard boxes. "How many?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"At least twelve, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, ten for each of the brethren. Didn't you say we needed ten? And then we need two for us. To cover for us when we're pretending to be two of the other Brethren."<br/>
<br/>
"Right. How many do we have to start with?"<br/>
<br/>
You've got two masks ready to be used, and three more unpolished ones that need memory strips.<br/>
<br/>
"That's enough for a start," Sydney says. "Our first two ... converts." She smiles privately to herself while concentrating on her work.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no," you correct her. She looks up. "That's enough for one switch. A mask to copy, um, one of us, to put on the ... convert. And one to copy the convert for us to ... wear."<br/>
<br/>
"Do we have to do a switch right away?"<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath. "I'd like to. Yeah, I'd like to go ahead and switch with someone, if you don't mind."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney shows those dimples again, and drops the box cutters. She sidles over to you, and takes your fingers in hers.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't get too used to the idea that you're going to be someone else, Will," she says. "I still want to be with a guy who <i>looks</i> like Will Prescott." She puts her open mouth to yours, and you strain with every fiber to fill her mouth with yourself. "Mm, yeah," she sighs when you break off. "Like that. So if made two brethren with the masks—"<br/>
<br/>
"I still want to switch," you insist. "Um, I got in a bad fight with my friends today." Her brow furrows. "Basically, I'm not friends with them anymore."<br/>
<br/>
She frowns. "What happened? You didn't <i>pick a fight</i> with them, did you, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! They just—" You feel shame flooding your cheeks. "They just figured out that I basically stole you away from Caleb. And so they don't want to be friends with me anymore."<br/>
<br/>
She snorts. "Well, it's their loss. But that doesn't mean you have to run away."<br/>
<br/>
"I just don't want to look at them anymore."<br/>
<br/>
"Alright." She laughs softly. "We'll get you a new alias. You still want it to be one of the sports teams? Which one?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Well, there's a lot of possibilities. And though you were thinking about the boys' basketball and football teams—as those are the teams that include those assholes from yesterday afternoon—Sydney has reminded you that there are some girls' teams too. And even some coed teams, like the swim team.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112111
author_id: seuzz
title: Manly Choices
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Before you can make a decision, though, you need to know how Sydney envisions it working out.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you say, "suppose we, uh, make it the basketball squad—"<br/>
<br/>
"Boys or girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... either. That's what I'm asking. Didn't you say we need, like, a mix of guys and girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." She stirs her finger inside a cup of barbecue sauce, and sucks on it. <br/>
<br/>
"I guess what I was assuming," she continues, "is that we'd do five on each team. Like, five of the guys on the basketball squad, and five of the girls on the girls' squad. Although—" She cocks her head. "Maybe it would make more sense if it was five on a squad, and then we just find five people who would be a good match for them. Like Gordon Black, he's dating the head cheerleader isn't he?" You nod. "So there. If we pick the boys' basketball squad, then his girlfriend and the girlfriends of the other guys would be the natural ones to add."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, let's go with one of the boys' teams, then," you say, for you're still thinking in terms of those asshole jock friends of Blake's. "That would be— What are you doing?" you ask, for Sydney wiped off her fingertips and plucked her cell phone from her pocket.<br/>
<br/>
"Just checking the possibilities," she says. "Basketball, football, baseball, right? Who else?"<br/>
<br/>
"Soccer?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." She drags a fingertip over her screen a couple of times, and taps at it. "Mm," she says. "There's a lot of overlap between football and wrestling. We should probably just dump all those guys in one bin."<br/>
<br/>
"What about, like, the swim team?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's more co-ed. Same as track and tennis."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought those were different teams for boys and girls."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they are. Sort of. But there's more guys to pick from if we stick to—" She studies the screen. "Basketball, baseball, soccer, and football. Oh, and wrestling and lacrosse. You know, maybe we should just do a mix instead of pulling them all off of one team."</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121114
author_id: seuzz
title: The Burly Ones
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"There's more people to pick from on the football squad," you say. Your pulse thumps in your throat. <i>Like Blake and his friends.</i><br/>
<br/>
Sydney scrolls and taps at her phone. "Except the smaller the squad, the closer we can get to taking it over completely. The wrestling squad is pretty small," she observes. "And there's a lot of overlap between them and the football team."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Maybe I should just go with the lacrosse team,</i> you mutter to yourself. <i>Guys I don't even know anything about.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I gotta say," Sydney says, "I'm kind of liking the idea of picking out the best guys from each team. Or just a cross-section of them, even."<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111211144
author_id: seuzz
title: Varsity Smorgasbord
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Yeah, that's a great idea," you quickly enthuse. Your heart is beating hard. "Some of the football guys, some of the, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"You keep circling back to the football squad, I notice." Sydney flashes you a mischievous smile. "You wanna start there?"<br/>
<br/>
You affect to shrug. Maybe you should try to play things a little more cool.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Jockettes
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Before you can make a decision, though, you need to know how Sydney envisions it working out.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you say, "suppose we, uh, make it the basketball squad—"<br/>
<br/>
"Boys or girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... either, I guess. That's what I'm asking. Didn't you say we need, like, a mix of guys and girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." She stirs her finger inside a cup of barbecue sauce, and sucks on it. "What I was assuming, I guess, is that we'd do five on each team. Like, five of the guys on the basketball squad, and five of the girls on the girls' squad. Although—" She cocks her head. "Maybe it would make more sense if it was five on a squad, and then we just find five people who would be a good match for them. Like Gordon Black, isn't he dating the head cheerleader?" You nod. "So there. If we pick the boys' basketball squad, then his girlfriend and the girlfriends of the other guys would be the natural ones to add." She punctuates the suggestion with a puckish smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Let's go with girls' teams," you say after a moment's thought. <i>Then we can use the girls to get one of those assholes from yesterday afternoon, and it won't look like I'm aiming for one of them.</i> "What are girls' teams we can pick from?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on." Sydney wipes off her fingertips and plucks her cell phone from her pocket. "Off hand, I can tell you that volleyball and basketball are on the table. Soccer and softball too."<br/>
<br/>
"What about, like, the swim team?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's more co-ed. Same as track and tennis."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought those were different teams for boys and girls."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they are. Sort of. But there's more people to pick from if we stick to—" She studies the screen. "Yeah, volleyball, softball, basketball, and soccer are the best ones to pick from, if we're gonna put a girls' team at the center of our, uh, brotherhood.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, and—" Sydney adds with a rakish grin and a wink at you. "Let's not overlook the cheerleading squad!"</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121125
author_id: seuzz
title: Five Cheers for the Cheerleaders!
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Cheerleaders! Why didn't you think of that on your own?<br/>
<br/>
Sydney bursts out laughing. "Will! If you could see your face!"<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" You feel yourself blushing.<br/>
<br/>
"You're turning bright red! Do you want to be a cheerleader?" Sydney rocks with laughter.<br/>
<br/>
You choke on your own denial. Because it would be a lie.<br/>
<br/>
You? A cheerleader? A girl with giant tits, firm thighs, tight calves, a trim tummy, lovely hair tumbling about your shoulders, and a wide, blinding smile? A girl with a firm but silky body she can bind inside tight, sleeveless blouses and short skirts and skimpy sandals? A girl that all the guys lust after and pant over, and who can twirl them around her finger like taffy? Why would you want to be <i>that?</i><br/>
<br/>
Okay, seriously: Why <i>wouldn't</i> you want to be that?<br/>
<br/>
Your face feels like it's going to burn off the front of your skull.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney gradually overcomes her mirth.<br/>
<br/>
"We can do whatever you want, Will," she says, and she cuddles up close to you, so that her scent envelops you. She lightly smooches you on the lips. "We can <i>be</i> whoever you want. I can be a cheerleader. A Westside cheerleader." <i>Smooch.</i> "And <i>you</i> can be a Westside cheerleader, if you want." She smooches you again. "We can be Westside cheerleaders together. Squad mates!" <i>Smooch.</i> "Or <i>I</i> can be a Westside cheerleader and you can be my boyfriend." <i>Smooch.</i> <br/>
<br/>
She cuddles up closer to you, and you feel like you're going to explode.<br/>
<br/>
"You know," she softly breathes in your face. "I could even be <i>five</i> cheerleaders for you. Five <i>different</i> cheerleaders." <i>Smooch.</i> "And each one of them can take turns being with you." <i>Smooch.</i> "Being." <i>Smooch.</i> "Your." <i>Smooch.</i> "Afternoon." <i>Smooch.</i> "Fuck." <i>Smooch.</i> "If that's what you want."<br/>
<br/>
You almost come out of your skin.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You and Sydney talk over the possibilities while holding each other tight, and balancing a cell phone between you as you scroll around online looking for cheerleader selfies.<br/>
<br/>
The number one pick on the cheerleader squad would have to be Chelsea Cooper, the beautiful but imperious squad captain. She is small, firm, buxom, and strong, and she acts like the queen bee who runs the school. She is also dating Gordon Black, the hulking captain of the basketball squad. They are the King and Queen of Westside High. That makes them a natural couple for you to convert.<br/>
<br/>
The only other cheerleader with a boyfriend (that you know of, but then you are not exactly inside the loop on these things) is Cindy Vredenburg. Cindy (you hear via your friends) is Chelsea's great rival, and was narrowly beaten out by Chelsea for the position of squad captain at the start of the year. Her boyfriend is another basketball player, Seth Javits, who is one of the school's more psychotic bullies, with a particular animus against your ex-friend Keith Tilley.<br/>
<br/>
Neither Cindy nor Chelsea would be easy for you to get close to—that would be a job for Sydney, probably. But to make it seem like you are capable of pulling some weight for this plan, you tell her that there are a couple of cheerleaders you could probably get close enough to—close enough to pull off a replacement. Jessica and Eva Garner, for instance, have sometimes talked you—though that was back when you were dating Lisa, who hung out with them. You could probably also take a good swing at getting Yumi Saito or Lin Pol alone long enough to make a switch. But you have doubts about getting close enough any of the others.<br/>
<br/>
"We could get <i>any</i> of them, Will," Sydney declares. "And we could get to any of them after getting <i>one</i> of them. Just think about who you want for sure"—she gives you another quick, warm smooch—"or who you'd definitely be okay with, and we'll go for her first."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want to pick?" you ask. "I mean, if you're going to be her."<br/>
<br/>
"Unless you want to be her, Will," Sydney says. "Maybe that's the way we want to do it? Nine cheerleaders, five for me and four for you. And one very, <i>very</i> lucky cocksman who gets to get it on with ninety percent of the cheerleading squad."<br/>
<br/>
You almost liquefy with anticipation.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It will be Monday before you have to face your persecutors again, which gives you the weekend to decide. But you don't want to waste time. After a long night of wrestling with the possibilities—thrashing wakefully in your bed, and wetly in your dreams—you text Sydney the next morning that you want to try first for:</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111211252
author_id: seuzz
title: A Cindy in Your Eye
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Sydney's first reply to your text comes twenty minutes later: <i>Ok!</i> followed by a string of smiling and thumbs-up emojis.<br/>
<br/>
Her second reply comes a little after noon, when you are at basement tapping out a new memory strip. (You will need two more, at least, to make a second switch.) <i>Cindy is coming out to my house at three,</i> she says, <i>for a "conference abt cheerleading do u want to be here or just give me stuff to do it and come find u later?<br/>
<br/>
Of course I want to be there when you make the switch,</i> you think with no little irritation.<br/>
<br/>
Then you think, <i>Hmm. It would be kind of neat—really sexy—if "Cindy" came to find me later. Like, if we just "ran into" each other.</i> You shiver pleasurably all over. <i>Oh, wow.</i><br/>
<br/>
Still, it would be best if you were on hand to help Sydney. You reply that you will be out at 2:30 to help set things up. That will also give you time to finish prepping a second pair of masks for whatever comes afterward.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Honestly, I think I can handle it, Will," Sydney sighs. She sounds a little cross. "You don't need to <i>hover</i> over me."<br/>
<br/>
Okay, probably you are hovering, just a little. Over her protests you keep going over and over how to get the mask onto Cindy ("I got a mask onto Blake the other night," she protests, "when you weren't around") and how to seal it up ("It's just like painting a miniature, isn't it?") and about the need to switch clothes. ("Well, dur!") But you're almost squirming out of your skin with anticipation, and maybe it's because you want to live the experience first as a fantasy that you keep going over and over it with her.<br/>
<br/>
You're up in Sydney's "quarter" of her house, and it's the first time you've ever been to her place. She lives on the northwest side of town, where the subdivisions fade into rolling countryside with woodland stands. <i>This is where the rich folk live,</i> your dad always mutters out of the side of his mouth when driving out this way, and it's country where the McMansions stand aloof from each other with pastures and grazing land to buffer their borders. Kelsey Blankenship lives off this way, you think, and who knows who else with money.<br/>
<br/>
Well, Sydney lives off this way too, it turns out.<br/>
<br/>
Hers is a rambling, asymmetrical house of white stone walls and gray shingled roofs, with a tower rearing up over the front door. The living room you passed through spreads out under a vaulting ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
She led you up a narrow set of stairs to a short hallway with a pair of double doors at the end. These opened out into an ivory-colored bedroom whose tall, clear windows overlook the driveway. There was plenty of floor space left over even after filling it with the four-poster bed and the blonde oak desk—whisked clean of clutter—big enough that you could land a helicopter on; and the armoire and the vanity table with mirror and the two dressers. In fact, there was so much wide open space left over you could probably have squeezed your own bed and desk and chest of drawers in, and still had plenty of room to do cartwheels and somersaults.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney seems as impatient as you for Cindy to get here, and maybe her impatience is why she keeps sighing heavily through her nose as you rehearse the switch to come with her. She finally shuts you up by asking if <i>you</i> want to be the one to switch with Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
That catches you short. "Oh. Well. Um." You blush. "If you <i>don't</i> want—"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want it one way or the other, sweetie," she sighs. "I just figure you've got more of a thing for her than I do." She pulls you into a close embrace while wrapping her arms loosely about your waist. "You've known her longer than I have. I don't even know her at all."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know her either," you admit. "Not really."<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I mean. You fantasize about her a lot, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Jesus.</i> You hate the way your mouth twists up into a sick grin. <br/>
<br/>
"Which way to do you want to have enjoy her body?" Sydney asks. "From the inside or the outside?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh! <i>God!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney titters and releases you. "I'm just teasing. But I'm serious, too. It's up to you." She cocks her head as she studies the gear that you poured out of your bag onto her bed. "Don't you have to glue this thing into the mask?" she asks as she picks up the memory strip between her forefinger and thumb.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, eventually. But— Well, I was thinking." Your forehead is still very hot with embarrassment, and your scalp seems to be steaming. "You know how you couldn't get my friend Caleb's memories when you tried on his mask?" Sydney nods. "That would be kind of bad, if you put on Cindy's mask but couldn't get the memories. So, I was thinking—"<br/>
<br/>
It takes you awhile to stammer out your explanation, because you're not even sure yourself what you're thinking and why you think it. All you know is that you had no trouble getting Caleb's memories when you first tried on his memory strip, before you'd attached it to his mask, and there doesn't seem to be anything in the book to say that you have to glue a mask and memory strip together before trying to wear them both. So—<br/>
<br/>
There's a flash of light outside Sydney's window, and you glance out to see a minivan pulling in next to your truck. That must be Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
"So I figure if we put the memory strip on you first, by itself," you rapidly sum up, "and make sure you've got, you know, her memories, then we can put the mask on you, and there won't be any problems."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh," Sydney says as she crosses over to glance out the window. "That sounds clever. Well, here she is," she adds. "You want to hide out in my bathroom?" She gestures at a door on the far side of the bedroom. "It might be awkward if she finds you here when she walks in."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Well, so what if she does?</i> you want to retort, but Sydney is already striding out the bedroom door. You grimace and pace the floor. Then, because you do not actually want to cause any kind of scene, you do as she suggests, and duck into the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It seems like a long time before you hear voices outside in the bedroom, and they talk for what seems like a very long time, but you can't make out the words through through the thick door, even with your ear pressed to it. Finally, though, silence falls over the room outside. You wait, though, until there's a soft knock at the door. "Will?" Sydney calls.<br/>
<br/>
You wrench the door open, and Sydney jumps back. Even knowing how rude it seems, you burst past her and hurry over to the bed, where a long-legged figure hangs half on and half off.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy Vredenburg is a tall, slim girl, whose height and slenderness are accented by her the flat sheets of glistening platinum-blonde hair that hangs to her elbows. That hair is only a little disordered now as it splays out beneath her head and shoulders. Her sky-blue eyes are open and staring vacantly at the ceiling, and her jaw hangs open. It's a cool day, and she is dressed in a polyester windbreaker, a t-shirt, and distressed jeans. But her pink shoes are bright and new looking.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That's going to be my girlfriend.</i> The thought is hard and bright and lustrous. Cindy Vredenburg—this vulnerable, unconscious waif—never had a moment to even look at you, let alone talk to you, and in just a few short minutes she is going to be your girlfriend. Because your girlfriend is going to be her.<br/>
<br/>
You tear your eyes from Cindy's face long enough to blink wetly and gratefully at Sydney.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe she has misinterpreted you, though. A wry smile twists her lips. "I'll ask you again, Will," she says. "Who do you want to be the one wearing her face?"<br/>
<br/>
The question still jars you. "Are you serious?"<br/>
<br/>
She shrugs. "It's up to you."<br/>
<br/>
You turn back to Cindy and chew your lip. You'd have to admit it's rather tempting.<br/>
<br/>
"She's got a boyfriend," you tell Sydney.<br/>
<br/>
"So? You could be him and I could be her. Or— I dunno. You could be her and break up with him. You got a problem with him?" Her eyebrows go up. "Would you like to <i>hurt</i> him?"<br/>
<br/>
It's like she can see into your soul, or something. Yes, you would like to hurt Seth Javits. He's an asshole and swaggering bully, especially to—<br/>
<br/>
Something in you freezes.<br/>
<br/>
Seth is a bully who has had taken more than one shot at you. But mostly he concentrates his assholery at Keith, who is no longer any friend of yours. Or at Carson Ioeger and James Lamont, who have also shaken you off.<br/>
<br/>
Being Cindy would be delicious. But being Seth ... Then you'd get to enjoy everything about Cindy that Seth has ever gotten to enjoy, and there'd be some extra dividends in the vengeance you could visit upon your former friends.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112112521
author_id: seuzz
title: Courtship at the Food Court
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There's more dividends to be collected by playing Seth, you figure. Not only will you have this beautiful creature—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Two</i> beautiful creatures, Sydney <i>and</i> Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
—for a girlfriend, but you'll have stepped up into the alpha class and into the skin of someone who can make the lives of your ex-friends extra miserable.<br/>
<br/>
But it's a close-run decision, made under pressure as Sydney with folded arms and a tapping toe awaits your response. If you'd answered a little later ... or a little sooner ... you might have flipped the other way.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll take Seth," you croak. "You can be, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be happy to be," Sydney assures you. "Now if you'll excuse us."<br/>
<br/>
Her hand goes to the top button of her blouse. You feel a brief flare of anger. <i>She's going to be </i>coy<i> about getting undressed in front of you? Does this mean she's going to be frigid with you after the changeover?</i><br/>
<br/>
But you tamp back the unworthy thought, and as you turn toward the door you get a wild, exciting idea.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you going to do after, you know—" You gesture at Cindy, sprawled unconscious on Sydney's bed.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll go off with you," Sydney says. She looks puzzled. "We'll go find Seth. I thought—"<br/>
<br/>
"Can you come find me—?" You ponder where a good meeting place might be. "The mall. The food court," you finally suggest with a helpless lack of imagination. "Come as Cindy."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." But Sydney still looks puzzled.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, <i>as</i> Cindy. <i>Being</i> Cindy. Like, you're Cindy and you went up to the mall to go shopping, and when you see me there it'll be, like, on accidnet, and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh!" Sydney's brow clears, and her expression turns puckish. "You mean ... role-playing?"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart leaps. "Yeah! But— With a twist." You flap your hands in the air, as though to sculpt a suggestion that you can't quite visualize.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, Will," Sydney says. "I'll see you up there in ... half an hour?"<br/>
<br/>
"The food court."<br/>
<br/>
"I know."<br/>
<br/>
"At the mall."<br/>
<br/>
"I <i>know,</i> Will." Gently, she pushes you toward the door.<br/>
<br/>
You run for your truck, and almost faint with excitement—black dots swarm before your eyes—after you're behind the wheel.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have your phone out and are surfing social media sites. But your eyes don't register anything, and if your finger flicks over the screen, it's only out of robotic habit, not because you're reading or searching.<br/>
<br/>
The food court is chilly, and it's very, very white. The floor is a hard, bony tile, and the sunlight filters through a gauzy skylight to suffuse the open-aired atrium with a milky glow. A fountain sprays and splashes nearby.<br/>
<br/>
Your idea is a variation on something Sydney said yesterday, about getting together with Cindy to make the switch, then coming to find you. Cindy has always been haughty toward you, never looking at you if she could help it, and certainly never saying anything to you. The only times she has ever been close to you—except for one class last year, when she sat one desk over and one desk forward of you—is when she's come outside to eat lunch with Jenny Ashton and/or Yumi Saito, to talk about girl stuff. You can only console yourself that she never has anything to say to Caleb or to Keith, either.<br/>
<br/>
Though she sometimes has things to say to Carson Ioeger and James Lamont. Not mean or cutting things, either. But it's clear she has more respect for them.<br/>
<br/>
Anyway, Cindy is one of those girls who is just <i>way</i> too good for you, even if she can't be bothered to say so herself. So as you sip on an overpriced cola and munch on some cold French fries from a fast-food kiosk, you are quivering with excitement. <i>Cindy Vredenburg is coming up to the mall to meet me! And to talk to me!<br/>
<br/>
No,</i> you quickly correct yourself. <i>She's not coming up here "to talk to me."</i> It's important that you frame it right so that you get the right kind of role-playing thrill. She's just coming up here, is all.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, but how do I know she's coming up here?</i> you ask yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, I heard she was coming up here. She's coming up here to do some shopping, and I thought— Hell, I'll go put myself in her sightline. Call to her like she's a friend when I see her. She'll probably ignore me, but at least she'll look in my direction. Maybe she'll even smile at me.</i> What kind of a smile? <i>Don't expect too much, Will,</i> you pretend to chide yourself. (It's like you're trying to hypnotize yourself into believing the make-believe story you're spinning.) <i>She'll probably just make a face at me. Well, fuck her if she does.</i><br/>
<br/>
You briefly flush with a twinge of real resentment.<br/>
<br/>
Out of nowhere, a hard hand claps you on the shoulder. You almost fly out of your chair.<br/>
<br/>
With a harsh laugh, a brawny, brown-skinned dude steps from behind your chair to grin down at you. So astonished—and frightened—are you that it takes you an absurdly long time to connect a name and biography to the face.<br/>
<br/>
And to the three other faces that crowd around to grin at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Will." Laurent Delacroix, the captain of the wrestling team chortles at you. "So, you up here chillin' with fries and a movie on your phone?"<br/>
<br/>
You stare back with a slack jaw.<br/>
<br/>
"You meeting someone?" asks Marc Garner, the captain of the soccer team. He cranes his neck to look around the food court.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh— uh— g'uh," you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we're bustin' in on him," says a guy whose blonde hair sticks in spit curls from under a ski cap. He grins and kneads the top of your head through your ball cap. "Is she here yet?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is who here yet?" you ask. Your breath is coming in short, painful gasps.<br/>
<br/>
The four guys—Delacroix, Garner, the guy in the ski cap, and Austin Dougherty (another soccer player)—lean back on their heels behind folded arms to guffaw openly at each other.<br/>
<br/>
Somehow this is worse—so much worse—than when those assholes hauled you out to the portables the other day.<br/>
<br/>
Not that Delacroix and the others are assholes. You've actually carry around a pretty positive impression of them, especially Garner, whose always been chipper and friendly to you when he's caught you talking to his sisters (Eva and Jessica), though he hardly ever notices you otherwise. But they're clustered around your table now while you're waiting to meet a girl ... who is Seth Javits's girlfriend.<br/>
<br/>
If these guys see you with Cindy, and say anything to Seth before you can make the switch with him ...<br/>
<br/>
Your heart, already beating wildly, threatens to jackhammer its way through your breastbone.<br/>
<br/>
"What are <i>you guys</i> doing up here?" you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"Killin' time before a show," Laurent says. The movie theater is next door. "Gonna go hassle Brownie, watch a show, stay after and watch him clean up the mess we make in the aisles." He nudges Marc in the arm, and guffaws.<br/>
<br/>
"So where's Sydney?" Austin Dougherty asks. He stares down at you over a tilted chin, from under a wild mane of dark brown hair that floats and shivers as he tilts his head. His gaze is shrewd and penetrating.<br/>
<br/>
"Sydney?" you squeak.<br/>
<br/>
The moment hangs, and you watch in horror as the open-mouthed grins of the four athletes turn hungry.<br/>
<br/>
"She's late, I guess," you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
Their eyes come alive, and they explode with laughter. You fight the urge to crawl under the table.<br/>
<br/>
Laurent sucks in his upper lip, then drops heavily into the chair opposite you—the chair you'd been saving for "Cindy." You are suddenly highly conscious of how massive his torso is, and how brawny his arms are as he leans them on the table top. His coffee-dark hair glistens in the milky light of the food court.<br/>
<br/>
"I heard you had some trouble with some guys out at the portables," he says in a deep, low voice. He holds your eye. "Don't let 'em fuck with you, man. That girl is worth grabbing and holding onto with both hands."<br/>
<br/>
There's murmurs of agreement from the other three.<br/>
<br/>
"And I'll tell you something else, man," Laurent continues. "If you do lose hold of her, and <i>I</i>—" He punctuates the personal pronoun by punching the Formica top with a hard forefinger. "If I get wind of it in time. Well—" He sucks on a tooth. "You just better figure on me getting in there and up inside her faster than anyone else at school." He settles back comfortably into the chair. "You think long and hard about that before you go doing something stupid like losing hold of her."<br/>
<br/>
The other three burst into raucous jeers. But Laurent doesn't laugh. He just continues to hold your eye.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can figure out why he is telling you this—other than so he can swing his muscle-bound dick in your face—the scene is interrupted by a cry of feminine delight. "Who are these <i>sexy beasts</i> hanging around here?"<br/>
<br/>
Marc and Austin turn and part to make room for Cindy Vredenburg to slide in between. Her eyes shine as she glances from one brawny athlete to the next, and she slips a slim hand around Marc's arm. She's greeted by guttural cries of "Hey! Cindy!"<br/>
<br/>
You can't find your tongue, so you can only sit and watch helplessly as the other four start to shamelessly flirt with her. You are an afterthought—if even that—when they ask if she wants to go see the show with them. She hungrily agrees.<br/>
<br/>
There's a cold, hard spot where your heart used to be when she turns to you and says, "You wanna come too, Will?"</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121125211
author_id: seuzz
title: A Special Effects Extravaganza
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'm waiting for my— For Sydney. McGlynn," you stammer. Your face flushes hotly under the bright, gleaming attention of Cindy Vredenburg, Laurent Delacroix, Marc Garner, Austin Dougherty, and some other sinewy jock whose name you can't quite place. "We're supposed to, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"So tell her you're over at the theater," Laurent says.<br/>
<br/>
"You wanna call Seth?" Austin asks Cindy. "Or hang out with a better crowd?"<br/>
<br/>
Cindy blushes. "I should call Seth. If he finds out I went to the movies with <i>five hot guys</i> and one of them wasn't him—" The rest of her statement is drowned by chortles from the guys.<br/>
<br/>
And you remain rooted to your chair, your phone frozen in your hand, until Cindy has dialed and has her phone to her ear. "Will, I thought you were calling Sydney," she says. Then: "Oh, hey! Sweetie?" she chirps into the phone. "Listen, I'm up at the mall and I ran into some guys, and we all want to see—" She lowers the phone. "What are we seeing?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>We're seeing all my plans go up in smoke,</i> you seethe. But you hunch over your phone and thumb in a text to Sydney's cell, asking her to meet you up at the Silver Cineplex ASAP. Then, on legs that creak with reluctance, you get up and totter after the other five as they mill toward the nearest exit.<br/>
<br/>
You'd hang back, but Cindy—who is in the middle of the pack—glances around and reaches back to pull you up by her side. "Don't get lost, Will," she says. "Did you get in touch with Sydney?"<br/>
<br/>
"I sent her a text."<br/>
<br/>
"She can find us." Cindy tucks her arm inside yours, which gives you a rise all over. "You know, you need to tell us all about how you got together with her, before she gets here." More chortles from the other guys. "Noah?" Cindy peers past you at the guy in the ski cap. "Didn't <i>you</i> try asking Sydney out right after school started?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh!" He clutches his chest. "And she shot me down hard." He jostles you hard. "How'd' <i>you</i> manage to score with her, man?"<br/>
<br/>
"Will's got something special, I can tell," Cindy says with a twinkle. "He's not like <i>you</i> muscle heads." She squeezes your arm, which makes you bulge like a balloon in lots of other places.<br/>
<br/>
Talk shifts to other girls—Austin and Laurent have to brag about the last couple they hooked up with, and Cindy is keen to ask if there's any chance of anything serious working out between them; and she also has to ask where Marc's girlfriend, Hannah, is—and that takes you all the way across the parking lot to the Cineplex. At the ticket desk you try begging off again, claiming you haven't got enough money to get in, but Cindy uses a credit card and buys tickets for you, Seth, Sydney, and her, and says you can pay her back later. Then you all cluster up to the concession stand, where Alec "Brownie" Brown, another Westside wrestler, is manning the counter. There's lots of good-natured joshing, which Brownie accepts with a grin as he takes your orders, and he only replies with a polite "Yeah?" when Laurent brags to him that <i>you</i> are here to meet up with <i>Sydney McGlynn.</i> Cindy pays for your popcorn and soda as well.<br/>
<br/>
She is paying a lot of attention to you, even with Austin and Noah and Laurent trying to get between you and her. (Lots of chests are being thrown out, you notice.) Marc nudges you away from the group.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen," he murmurs at you, "if Seth gets here before Sydney, just put me and some of the other guys between you and Cindy. Okay?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." He glances around, as though musing at the Art Deco murals that cover the walls, but you can tell he's watching Cindy and the others out of the corner of his eye. She's got her head thrown back and is laughing in a way that shows off all of her bright, white teeth. "She's doing that shitty 'hot girl' thing. You know, like, a hot girl gets a boyfriend all of a sudden, and then all the other hot girls have to wonder what makes him so special, so they all get interested in him. You know?"<br/>
<br/>
No, you don't. But Marc is handsome, muscled, popular, and has a girlfriend, so you infer (with a touch of spiteful jealousy) that he probably knows what he's talking about.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay," you say. "I was wondering how come she was flirting with me."<br/>
<br/>
That gets you a direct look.<br/>
<br/>
"She's not flirting with you, man," he says. His voice drops to almost nothing. "She's being a cunt," he tells you in a deep, voiceless register that is more like a vibration sounding through the carpet. "A very special kind of cunt. Don't let her fuck you up. And <i>don't</i> let Seth catch the two of you playing that game."<br/>
<br/>
You swallow, and nod.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney—the fake one—shows up before Seth does, and she sweeps in with a wide, confident smile. "Hey, sweetie," she calls, and with a bold lack of embarrassment she slides an arm around your back to stroke you. "This is a great idea," she says as she grins into your face. "Hey, Cindy," she greets the other girl. "Guys."<br/>
<br/>
You don't dare turn to face them, but out of the corner of your eye you can see them all grinning. None of them say anything, though. With a burning face you push and tug the <i>pedisequos</i> a little away from the others, to put most of the guys between you and Cindy. "What are we here to see?" Sydney asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Shock and Awe," you reply. (The actual title is <i>Shock and A.W.,</i> an action-film spinoff from another action franchise.) "Thanks for coming out."<br/>
<br/>
"God, like I'd even miss it." Sydney's eyes slide sideways as she tries to glance behind her at the other guys. "Is <i>she</i> okay with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Who? Cindy? It was her idea."<br/>
<br/>
"Kinky. But I guess I'm not surprised. I'm sure I'd do the same thing. And your original is okay with it? Her and real-you sure moved fast."<br/>
<br/>
Her words startle you. <i>She thinks I'm the fake?</i> You gulp. Is this the way the <i>pedisequoses</i> are going to talk about you behind your back?<br/>
<br/>
"I guess they did," you stammer. "Um—"<br/>
<br/>
Fake-Sydney grins. "Let's razzle-dazzle 'em, whaddaya say?" Before you can react, she pushes her muzzle into your yours, and twines her arms all the way around you. She hooks you behind the ankle with one of her feet.<br/>
<br/>
Fireworks explode inside your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Prescott," Brownie calls out in a hard voice. "Keep the show inside the auditoriums, okay?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Seth shows up a little later. He's as meaty and aggressive as the others, but a lot flintier, too, and when the other guys call his attention to you, he just gives you a very steely once-over and a gruff, "Hey, Prescott" before turning his attention back to Cindy. In compensation, you pull Sydney closer to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Your 8-person party crowd into the auditorium, taking up the middle of three rows, with Cindy and Seth in front, the four guys behind, and you and Sydney behind them. Laurent turns around to wag an admonitory finger at you. "No hand jobs back there," he says. "I don't wanna get hit in the back of the head with anything warm and sticky." You blush and sink into your seat.<br/>
<br/>
The movie that follows is loud, stupid, kind of fun, and not nearly good enough to distract you from the way fake-Sydney keeps trying to squirm her way into your lap. <br/>
<br/>
"You know," she mutters into your ear, loud enough to be heard over the THX-enhanced rumble of seven skyscrapers sliding into ruin as a man-made tidal wave engulfs an unnamed coastal city. "The only reason I want to stay for this is so <i>they</i> know we're having fun."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean Laurent and them?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, you goose! Sydney and Will!" She grips your inner thigh, and you gulp hard.<br/>
<br/>
"Is this just for them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'm having fun. Aren't you having fun, sweetie?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." But you're really freaked out.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen," fake-Sydney growls, and she twists your head around so that you're facing her. She puts her cheek to yours, and her mouth to your ear. "They're doing their thing, and they left us behind to do their thing too. Do you really want to be boring? Don't you want to get up to your elbows in me?"<br/>
<br/>
"In you?" you squeak.<br/>
<br/>
"Grrrphhh!" Sydney pushes off from you and stomps down the aisle toward the exit. Someone in the row ahead of you—Laurent? Maybe it's Marc—turns around to look at you. With a burning face you get up and hurry after fake-Sydney.<br/>
<br/>
She's outside the auditorium. You half-expect her to yell at you, but she grabs your hand and pulls you close.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be so freaking chivalrous with me, Will," she says. "You know what we are." She grabs you by the back of the head and rakes her fingers through your hair. "Let's take advantage of it. Don't you want to? Wouldn't you <i>want</i> to? With <i>her?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Want to?" You nearly strangle on the words. "You mean you want to ...?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. <i>They're</i> going to. Why don't we?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But she doesn't mean right now, not right away. She still wants to show off in front of the ones she thinks are the real Will Prescott and the real Sydney McGlynn. So you return to the auditorium, and you and she linger with the others afterward to talk about the movie.<br/>
<br/>
But Cindy has her own plans. "How about us going out to get dinner or something?" she suggests when it's just you and her and Seth and Sydney. "Like a double date. Honey?" she asks Seth.<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
And that's all it will be. There's not going to be another switch tonight, you know that. Cindy surreptitiously sent you a text during the movie, telling you that "tomorrow" is when she'll set it up for you to take Seth's spot.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111211252111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Spicy Supper for Four
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Much as you'd like to go off with fake-Sydney for some real fun, your gut says you should follow the real Sydney's lead, and with a cheerfulness you hope doesn't sound too insincere you say that you'd love to do a "double date" with her and Seth.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wind up back at the mall, for an early supper at the Arriba Mexican Cantina. It's a family restaurant, but it has a dark and smoky ambience, with faux-adobe and lots of heavy green and red and white cloth hung on the walls. Up-tempo trumpet and guitar music blares from hidden loudspeakers, and you and the others have to put your heads together in the corner booth to make yourselves heard.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy smiles brightly at you over the table, but she seems almost as interested in the faux-Sydney, and something about the way her eyes dart between the two of you makes you think that she guesses you and "her" got hot and heavy inside the movie theater. By contrast, Seth plainly doesn't want to look at either of you, and his gaze soon locks onto something over and behind your shoulder. You glance back, and spot a muted TV monitor tuned to a sports channel. <br/>
<br/>
Talk turns more serious after the chips and con queso have been delivered to the table. After the initial pleasantries are out of the way, and a few more opinions have been shared about the movie—"I thought it was fun," Sydney says; "I thought it was too loud," says Cindy; "It was alright," grunts a distracted Seth; "Plot didn't make any sense," you suggest—Cindy nips off a corner of a tortilla chip and asks how you and Sydney met.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," the copy of your girlfriend gushes. "It was so romantic! It was in a cemetery!"<br/>
<br/>
The smile falls off Cindy's face, and Seth's attention swings from the TV.<br/>
<br/>
"We were— Ooh!" Sydney squeals as you pinch her thigh. "He can't keep his hands off me!"<br/>
<br/>
"We were there for a funeral," you interrupt. "So, uh, it wasn't 'romantic'."<br/>
<br/>
"It was <i>not</i> a funeral!" Sydney exclaims. "It was, like, nine o'clock at night! There's no funerals at nine o'clock! You had a shovel and you were—"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I'll tell the story," you shout over her. The blood is draining from Cindy's face, and Seth has the alert look of a Doberman that has sensed trouble but hasn't decided yet whether to do anything about it. "I was there on a dare," you improvise. "My stupid friends, Caleb and Keith?" You turn a pleading look on Seth—surely he'd agree that they're "stupid" and believe them capable of putting you up to a stupid dare. "They wanted some dirt from a cemetery. Or they were all, like," you correct yourself, "you're such a chickenshit, Prescott, you wouldn't go get dirt from a cemetery after it's night, would you? And I was all, like, Pfft, easy money guys. Because there was money on the line by this point."<br/>
<br/>
Your scalp starts to crawl with sweat, and it has nothing to do with the jalapenos in the con queso.<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't tell me <i>that,</i>" Sydney exclaims. "You told me it was on account of this book you found in the—"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I was embarrassed!" You squeeze her knee. "Sydney, would you let me tell the story?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fine." She bites down on a smile and rolls her eyes. "I don't know why you have to make one up when—"<br/>
<br/>
"And then it turned out that <i>Sydney</i> here was in the cemetery too because— Um—" Your powers invention suddenly blink off.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes?" Sydney drawls when you look to her for support.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, she was also there on a dare—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, for Pete's sake!"<br/>
<br/>
"Look," you gasp. "Actually—"<br/>
<br/>
You find you can't look the others in the face. A flush is creeping up Cindy's throat, and Seth has the bright, incredulous look of someone watching as an attempted magic trick starts to go all wrong. "Actually," you sigh, "we just had a study date. That's all. My friend Caleb was supposed to tutor her at some math, but he called in sick and I took over, and we just, um, hit it off from there."<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, the waiter chooses that moment to drop off your drinks and take your food order. "Pff. Weird," Seth snorts afterward, and goes back to watching the monitor behind your shoulder. You ask Cindy how she and Seth got together. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it was so sweet," she gushes. She nudges her boyfriend, who studiously concentrates on the TV as he munches on chips. "We had a bunch of freshman classes together, and we just liked each other from the start! It was puppy love," she adds with a sigh. "He was so <i>adorable,</i> especially when he came in after P. E. in fresh workout shorts. Oh my God, he's always had the sexiest legs!"<br/>
<br/>
Apparently she pinches him under the table, for Seth jumps a little. But his eyes remained glued to a spot above and behind your head.<br/>
<br/>
"But that was all," Cindy continues. She stares with shining eyes at Seth's profile. "Until I gave him a Valentine's day candy for Halloween in the tenth grade.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God!" Sydney squeals. "That is so sweet! Except, you know, <i>he</i> should'a been the one to give it to <i>you!"</i><br/>
<br/>
"He was so shy!" Cindy exclaims. "He still is! He's like a little bunny rabbit! I know he's like a tiger or a timber wolf on the basketball court, but with me he was just a <i>ittle! Wittle!</i> Bunny wabbit!"<br/>
<br/>
Cindy pinches the very tippy-tip of Seth's earlobe. He shakes her off.<br/>
<br/>
And, like an utter doorknob, you have to be looking him in the face at that very moment. His eyes fall from the TV to meet your gaze. His expression remains impassive—not even frozen; just completely neutral—but you can see the warning in his cold, clear gaze. <i>I will tear your cock and ball sack off and stuff them down your throat if you repeat any of this at school.</i><br/>
<br/>
Sydney squeals.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you know I had to make all the first moves?" Cindy continues. "Every one!" She giggles, and briefly hides her face. "He wouldn't snuggle up with me when we studied in the library until I did it first a couple of times. And I remember the first time we held hands." She gives him an adoring look, which he ignores. "It was behind the school on the first day of February, in the tenth grade. I told him my hands were cold, and he said, 'You could put on your gloves'—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God!" Sydney cries.<br/>
<br/>
"—and I just picked up his hand and held it all the way back to class. He was so red in the face!" Cindy laughs and nudges Seth again. He sways a little under the blow, but doesn't even blink.<br/>
<br/>
"And the first time we kissed—!" Cindy buries her laugh in her hands. "We were on our way back from a school spirit marshmallow roast. And on the way back, it's like eleven o'clock at night, and we're in the very back of the bus, all cuddled up, and we're talking, and our faces are right up against each other. Like, his breath is so <i>hot</i> on my lips. I finally couldn't stand it, so I kissed him."<br/>
<br/>
She titters, and for the first time Seth seems to react, for a slow flush starts traveling up his cheeks, even as he maintains a stony attention to the TV monitor.<br/>
<br/>
"And he <i>peed himself!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No!" Sydney shrieks, and throws herself, laughing, away from the table.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I creamed myself," Seth says, very calmly. "Just a little." He pinches his forefinger and thumb together. And still he stares at the TV.<br/>
<br/>
"Wow!" Sydney gasps. "So when did you guys first fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a question that instantly kills the good feeling.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy throws her napkin on the table and declares she needs to visit the powder room, and in a steely voice invites Sydney to join her. You and Seth both have to get out of the booth in order to let them out. Seth goes back to watching the TV after the girls have gone. And even though it's a pointless thing to do—because unless something very bad goes wrong, tomorrow you will <i>be</i> him—you apologize on Sydney's behalf.<br/>
<br/>
"She's never going to make it onto the squad," he replies while still concentrating on the monitor.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what all this is about, right?" he says. "She's trying to grease Cindy up so she can a spot on the cheerleading squad."<br/>
<br/>
You mutter that that's news to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Your girlfriend's a weirdo," he replies. "I heard she was a major fruitcake, but after tonight—"<br/>
<br/>
"What did you hear?" you ask. Suddenly, for the first time, you have the real and awful sense that maybe there is something wrong with Sydney, something that you haven't noticed because you were so besotted with her.<br/>
<br/>
Seth's eyes flick across your face.<br/>
<br/>
"She had about a hundred guys ask her out," he says. "From Steve down to some of the paste-eaters in the chess club. And she turned 'em all down for <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
He shakes his head. "She's a bug-eating lunatic."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney is much calmer when she returns from the powder room, and she is much cooler toward you. After supper, when you've left Cindy and Seth behind, Sydney tells you that her mistress "explained" who you really were. "If you'd just been honest with me, Will," she says, and there's a biting chill in her tone, "I would have known better than to say the things I did."<br/>
<br/>
And you mumble an apology to her—to <i>it</i>—as well.<br/>
<br/>
You get a weird message from Cindy later that night: <i>After talking w Seth I decided if you want me to break up with him I will. Hurt him n get me new boyfriend for u to be.</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112112521112
author_id: seuzz
title: A Motel Room and the Girl of Your Dreams
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Lets talk abt it tmrw,</i> you text Cindy. Then you add: <i>Smplace ppl cant find us.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're still not decided what you're going to do, which is why you replied to Sydney's query with that very temporizing answer. Although if you really were settled on taking over Seth's identity, you would have just told her that's what you wanted—so maybe your answer really was <i>Let's shoot for someone else.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's Sunday, and you're antsy all through church and the family lunch afterward, for Cindy replied that she wanted to meet you at the Donna Motor Courts this afternoon at two. You're late getting there, because your dad made you stay late to help clean up, and it's not until he's laying down for his Sunday afternoon siesta that you're able escape. You've got the shakes as you turn onto south Twentieth Street because ... <i>Cindy Vredenburg wants to meet me at a motel!</i><br/>
<br/>
You vaguely remember the Donna from all the times you've driven past it, but pulling in now is the first time you've ever given it a good, direct look. It's a tired old motor court, at least sixty years old and maybe more, arranged in a U-shape around a central courtyard. It's a one-story affair, with doors and windows that peer out from under low-slung roofs. There's an island of concrete in the middle of the parking lot, with a chain link fence and an empty swimming pool. The whole thing is done up in beiges and browns—probably (you decide after parking in farthest corner of the lot from the street) because the dirt stains don't show up as clearly against those colors.<br/>
<br/>
Your phone chimes even before you've shut off your engine. <i>I'm two cars down to your left,</i> Cindy says. You squint in the indicated direction, at a stubby little white Nissan Sentra with the shape and proportions of a blown-up grain of rice. You get out, and the driver's-side window comes down as you approach.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy is behind the wheel. She is wearing oversized sunglasses and a purple ball cap pulled down low over her face. But even with her face half hidden, there's no disguising her beauty: the tight, smooth, creamy skin; the pie-pan cheekbones; the pert nose; the lips lightly touched with pink lip gloss.<br/>
<br/>
"Here," she says, and crams a wad of money into your hand. "Go into the office and rent us a room. Get number seventeen if you can."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that a magic number?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's in a corner behind the ice machine, where no one can see. And if Kim is there, <i>don't</i> talk to her."<br/>
<br/>
"Kim?"<br/>
<br/>
"Walsh. Her family owns this place, and sometimes she's up here doing homework."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just go, Will," Cindy orders in a voice pinched with fright.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug and turn and trudge off toward the office. As you open the door, you glance down and see that Cindy has given you two hundred-dollar bills.<br/>
<br/>
The front desk is manned by a burly bald man with a bristly mustache who instantly makes you think "cop." He's all business, though, and takes your money and gives you your change along with a key card for Room 17, as you requested.<br/>
<br/>
"Did he say anything about the refund?" Cindy asks when you get back. She's loitering behind the ice machine.<br/>
<br/>
"No. What refund?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you check out early, you get a refund."<br/>
<br/>
"I hope so," you observe as you insert the card into the lock. "This room cost a fortune."<br/>
<br/>
"That's because they rent by the hour, Will. Only they <i>can't</i> rent by the hour, they're not allowed to. So they rent by the day and then they refund you the balance if you check out early."<br/>
<br/>
"Really? Huh. And you know all about this place, Sydney?"<br/>
<br/>
She whaps you in the shoulder. You push open the door.<br/>
<br/>
The interior is dark—the heavy curtains are drawn—and the air close, but though there is a musty odor it doesn't smell unclean. The room is furnished in a very Spartan manner, with a king-size bed, a bed-side stand, and a small, two-drawer chest opposite the foot of the bed, on which balances a small flat-screen TV. An arched opening leads to an alcove holding a sink and a large mirror and (you'd guess) the door to the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
Cindy lets out a deep, slow breath after pushing the door shut. "Here we are," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Do Cindy and Seth come to this place a lot?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, never. They don't have the money. I got it from Nicholas. Well, I got it from, um, 'Sydney', who got it from Nicholas. She also got an earful from <i>me.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry about the mixup last night."<br/>
<br/>
"Forget about it." She throws her purse onto the bed, then advances on you. "Make me forget about Seth, too, Will," she adds as she puts her arms around you. Her mouth finds yours, and suddenly you are kissing.<br/>
<br/>
She's got a different taste than Sydney, less like ... cinnamon? And more like ... licorice? Maybe it's her lip gloss. Or maybe it's your imagination. Because it's a different girl.<br/>
<br/>
She kisses differently, too. Sydney was more tentative, more teasing, more cat-like. But Cindy—<br/>
<br/>
And it gives you a hard, fast erection when the thought <i>I'm making out with Cindy Vredenburg</i> explodes like a Roman candle in your brain.<br/>
<br/>
—gropes you with her tongue, as though trying to pull your mouth inside out. She squeaks and moans as she works at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God, Will!" she gasps when she breaks free. "Put your—" She grabs your hand and almost wrenches it off as she pulls between her thighs. "You don't know what a turn-on this is for me!" She gives you two more quick, plunging kisses. "You've got to—! Take me to bed!" She grabs you and crabwise tries carrying you toward the bed. "You don't know—!" She gnaws the side of your neck. "All those time out front of the school, at lunch! I couldn't look at you. I didn't want Jenny and them to know how much I— Oh, <i>Will!</i>" She falls onto the bed, pulling you with her. "I've wanted to <i>fuck you</i> for the longest time!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Zing!</i> It's like top of your head flies off. <br/>
<br/>
This is the role-playing you were hoping to get yesterday.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
For all her hot, flashing ardor, Cindy makes you take it slow, and walks you through it every step of the way. Fingerbanging her soft, silky, closely shaved pussy until, her shrieks muffled by a pillow, she cums. The long, slow, sucking kisses as you hunch over her afterward. The gentle rubbing and squeezing of her firm, taut breasts to warm her for another orgasm. And, finally, the command for you to strip and climb under the sheets with her. She guides you inside and wraps strong legs about you, pulling you in and squeezing until you cannonade inside her. She shudders all over and goes very, very limp.<br/>
<br/>
Afterward you cuddle, arms and legs about each other, mouths almost touching, as you murmur to each other with the sheets up about your ears. She wants to know if you want to do it as Seth the next time you and her get together. "Could get it done in an hour," she says. "You go back to the school and get the stuff, and I call him to meet me out here—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I don't think so," you confess. You rear back and peer at her from under lids that are heavy with a happy exhaustion. "How about a new boyfriend?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't care," she groans. "As long as he's you."<br/>
<br/>
<i>I just had sex with Cindy Vredenburg,</i> you remind yourself. <i>I'm taking her away from Seth.</i> The thought stirs the embers of the still-burning fire. <i>I could take her away from him, in front of everybody. I could do this again—have another first time with Cindy—when I'm someone else.</i><br/>
<br/>
You chew on each other's lips for a few minutes before you ask her who she'd break up with Seth in order to be with.<br/>
<br/>
"You."<br/>
<br/>
"No, come on," you sigh. "Another guy."<br/>
<br/>
"Mmm." She rolls onto her back to stare dreamily at the ceiling. "Any of those guys we saw the movie with. Laurent. Austin. Noah." She pauses. "Marc's already got a girlfriend. Although," she adds, "no one likes her. Well, lots of girls don't like her. It might be weird for Eva and Jessica if I started dating Marc, though. We're friends, you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought Eva and Jessica were going to be, you know, part of the Brotherhood too."<br/>
<br/>
The reminder seems to surprise her. "That's right!" she exclaims. "I forgot." She bursts out in a peal of laughter. "That would be perfect, then!"<br/>
<br/>
"So ... Marc?"<br/>
<br/>
She shrugs. "Doesn't have to be Marc, not for Cindy. We should add Marc anyway, if we're going to add Eva and Jessica. Maybe add Hannah, too. Except she's not a cheerleader." She twists onto her side to face you. "I could break up with Seth. Marc could break up with Hannah."<br/>
<br/>
"And we'd be all the Garners."<br/>
<br/>
"We'd be all the Garners," she agrees.<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes close. She seems to be on the verge of falling asleep.<br/>
<br/>
Then her eyes pop open, and she sits up with a startled expression. "Oh!" she says. "I just had a wicked thought!"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Cindy's family!" <br/>
<br/>
"What about them?"<br/>
<br/>
"What if we convert all of <i>them</i> into Brothers?" She turns shining eyes on you. "We need a safe space to meet anyway. If a <i>whole family</i> were Brothers—"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean her mom and her dad?" The suggestion seems baffling. Who wants to be a couple of middle-aged people?<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. And Lucy!"<br/>
<br/>
That gives you a full-body twitch. Lucy is Cindy's sister, and she was the head cheerleader your sophomore year. She was, if you remember right, even more luscious than Cindy is.<br/>
<br/>
"I know it's a change of plans, Will," Cindy gushes. "But think how perfect it would be!"</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112113
author_id: seuzz
title: Co-Ed Play
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Before you can make a decision, though, you need to know how Sydney envisions it working out.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you say, "suppose we, uh, make it the basketball squad—"<br/>
<br/>
"Boys or girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... either. That's what I'm asking. Didn't you say we need, like, a mix of guys and girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." She stirs her finger inside a cup of barbecue sauce, and sucks on it. "What I was assuming, I guess, is that we'd do five on each team. Like, five of the guys on the basketball squad, and five of the girls on the girls' squad. Although—" She cocks her head. "Maybe it would make more sense if it was five on a squad, and then we just find five people who would be a good match for them. Like Gordon Black, he's dating the head cheerleader isn't he?" You nod. "So there. If we pick the boys' basketball squad, then his girlfriend and the girlfriends of the other guys would be the natural ones to add."<br/>
<br/>
"Are there any co-ed teams?" you ask. "Maybe that would be the best way to get, like, a boy-girl mix but all in one place. Is the swim team co-ed?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sort of," Sydney says. She wipes off her fingertips and plucks her cell phone from her pocket. "There really aren't a lot of co-ed teams, not really. Best you can find will be the, um—" She frowns and studies the screen, and taps at it. "Like the swim team. But some of the smaller sports teams, like the tennis and track squads, the boys and girls don't play against each other but they do travel together and meet in the same classes.<br/>
<br/>
"Or, you know," she adds, "instead of taking over a sports team—" She chews on her cheek. "Never mind."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing. We wanted it to be a team. All the people in one place."<br/>
<br/>
"But what were you going to say?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well—" She cocks her head and studies her cell phone. "Instead of taking over a team, or the core of a team, we could just pick up, like, the best people on each team in the school."<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212
author_id: seuzz
title: Any Club That Would Have You as a Member ...
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There's no time to waste, as far as you're concerned: The sooner you're out of your shit life and into someone else's, the happier you'll be.<br/>
<br/>
And a school club? You've never paid any attention to those, which makes it easy to assume that Blake and his friends, and Kirkham and his friends, don't pay any attention to them either.<br/>
<br/>
That, of course, is a foolish assumption to make, but you follow it anyway. "Some of those clubs might be fun," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Some of them are pretty small, too," Sydney says. "That would make it easy to swallow them whole. So, you know, they get together after school to plan a bake sale or whatever, then as soon as the doors are closed—" She titters. "Off come the clothes and up go the chants to Baphomet!"<br/>
<br/>
That would be pretty sick.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney drops you off at the elementary school to get started on things, then leaves to run errands and to pick up some supper. It's barbecue that she brings back, along with a few other things. None of them are ingredients for more masks or memory strips, though, and you'll need supplies if you're going to make enough masks for her plan, as you explain to her as she starts cutting up cardboard boxes. "How many?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"At least twelve, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, ten for each of the brethren. Didn't you say we needed ten? And then we need two for us. I mean, if we're going to be members too," you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
"I assumed so." A faint smile appears between her dimples. "Feeling a little shy about it, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Honestly, yes. Besides, we're not members of these clubs. So I guess I'm worried about getting them, too."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry about it," she airily replies. "I can handle that part. And you know, some of these clubs I don't think they even <i>have</i> ten members. But assume we'll en masks, at least," she adds, "for our ten members."<br/>
<br/>
"And two masks for us, for when we switch out."<br/>
<br/>
"We won't need those right away, will we?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "I'd kind of like to," you say. "Like, this weekend?" You jam a wad of barbecue into your mouth and let your eyes fall as Sydney looks at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Is there some hurry?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I'unno."<br/>
<br/>
She regards you levelly, then shrugs. "Then we better get started on figuring out which club we want to recruit into the Brotherhood." She takes out her cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You had no idea that there were so many clubs at Westside. It's almost like there's a club for each student. The Anglers' Club, the Ironman Club, the Brainwave Club, the Literary Society, the Murder Club, the Spirit Club, the Justice Issues Club ... You are so overwhelmed you hardly know where to begin or how to think about them.<br/>
<br/>
"Here, we'll do it like this," Sydney says at last. She takes out a pen and starts scribbling on the cardboard boxes she brought back from her errands. "We'll sort them out according to type."<br/>
<br/>
You've no idea what sort of "types" to sort them into, so you just let her do all the work. When she's done, she's grouped them into four types.<br/>
<br/>
"So, here's a bunch of outdoorsy-type clubs," she says, pointing to the first list. "I don't know a lot about your local clubs here, but back in Kansas these would be guys who are always going outside and doing things. That'd be pretty convenient for when we want to hold outdoors ceremonies."<br/>
<br/>
She points to the second group. "These are the academic-type clubs. The smart people, the artsy types. The artsy ones would fit in real well to the Brotherhood, and we could <i>almost</i> go public if we picked them for membership.<br/>
<br/>
"Then these guys—" She points to the third group. "Well, I don't know a lot about them, but they're gaming clubs. I'm betting they're pretty small, and we could probably take them over entirely. Maybe have to bring in some extra members, even. These would probably be best if we really wanted to be secretive and secure."<br/>
<br/>
She points to the last group, whose names—Global Awareness Club, Justice Issues Club, Spirit Club, and others—make you wince. "And these are going to be the biggest clubs, the ones with all the prestige. What did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing." <i>Buncha stuck-up snobs,</i> is what you murmured.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe she heard you anyway, for she says, "And these guys would be the most fun to turn into a Brotherhood. I mean, think of it, all the environmentalists and minority rights people getting all into Baphomet all of a sudden!" She titters.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121
author_id: seuzz
title: Choices Alfresco
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've still got Blake and his friends in the back of your mind, so as you like the sounds of using an "outdoorsy" club. Even if none of those assholes is in one of those clubs, they are probably filled with guys who could be useful for getting back at those cocksuckers.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, let's look at their pages," Sydney says when you mutely point at the list. "They're probably going to be really heavy on guys," she says, "so we'll have to look for girls separately. But— Here." She turns the screen toward you. It shows a picture of a bunch of guys with fishing rods, grinning at the camera. You only recognize a handful of them, and of that handful you can only put a name to one of them—Justin Roth—and even he you don't know that well. Over the picture it says "Anglers' Club," and Mr. Hagerman—one of the young, handsome English teachers—is listed as the adviser. You grunt. None of them look like very impressive physical specimens who could go toe-to-toe with O'Brien or Kirkham and their friends.<br/>
<br/>
Although you have the dim impression that you've seen Roth and Kirkham hanging out together.<br/>
<br/>
"Who else?" you ask Sydney.<br/>
<br/>
"You're the one who's been going to Westside for three years already," she retorts, but with a roll of the eyes takes back her phone and resumes scrolling and tapping.<br/>
<br/>
The next page she shows you is the Caveman's Club, which is much closer to what you were envisioning. Big, meaty guys, three of them at least wrestlers: Laurent Delacroix, Alec Brown, and Chris Ratliff. Coach Porter—one of the brawny coaches—is in charge of it, which is fitting. <br/>
<br/>
"There's also the Ironman Club," Sydney says as she takes the phone back, "though I think the Cavemen do a lot more outdoors stuff, like extreme camping." (She doesn't explain what "extreme camping" is.) "These guys," she says when she turns the phone back toward you, "seem more like all-around fitness." They are a more lithe bunch; the only one you can put a name too, though, is Jason Lynch. He'd be a good one to have under your thumb, though, for he's got a reputation for being a total, psychopathic douchebag.<br/>
<br/>
"The one I want to try out, though," Sydney says as she takes the phone back, "is the Aeronautical Society. Can you imagine doing it in a hot-air balloon?"<br/>
<br/>
The picture is so vivid that you almost don't hear her next words over the rushing blood that roars in your ears: "It's got a better boy-girl balance, too."<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212
author_id: seuzz
title: Clubbing a Caveman
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Let's make it the Caveman's Club," you tell Sydney. With some beefy guys like that under your thumb, you could really fuck with Blake and friends. But you don't mention that to Sydney. Instead, you explain it with, "Some of the stuff we have to do for the Brotherhood, it has to be done outside, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no," she says after a fractional hesitation. "I mean, some of it could be, but it's not like it <i>has</i> to be."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh."<br/>
<br/>
But before you can come up with a new rationalization, she blinds you with a wide, sweet grin.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll do whatever you want, Will," she says, and she puts her face into yours, touching the side of your nose with hers. "You're the one doing me this huge favor by—"<br/>
<br/>
She pulls at your mouth with lips.<br/>
<br/>
"So <i>you</i> should get to pick who it is," she says when she breaks away.<br/>
<br/>
You pull her to yourself and kiss her some more.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a lot of fun making out with your girlfriend—and Sydney squirms and squeaks as you touch her in places she hasn't let you touch yet—but you do have work to do if you're going to get yourself a new identity. You'll need two masks—one to copy your first recruit from the Caveman Club, and the other a copy of yourself under which you'll hide your victim—and Sydney needs to find an available body-donor. You work at the former while she texts her friends to hunt down the latter.<br/>
<br/>
"Here," she says forty-five minutes later. She scrambles over with her phone. "There's a party over at Phoebe's house. Reagan says some of the wrestling and LAX guys'll probably show up. That'll be perfect."<br/>
<br/>
"How'll we get one of them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be a doof, Will. That'll be my job."<br/>
<br/>
A cold fire envelops your heart. "How?"<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a look, which she softens with a knowing smile.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you care if I'm gonna make out with him," she says, "if you're going to <i>be</i> him before it's all said and done?"<br/>
<br/>
You squirm at being seen so through so easily. "That's not what I meant," you lie. "What I meant was, how do I get into his mask? You're gonna copy him, right? But if I'm not there when you do it—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll turn him into a <i>pedisequos,</i>" she says. "I'll put that stuff in his mask and turn him into a thing like my step-dad. Then I'll bring him out to you and you'll switch faces with him. When that's all done—" She nuzzles you. "I'll pick up with you where I left off with him."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Whoa.</i> It's like a rocket has started blasting its engine down in your pelvis. <br/>
<br/>
Still, weakly, you have to argue, even as you peck back at her with your lips. <br/>
<br/>
"But he won't obey you," you murmur into her cheek. "What I mean is, he won't <i>have</i> to. If we turn him into a pediwhatsits—"<br/>
<br/>
"A <i>pedisequos,</i> Will."<br/>
<br/>
"—we'll have to set him up to obey me. 'Cos I'll be the one wearing his mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh? And?"<br/>
<br/>
"So I'll still have to be out there to give him orders."<br/>
<br/>
"So we'll use my hair instead." That is the secret to the new spell, after all. First you coat the mask with the basic layer. Then you burn some hair into it.<br/>
<br/>
If Sydney goes out alone, she can use her own hair in the mask that she makes. But then the mask would be under her control. But if you want it to be under your control, you'd better go along so that you can give the <i>pedisequos</i> its orders.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122
author_id: seuzz
title: Rhapsody in Brown
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It surprises you a little that Sydney is willing to take a wrestler as one of her pedi-whatevers. After all, it's not like she'll be using the mask as an alias, right? <br/>
<br/>
But you'd probably feel out of place at a party filled with wrestlers, soccer players and other kids like that; and it would be worse being there while Sydney was flirting hard with one of the jocks. <br/>
<br/>
So you acquiesce in her plan. You set the masks aside long enough to make up some more of that goop, then resume the main work. Sydney helps you, and she is very cheerful and chatty as she polishes up the second mask while you bend over the memory strips.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's deep into the evening before you finish, but that's okay, as the party is unlikely to start rocking hard before ten. Sydney gives you a lingering smooch before driving off. Not until she's gone do you realize that she's taken both masks. You think nothing of it, though.<br/>
<br/>
But the next morning brings a surprise.<br/>
<br/>
The first clue that something has gone wonky comes when you're woken by a text at nine-thirty. It's from Keith, and you pry your eyes open only long enough to glare at it before shutting back down again with your face in the pillow. A feeling of unease gnaws at the back of your brain though, and when it finally penetrates the acrid, early-morning brain fog you lift your head long enough to open the text. It includes a single link to x2z.com. You press it, wondering why Keith—who told you yesterday he's not talking to you anymore—would be sending you a link to that shithole site.<br/>
<br/>
The picture is fuzzy, but you recognize the people in it: Sydney and Alec Brown, embracing. You frown at it—you knew something like that was bound to happen at the party—but you don't start to worry until you see that there's a long tangle nested comments beneath it. The first one is enough to liquefy your bones with dread: <i>wheres will presscot?</i><br/>
<br/>
You roll onto your back and hold your phone over your face, glaring at the screen as you open up the reply, and the reply to the reply, and the threads that branch off those replies and off each other. They're all variations on a single thought: <i>ha ha, sydney's come to her senses, sucks to be will.</i><br/>
<br/>
It tears your guts out to see everyone laughing at you as a loser who thought he was actually going to be going out with Sydney. But what's worse is reading the handful of anonymous replies that take your side. They denounce Sydney as a slut, which sets your gut boiling. <br/>
<br/>
Then you read the replies to those posts, which accuse the anonymous poster of being <i>you.</i> Yes, accusing <i>you</i> of being the chicken-shitted loser who went onto x2z and to call the girl you love a slut because she always knew that she was always too good for you.<br/>
<br/>
You drop your phone and lay paralyzed in bed. No, it's worse than being paralyzed. You feel like someone has nailed you to the bed with a giant, iron spike driven straight through your gut.<br/>
<br/>
You lay there for an hour, trying to convince yourself that it's all worthwhile. What does it matter that people are sneering and jeering at you online? You won't be yourself for much longer. You might even be one of the people doing the sneering and jeering. (You didn't check the names of the posters closely.) And even if you stay as yourself, at least this disaster will get Blake and Kirkham and other people off your ass.<br/>
<br/>
Won't it?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your next clue that something has gone wonky comes when in at a little before noon You're in the kitchen, getting a little lunch when a text from Alec Brown pops up: <i>hey prescott dude lets get tgthre ths aftrn .</i> You send your reply to Sydney: <i>r we meeting up w alec brown today?</i> Her reply is even more mysterious: <i>Just meet with Alec, ok?</i> and she doesn't reply when you ask if she's going to be there too. <br/>
<br/>
So to Alec's second text—<i>u ther will?</i>—you reply <i>yes what time meet n whr?</i> <br/>
<br/>
He says he's already waiting for you at the elementary school. You shove your plate back in the refrigerator and race out to your truck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Yo, Will!" Alec grins and jerks his chin at you as you hop out of the cab. "Thanks for coming over. I oughta get a key to this place."<br/>
<br/>
"Did Sydney send you over?" You warily eye the plastic bags he's holding.<br/>
<br/>
It's his laugh that tells you what's going on, even before he says, "Come on, Will, it's me."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus!" Your breath explodes; you'd not realized you'd been holding it in. "You didn't tell me you were going to <i>switch</i> with him!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know I was going to, not until I was ready to go home. Come on, open the fucking door, man. I'm getting tired of holding this shit."<br/>
<br/>
There's none of the girlishness she showed when she had Caleb's mask on, which is just as well, because Brownie—no one calls him "Alec"—looks exactly like a member of "The Caveman Club" should look. He's a nut-brown all over, with close-shorn hair that glistens like butterscotch, and he's knotted all over with muscles. He's hairy as well, and half a head taller than you.<br/>
<br/>
"You have any trouble with the, uh, memory thing?" you ask as you fiddle at the lock. "Personality working okay?"<br/>
<br/>
"Now it is," he says. "It wasn't working good last night, and I had to look at my— at Brownie's driver's license to find out where I lived. But when I woke up this morning it was all there. I guess maybe you have to sleep on it in order to get them?"<br/>
<br/>
That's not the way it worked with you, but you let it slide. "What've you got there?" you ask he brushes past you with his bags.<br/>
<br/>
"Supplies. We were running short, right? I couldn't remember everything we needed to make masks, so I just picked up what I knew we could use." He looks around after setting the bags down on the large conference table. "How was your night?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. How was yours?" You try to stop yourself from shooting resentful, sidelong glances at him. "I guess it worked out."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah. It wasn't hard talking Brownie into going off alone with me." He flips open the book. "Then, y'know, <i>boom.</i> Mm," he mutters as he runs a finger down the page. "I see two things— Three? Need to make a list." He takes out his cell phone. "Can you pull the rest of the stuff together, see if we can at least get started on a couple more masks before I go out to get the rest of what we need? Oh yeah," he adds as he taps at his phone. "Yeah, turns out Brownie's a total man-whore."<br/>
<br/>
Your chest is tightening. "So I guess no one was surprised when he went off with Sydney."<br/>
<br/>
He peers up at you. "You don't got cause to be jealous, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not!" But it feels like a sac of poison has exploded in your guts. "But I guess you haven't checked out your social media?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pff, like what does it fucking matter."<br/>
<br/>
"So are we still going out together? You and me? Me and Sydney?" He frowns at you. "'Cos according to what people are saying online, you dumped me for this—" You point at him, and bite your tongue before you can call your girlfriend's alias a bad name.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you talking about, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
You pull out your phone, scroll to Tilley's text, hit the link to x2z, and hand it to him. You study his face—his expression tightens but remains impassive—as he scrolls through the posts.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh," he says a couple of minutes later. "I guess that is kind of a complication. Well, it doesn't matter."<br/>
<br/>
"How come not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because we're not those people anymore. Not going to be."<br/>
<br/>
You stare at him. "We're not?"<br/>
<br/>
Brownie frowns.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't want to be Sydney McGlynn anymore?" you continue. "You're going to be <i>this guy</i> from now on? And who is she going to go out with? After all this, she can't go out with—" You swallow; it feels like your Adam's apple is trying to choke you. "With Will Prescott anymore."<br/>
<br/>
Brownie kicks at the ground and sighs. He brushes his hair back. When he looks up again, it's with a squint.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll figure out something, Will," he says. "Maybe we had a fight, and that's how come I, you know, went off with Brownie. It doesn't have to be a big deal. He's not going to come between us, you know. He can make a big deal of apologizing to you, making it up to you." He turns his squint toward the ceiling. "Brownie's a pretty decent guy. He didn't even know you and me were going out, or else he wouldn'ta—"<br/>
<br/>
But he catches himself, and mutters. "Well, maybe he would've anyway."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney is trying to make you feel better, but you're still feeling lost and bewildered. So you just make a face when Brownie says, "Come on, let's start figuring out who we're gonna get for you to be. You'll feel better when you're someone else."<br/>
<br/>
"The Caveman's Club," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Or, it doesn't have to be. Maybe Brownie should hook up with a new girl tonight. It could be you." He grins, wolfishly. "You wanna be the whore who cheats with the man-whore, sends Sydney back to Will?"<br/>
<br/>
You jump as though slapped.<br/>
<br/>
"Or," he continues, "and just hear me out. Change of plans. We take over Brownie's family instead. There's six of them, including Brownie. And you know how I was talking earlier about taking over the Christian school? They're all, like, evangelical and shit, so they'd be awesome as the core of a Baphomet Brotherhood."</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223
author_id: seuzz
title: At Home with the Browns
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"His family?" you blurt out. <i>"His family?"</i> you repeat. The suggestion startles and repulses you. But it's so shocking you have to hear more.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I was thinking—" Brownie pulls at his nose, and his eyes twinkle and dart.<br/>
<br/>
"Security," he says. "The trouble with a Brotherhood is you got all different people in it, and they need a reason to get together that doesn't look like, you know, they're a <i>cult</i> or anything. But if you got a family, all of them in on it—" He shrugs. "Then you got a central, secure location where no one can spy you out. So I figure it just makes sense to make Brownie's family the core of the Brotherhood. Then then we scoop up some outside people to make it ten."<br/>
<br/>
You try to picture someone doing that to your family—turning you and your dad and your mom and your little brother into demon-worshipping cultists, and hiding behind their faces while they do it. A hard shiver runs through you.<br/>
<br/>
At the same time—<br/>
<br/>
Your eye darts up at Brownie, and for an instant you don't see Sydney there. You see the asshole she seduced last night, who was so happy and eager to be seduced by her. You got back at him by letting Sydney steal his face and body; but you could get back at him further by stealing his entire family.<br/>
<br/>
And he would be the instrument you use to take them over and transform them.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me more about his family."<br/>
<br/>
Maybe Sydney knows what you're thinking, because she grins at you with Brownie's mouth.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's six of them, she tells you; seven if you include Carter Abraham Brown, the oldest son, who has left home and is training to join the Special Forces. First up would be Major Victor Brown, who is stationed at Fort Suffolk, and his wife, Heather, who runs the household. And "runs" it is right: everyone jumps when she gives orders. "We call her the Colonel," Brownie tells you in a voice tinged with pride.<br/>
<br/>
Also at home: Eric Isaac, who attends Keyserling, where he is pursuing a double-degree in history and mechanical engineering preparatory to enrolling in the Army. Alec Jacob is standing before you. Finally there are the twins, Micah Reuben and Riker Simeon, who are in middle school.<br/>
<br/>
"And we'd share them all?" you say when Sydney is done describing the Browns.<br/>
<br/>
"One way or another."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate still. Then you realize that you're only second-guessing a decision you've already made. "Let's do it," you tell her.<br/>
<br/>
She catches you up under the armpits, and crushes you to herself in a hairy, manly bear hug.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But there's a serious hump to be got over if you're going to take over the Brown household, and that's getting all the masks ready. Sydney—perhaps under the quasi-military training that Brownie has received—puts you hard at work making as many masks as you can while she runs out to get more supplies. She bears down on you when she's back, pushing you to work harder and faster, the same as she's working hard and fast, but she still has time to check over the masks you polish and the mind-bands you engrave, examining them for flaws and imperfections, and double-checking the book to make sure that you're doing them correctly.<br/>
<br/>
And even then she's got time to talk about the plan.<br/>
<br/>
"Originally I was thinking we'd be taking it slow, building up the Brotherhood one convert at a time," she says as she bends over one of the metal bands to tap and scrape the runes into it. "Turn ourselves into them, get good and comfortable as them, get them converted inside and out." She sucks in her lower lip. "At least, I was hoping it would work that way."<br/>
<br/>
"Work what way?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eyes on your work, Prescott. You don't have to look at me to talk or listen. I'm talking about the pedisequoses. Pedisequosae?" You keep your eyes down, but you can imagine her brow furrowing. "<i>Minions,</i>" she says. "Fuck, yeah, let's just call 'em that."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Guess Brownie must have as hard a time with that word as you do,</i> you reflect with a hidden smile.<br/>
<br/>
"We're making brothers, Will. Brothers of Baphomet. But you can't be a brother if you don't <i>believe.</i> And I have to wonder if these things, these minions, can actually believe anything. I mean," she continues, though you hadn't said anything, "they're like robots, aren't they? Magic robots, which means they're not real people. Do you have to be a real person to believe things? I've been worrying."<br/>
<br/>
"What happens if they can't believe?" You don't want to ask the question; philosophy or theology or whatever the fuck kind of thing the question is doesn't appeal to you, but you feel like you have to ask it. "What if they're just robots?"<br/>
<br/>
"Then they can't be brothers and we can't have a Brotherhood. But what I'm hoping, what I'm gambling on, is that <i>we're</i> real people while we're wearing these masks, and that while we're being these people then <i>we</i> can be the brothers. <i>We</i> can do the believing."<br/>
<br/>
"We can't be five or ten people all at the same time," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
"I know that, Will. But I'm hoping we can <i>be</i> each brother for as long as we have to be, in order to get what we need out of them. Then switch to the others to get what we need out of them. If it works out, m—" She presses a crick from her neck.. "Then maybe we can make these things real enough for Baphomet without us having to be in them. What I mean is, if we can get these things to <i>act</i> like brothers, then maybe that'll count as close enough to <i>actually</i> believing, for what we need from them. But I'm pretty sure," she adds, "that we're gonna have to be each one of them for a little while, at least, in order to give them the, you know, feeling of a full conversion or whatever."<br/>
<br/>
So does that mean she'll have to be Brownie for a couple of days, or maybe a week, in order to get him properly "converted" into a believing brother, before switching to a new mask to convert that other person?<br/>
<br/>
"Like that," she agrees. "Anyway, what I was thinking originally was that we'd each be someone, then after we got them converted we'd grab someone new, switch places with them, and convert <i>them.</i> And so on. But we can't do it that way if we're gonna take over Brownie's family." She stretches again. "None of 'em can even suspect that some of them have been converted. So we have to take them all at once."<br/>
<br/>
"All at the same time?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not like all in one blow. But, like, all of them within a day or two. By tomorrow or Monday night, say. And after that, well, I guess we'd have to take turns moving from one to another, burrowing in and converting them."<br/>
<br/>
Well, Sydney knows best how to build a Brotherhood, and Brownie knows best how to deal with his family. So you tell her you're all on board for that.<br/>
<br/>
"Great," she says. "So I'll see about getting one or two more today, maybe get the rest of them tomorrow. Get cracking over there, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But even working as quickly as you can—consistent with careful craftsmanship—you only get four new masks made, for a total of five, which is one short of what you need to completely hijack the Brown family. Sydney's expression is tight and grim—Brownie looks like he doesn't enjoy being stymied—but she says that you can finish up the last one from inside the Brown's house; then you'll only lack one finished mind band, and you can get that made tonight. So you pack everything up and carry it out to your truck for transport to your base-to-be.<br/>
<br/>
"Got a ride with Eric," Sydney tells you when you ask how she got out the elementary school. "I told him I was meeting some of the guys out here, and he gave me a lift on his way up to the college." She slaps you on the thigh. "We'll take you back home, tell 'em you were one of the guys." She guffaws, and you swallow your embarrassment.<br/>
<br/>
The Browns live in the southeast part of town, in a residential neighborhood not far from where your dad works. It's a nice part of town, but the house is just off the old highway, where things are cheapish and old and just a little shabby. It's a two squat stories on a small lot, painted an ugly green, with an attached garage. Your guide directs you to park in front of the house instead of the driveway. "Looks like Eric's not home," he says.<br/>
<br/>
He slams the front door behind him on entering the house and leads you down into a sunken living room. He looks around with a frown; the house is very quiet. "Hello?" he shouts. "Anyone here?"<br/>
<br/>
"In your bathroom, hon!" a woman calls back from deep inside the house. Brownie slaps you in the stomach and beckons you to follow him upstairs. The plastic sack containing the masks rustles and rattles in his hand.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," he says as he leans into an open doorway off the upstairs hall. "Scrubbing?" he says. "I thought it was the twerps' turn."<br/>
<br/>
Someone inside says something inaudible, and Brownie nods. "Is that where Dad is? What about Eric?" More muttering. "Cool." He grabs you by the back of the neck and hauls you over to shove your face into the bathroom. "This is Will," he says to the woman inside. "We're gonna hang out."<br/>
<br/>
Brownie's mom turns around. She's middle-aged but fit, you'd guess, though she looks very disheveled in her sweat pants, t-shirt, and bandanna; she wears rubber gloves and is holding a toilet brush. "Hi Will," she says with a smile. <br/>
<br/>
"H—"<br/>
<br/>
Brownie shoves you back into the hall and puts his mouth to your ear. "Whaddaya think?" he murmurs. "We got the house to ourselves. I put you in the colonel, and the objective is practically ours."</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231
author_id: seuzz
title: The Becoming of Heather Brown
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You? Become Alec Brown's mom? It's too wild.<br/>
<br/>
But it makes sense, from what Sydney has told you.<br/>
<br/>
You gulp and nod. "Okay, but—"<br/>
<br/>
Brownie wheels before you can finish and swings into the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
You hold your breath to keep your heart from erupting out the back of your throat.<br/>
<br/>
One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ...<br/>
<br/>
Brownie shuffles backward, butt first, into the hall, then straightens up. "All ready for you, Will," he says.<br/>
<br/>
With trembling knees you grasp the edge of the doorsill, and look around it into the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
Brownie's mom is curled up on the bathmat, laying on her side with her feet pulled up under her. The red-and-black bandana has gone askew, and her mouth hangs open.<br/>
<br/>
Brownie shoves you shoulder first through the doorway, and you stifle a cry as you catch yourself on the edge of the vanity to keep from tripping over Mrs. Brown.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know how long we got," he says. "Dad and the twerps—that's Micah and Riker—are out getting new football gear, and Eric's still up at the school. They could be back in five seconds or five hours. Well, not five hours,"  he corrects himself. "But it'd be best if your truck wasn't here so we don't have to explain anything. Best, you know, if it was just Mom and me home all day." His brow furrows. "You were gonna say something? You started to say 'But' back there."<br/>
<br/>
"Like it matters now," you mutter. "But I can't hurry the mask up." You point at Mrs. Brown's face.<br/>
<br/>
"You can start getting her clothes off," he retorts. "I'd help, but there's only room for two of you in there and besides, it's my mom down there, and that'd be fuckin' squicky."<br/>
<br/>
He pops you another blow to the shoulder, drops the plastic bag on the vanity, and pulls the bathroom door shut on you.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at the door for a second, then with a quick shiver you lock it.<br/>
<br/>
The bathroom is tiny, with maybe just room for two people to stand between the vanity, the toilet, and the bathtub, and the sprawling Mrs. Brown takes up almost all the floor space. So you have to squat over her as you struggle to undress her. <br/>
<br/>
You start by pulling the sweat pants down off her, and then the bandana. But she's a dead weight on the floor, and you've no room to maneuver. So after getting her t-shirt (North Carolina State) tangled up around her boobs and in her arm pits, you give up and step inside the bathtub to wait for the mask to finish copying her. At that point, you figure, you can just drop your own mask onto her and let your <i>pedisequos</i> finish undressing. It doesn't look like anything will tear.<br/>
<br/>
In the meantime, you study her.<br/>
<br/>
It's impossible to tell how tall Mrs. Brown is, but she's not a big woman. She's got large thighs, but they look firm, not flabby, as do her smooth calves. Her boobs—what you can make out of them—are fat and hefty. Her slack face reveals no personality, and you can't make out if it's pretty or not, but she doesn't look unattractive. There are some fine lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, if you look carefully enough, but her chin and jawline look firm. Her hair is long and straight and mousy brown, and there's an awful lot of it splayed out on the tile by her head.<br/>
<br/>
Long minutes pass, and your legs have begun to stiffen, before the mask reappears over her face and drops with a clink onto the tile. You snatch it up and examine the inner surface. The name HEATHER MICHELLE CONWAY BROWN flares off it in blue letters.<br/>
<br/>
You set it in the sink for now and fish inside the bag for the mask you made of yourself before coming out. You have to balance uncertainly over Mrs. Brown—feet astride her hips—as you stoop to lodge it onto her face.<br/>
<br/>
Abruptly, her form is replaced with that of a skinny kid with hairy legs. You almost fall over as his eyes open and he turns to look up at you.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment you hold each other's gaze. Then with a grimace and a blush, he scrambles back from you, sitting up and knocking his head against the wall by the tub.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus," he mutters. "You know how fuckin' weird it is to blank out and then wake up to see yourself staring down at you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No weirder than the reverse," you retort. "You know where you are? Know what's going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"What is this, a pop quiz?" He gives you a black, resentful look. "How the fuck should I—? What's this shit I'm wearing?" He grabs at his crotch, and his dick pops out from behind Mrs. Brown's thong underwear. "I feel like I'm—"<br/>
<br/>
"We're at Brownie's house, okay? Don't you remember the plan?"<br/>
<br/>
"Plans could've changed."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck. So what <i>do</i> you remember? And keep your voice down." You kick off your shoes as he makes a face at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I remember the <i>plan,</i> dickweed," he says. "Brownie— Sydney— Last thing I remember is lying down on that table in the basement, and her—him—dropping a mask onto me. So if nothing's changed since—"<br/>
<br/>
His expression falls as he pulls the sagging bra from out beneath his t-shirt. He frowns at it.<br/>
<br/>
Then his eyes pop.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, <i>no!</i> Fuck!" he gasps. "I thought Brownie said—! Please tell me he's got a sister," he pleads with haggard eyes. "Or someone's girlfriend! Please tell me you didn't—!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, that's his mom's," you retort as you yank off your own shirt and unbuckle your belt. "And shut up. Right now there's just the three of us—or the four, if you count his mom in spirit—but the rest of the family could be back any moment. Just get out of those things and into these," you continue as you pull off the last of your things, "and don't worry about who's riding around inside you."<br/>
<br/>
He glances down, as though expecting to see Mrs. Brown's bosom erupting from inside his own, then scrambles to comply. "Well, I guess it sucks more to be you than to be me," he says. You don't dignify that with a retort.<br/>
<br/>
After he's in your clothes, you listen at the door, then open it and push him out. "Go find Sydney. Brownie," you correct yourself. "Whatever she tells you, do it. Probably she's just gonna send you home, tell you to just be, well, <i>me,</i> until you hear from us."<br/>
<br/>
"Am I gonna get to see you again?" he asks. A nasty smile slides up one half of his face.<br/>
<br/>
You just grimace at him, and shut the bathroom door.<br/>
<br/>
That leaves you alone with a bag of masks and supplies, and Mrs. Brown's clothes. In other words, with nothing else to do but to finish transforming yourself into her.<br/>
<br/>
With trembling hands you pop open the tub containing the goop that will seal up the mask, and apply its contents with a brush you brought and fire some hair inside it. Then you pack everything up carefully again, and on an impulse hide it in the cabinet under the sink. You separate out her clothes, fluffing and loosely folding them. You give yourself one last quick, look in the mirror; a pale kid with straw-like hair and chin whiskers peers back. He looks like he's about to shit himself.<br/>
<br/>
But finally, with nothing else to do, you lay out on the bathmat, nestle your back into it, and hold the mask over your face. Mrs. Brown's name looms very large, until you shut your eyes and lower it onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're very cold when you wake, and a small but intense migraine pulses just above and behind your left eye. You groan, and heft yourself up onto an elbow and roll yourself onto your side. Something heavy tries sliding off your chest, but get hung up. You blink and frown and look down, wondering vaguely why you passed out.<br/>
<br/>
Then you look down and realize that you're cold because you're naked.<br/>
<br/>
Memories and realizations open up and sluice over you. You wilt under them, and feel yourself drowning as the fill and flood you. The light goes dim and fuzzy, and a hard chill rattles you from your shoulders to your toes.<br/>
<br/>
<i>My name is Heather Brown.</i> <br/>
<br/>
Except it isn't, and that knowledge fills you with a quiet t but overwhelming despair. <br/>
<br/>
<i>No, I'm really a boy—that's all he is, just a boy!—named Will Prescott, who my son Alec brought home and helped him turn into me.<br/>
<br/>
Except that's not Alec anymore, either. It's another stranger.<br/>
<br/>
An imposter.</i><br/>
<br/>
Your grip the edge of the vanity, and heft yourself up and onto your feet.<br/>
<br/>
<i>And soon we will </i>all<i> be imposters.</i><br/>
<br/>
You raise your eyes, and one of those imposters stares back at you from inside the mirror. A blank but intense expression is frozen onto her face. <br/>
<br/>
She's naked, but there's nothing there you haven't seen. The boobs still full, and only just beginning to sag. The hips and butt that have lost their tautness but not yet their shape. The fat that has begun to pad the abdomen but not yet hidden the figure.<br/>
<br/>
The firm chin and mouth and eye of the colonel.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The colonel.</i><br/>
<br/>
You clench your fists, and your gaze hardens.<br/>
<br/>
<i>If we're going to do this, we're going to do this right.</i><br/>
<br/>
Brusquely, without bothering or gloating over it, you bend over to whip up the thong underwear, and slide it up and over your legs to snap in place. You pull your sweatpants back on, strap yourself back into the bra, and pull on the t-shirt. You wind your hair back into a loose braid before settling the bandana back around your head.<br/>
<br/>
You pick up the scrubber, give the toilet bowl a few last, quick strokes, then flush it.<br/>
<br/>
Then, with the scrubber and the bucket in your hands, you march out into the house that is <i>yours,</i> from the rafters to the foundation.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311
author_id: seuzz
title: The Straight Attitude
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Voices sound downstairs, and for a moment you hesitate. Strength, weirdly enough, comes from the bucket and toilet brush you grip in the crook of your arm. They remind you of who you are supposed to be, and how little you have to fear from anyone under this roof.<br/>
<br/>
It's Alec's voice, rumbling in the living room below, and a female voice. Pride and worry jostle each other as you come down the stairs. Unbidden comes the thought: {i{There are such temptations laid before the feet of a boy so handsome and strong as Alec. You force a small smile onto your face as you step into the living room.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh.</i> It's Sydney McGlynn he's talking to. They look over at your approach, and Alec's smile widens just a little with knowingness. <br/>
<br/>
You ignore that smile mostly, and the girl you ignore completely.<br/>
<br/>
"All right, your bathroom's scrubbed," you tell Alec, and his grin falters just a little. "But I'm not telling you and your brothers again to raise the toilet seat when you're taking a pee. Hello," you address the girl as though you don't know her. She's very pretty, she looks like the cheerleader you could have been back in high school, only they were all sluts and you wouldn't soil yourself with their company, and maybe that's why you feel yourself stiffening as you study her. <i>Lord Jesus, grant Alec the wisdom to see the snares laid about his feet ...</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, this is Sydney, she's another friend from school." Alec lightly accents the word "another." "She brought be out some stuff for a project we're working on." He hefts the cardboard box under his arm.<br/>
<br/>
"Nice to meet you Sydney. Hon, you heard anything from your dad or your brothers?"<br/>
<br/>
"No'm. Uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"What about your other friend, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"He had to go, he got a call." Alec turns back to Sydney. "So, uh, thanks for bringing this stuff over, and I'll see you, uh, Monday?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure thing." Sydney smiles brightly at him, and turns to beam at you. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brown." She swings around, her hips sway slightly. She gives Alec another bright "Goodbye" from the door, and gives you another quick, mischievous glance as she pulls it shut. Alec stares at the door with a hand on his hip, and he swallows before turning to give you a sidelong look. "You don't remember Sydney?" he asks in a small voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course I remember her, you little dingbat," you retort. "But I'm standing her in my scrubbing clothes with a dirty toilet brush, you think I'm going to give her the satisfaction of— Oh, <i>peanut,</i> you little stinker," you exclaim, using Mrs. Brown's preferred cuss words as he breaks out in another raffish grin. "You told her who I was even before I got down here, didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Course I did," he chortles. "Here lemme look at you." You seizes you by the shoulders and stands back to give you a critical once-over. You put your lower lip out at him.<br/>
<br/>
"It's perfect," he says after a long moment. "I don't even see anything in your—" He points at your eyes. "I mean, you got her memories and everything?"<br/>
<br/>
"Think so."<br/>
<br/>
He whistles. "Jesus. And it took me—"<br/>
<br/>
Instinct—and mischief—take over. <br/>
<br/>
"Alec Jacob Brown!" you exclaim. "You know better than to take the Lord's name in vain! So what are you still standing there for?"<br/>
<br/>
His jaw falls open. "Will!" he squeals. "I—!"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Are you dishonoring your mother?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
His hair ripples, and a flush runs up his throat. "No'm." His brow blackens. "I—"<br/>
<br/>
"The medicine's in the bathroom I just scrubbed. Take it." Your jaw clenches. "Then you come down here and show me you've taken it. And there's a bag under the sink. You know which one. Put it in your room, someplace your brothers won't find it."<br/>
<br/>
He mutters something under his breath, and starts up the stairs. Halfway up, he leans forward to double-time it.<br/>
<br/>
You take the bucket and brush into the laundry room where you rinse them and the gloves out at the work sink and put them away, wondering at how easy it is to let go of the reins and just be Heather Brown. Alec is waiting in the kitchen when you emerge. His expression is very tight, and you give him a hard look until he opens his mouth and extends his tongue to show the sliver of soap that rests atop it. You march over to the refrigerator to set the timer for five minutes.<br/>
<br/>
"I'd tell you to take it upstairs and forget it," you tell him, "but I sense the spirit of rebellion upon you." You put a finger into his face. "Fix the attitude, Sydney. Alec would not be giving his mother that expression. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right, for as long as there's even one member of this house who is outside the circle."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm," he mumbles around the soap, and fixes his face into a more neutral mask of passivity. "Are you going to tell the major?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's better. Tell the major what?"<br/>
<br/>
"About taking the Lord's name in vain." At least he doesn't roll his eyes at the phrase.<br/>
<br/>
"No, not if you can give me ten minutes of patience and penitence. Don't clock-watch, private," you add when he glances at the timer. "You're in character until it goes off, and after."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm." He straightens up, spreads his feet, and puts his hands behind his back, in which posture he neutrally stares off at the window behind the sink. Neither of you speak during the minutes that follow as you lightly scrub the countertops and wipe down the refrigerator.<br/>
<br/>
When the timer goes off, he removes the soap from his tongue and says, "I've got something upstairs to show you."<br/>
<br/>
"The stuff that Sydney brought out?" You rinse and squeeze out the sponge. "What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tools of the Brotherhood, and all my notes."<br/>
<br/>
You follow him. "Make sure to keep them where the twins can't find them," you caution as you mount the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
The box is on the corner of his bed, and you sniff as he opens it and takes out a wooden rod. For a moment you frown at it, trying to place what it is and what it looks like. Then, when the word comes to you, you can hardly form it around your gasp of surprise. "Don't tell me that's—! You brought a <i>dildo</i> into this house?"<br/>
<br/>
And he laughs. He actually barks out a short laugh.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess it does look like one," he says. The polished shaft is the right shape and heft, and it has a knob on the end. It would be a little long to be comfortably used as a dildo, not even counting the hilt at the other end. But you suppose such things are made bigger than they ought to be, for display if nothing else.<br/>
<br/>
And then he takes another one from out of the box!<br/>
<br/>
"One's for you and one's for me," he says. "Er, but obviously I'll keep 'em out of sight until, you know. And they're not, uh— Well, not if unless you <i>want</i> to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Just tell me what they are. And if you don't need to show me while you explain, get them out of sight. We don't need anyone running upstairs to find you waving something like that in your mother's face."<br/>
<br/>
"They're wands, I guess is what you'd call them," he says as he puts them back in the box. "You use them to trace symbols and make signs in the air, and I'm pretty sure there are even—"<br/>
<br/>
"Wands?" you repeat. You feel your eyebrows go up. "Magic wands? Black magic wands?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ... Yes'm."<br/>
<br/>
"I see."<br/>
<br/>
His nostrils flare. "Will, I—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's alright, Sydney. I'm just trying to keep calm and in character, which I admit is hard to do while having all this devil-worshipping ... <i>stuff</i> ... shoved under my nose."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's going to be hard to explain this stuff," he retorts, "let alone <i>do</i> it, if you're going to <i>be Brownie's mom</i> so perfectly." He doesn't bother with trying not to sound cross.<br/>
<br/>
"It's only until we get the rest of the family converted, sweetheart. I don't want to jinx anything until then."<br/>
<br/>
He closes up the box. "Then maybe we better wait until we've converted everyone before I show and tell you about it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, maybe that would be best." You watch as he carries the box into his closet, where he perches it on the shelf that holds his spare sheets and blankets. "And are they shaped like that because they're <i>real</i> wands used in black magic, and not just stage props?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess so." He gives you a look. "And it's just a psychological trick, Will, a way of opening yourself up so latent influences and powers can flow out. There's nothing really, you know, <i>diabolical</i> about it."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Which is just what the devil wants you to believe,</i> you can't help thinking. "Then I guess that makes it okay," you reply aloud. From outside comes the sound of a car door slamming. "And I think that's where we better leave it. Come on. Your dad was bringing home some Colonel Chicken."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's just five of you for dinner—Eric has texted to say he'll be staying out late with friends—but even though it's takeout chicken, you set out plates and silverware at the table, for Heather Brown always believes in "dinner time," even if she hasn't fixed the meal herself.<br/>
<br/>
But as your husband and the twins are settling around the table, Alec corners you in the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
"You want to get a mask onto the major when you go to bed tonight, switch with him then?" he suggests in a low voice. "To be honest, Will, I'd rather deal with you as him than you as her." He points at your bosom.<br/>
<br/>
You get his point. But didn't Sydney say you should "burrow into" these characters, to convert them from within? As long as you're here, maybe you should concentrate on bending the very straight Heather Brown.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111
author_id: seuzz
title: Sunday Dress Up
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"We'll talk about it tomorrow, hon," you tell Alec. From the refrigerator you take a pitcher of tea. "Put this on the table please."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The dinner that follows is far more civilized than any meal at the Prescott household, though your motherly antennae quiver with subtle undercurrents that would escape most notice. After Victor says a short prayer over the meal (to which you append a quiet but fervent "Amen!"), for instance, you notice the twins thrusting their hands out in one synchronous movement to each draw out a drumstick, which they proceed to eat in unison, tearing off bites together and scooping up mashed potatoes together. You ignore the drill to concentrate on filling your own plate and passing pieces to the others, until you catch the twins surreptitiously wiping their hands (in unison) in their laps. "Riker, Micah," you say, "use your napkins please."<br/>
<br/>
"Break formation," your husband adds as they simultaneously each pick up a napkin. They are so alike—narrow faces under dark eyebrows and dark buzz-cuts—that only members of the family can reliably tell them apart, and they like to play up their identicalness by performing synchronized routines. They have become almost spookily good at it.<br/>
<br/>
"You boys get everything you needed at Academy?" you ask them.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm," says Riker (you're ninety-nine percent sure).<br/>
<br/>
"We had to go to White Fang, though," puts in Micah, "for socks."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh-huh. I didn't know White Fang carried football socks. Alec, is that Eric?"<br/>
<br/>
"No'm," he says, looking up from his lap. "I thought maybe it was." He takes his cell phone out from under the table and lays it screen down next to his plate. You decide to let it ride there instead of asking him to put it completely away.<br/>
<br/>
"White Fang has tougher socks," Riker says. "We also looked at tents," he adds, and turns a sly glance over at his father.<br/>
<br/>
"And fishing tackle and sleeping bags and water purifiers," Victor says. "Christmas is coming up, you know."<br/>
<br/>
From there conversation turns to your asking if everyone has their homework done, and quizzing the twins on some history for an upcoming test. (You've no idea if they get the answers right.) Afterward, Alec clears the table and helps you wash and dry the dishes; Victor takes out the trash, and the twins run a quick cloth over the dining room table and a carpet sweeper under it. <br/>
<br/>
You change into jeans and a sweatshirt after that, and the boys are in their rooms when you go back downstairs. <br/>
<br/>
Victor is waiting for you in the little study just off the living room. He has a book in his lap, but he watches you from under lowered brows as you settle at your writing desk and put your feet (encased now in warm, woolen socks) in his lap. He shifts the book into his left hand and with his right kneads at one of your feet.<br/>
<br/>
"What are we doing for Christmas?" you ask as you open up your laptop and navigate to the folder that has the novel Heather has been working on for the last six months. <br/>
<br/>
"I was thinking we could go camping up in the mountains," he says. "Do some hiking, fishing, hunting, tracking."<br/>
<br/>
"Do we need new gear?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," he says after a fractional hesitation.<br/>
<br/>
"I need fifty dollars for my mother," you tell him. (How easy and intuitive it is to tell him exactly what Heather would say!) "Whatever you want to do with the rest is up to you."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have more than fifty dollars for your mother," he assures you. "I'll parcel out some of the gear to the boys, they can give it to each other as presents."<br/>
<br/>
"Leave them lee to make their own minds," you remind him.<br/>
<br/>
"I will." He squeezes your foot, then returns to rubbing it as he reads his book. You settle in to try writing yours.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Or, at least, you pretend to. Maybe it's a limitation of the mask that it can't copy Heather's imagination, or maybe she really is blocked. Or maybe it's just not to your kind of book.<br/>
<br/>
It's a sweet, Christian romance she's trying to write, with nothing steamier than some remembered chaste kissing and some longing glances between the cowgirl (recovering from a jilted engagement) and the Afghan vet she has hired to repair the barn on the ranch her daddy left her. But Heather been stuck at the twenty-five thousand word mark for a week now. It's time for her characters to do a little more, but Roman stubbornly refuses to unburden his banked desires upon Rebecca, no matter which room Heather pushes them into.<br/>
<br/>
"What was your word count?" Victor asks when you finally give up and close the laptop.<br/>
<br/>
"Peanuts." The word flies out with the viciousness of an eff-bomb.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe she needs a good lay."<br/>
<br/>
You close your eyes and roll your head about on your neck. "It's not that kind of book."<br/>
<br/>
"I was talking about the author."<br/>
<br/>
You freeze, and peer at him from behind your lashes. "Tomorrow's Sunday," you remind him. "Boys sleep late."<br/>
<br/>
"We could go for a drive. We haven't been for a drive in a couple of months."<br/>
<br/>
Inwardly, you scuttle backwards. Outwardly, you let a smile tweak your lips. "The river?"<br/>
<br/>
"Or a dirty motel." He presses his thumb into a tender place on the bottom of your foot, and you almost levitate.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll send the boys on play dates tomorrow afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that a promise?"<br/>
<br/>
"Unless something comes up."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," he says with a grin, "I can pretty much guarantee that <i>something</i> is going to <i>come up.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>The next morning.</i> "Riker? Are you ready?" you bawl into the house as you jam your feet into Heather Brown's best Sunday go-to-church-meeting shoes. "Yes!" two voices yell back. "Micah, how about you?" "Yes!" two voices call again.<br/>
<br/>
You stand and give yourself a quick look over in the mirror. You've been up since seven-thirty, putting together a roast and vegetables in a crock pot for lunch, followed by showering and getting your hair done, your face made up, and your body dressed. You're in one of Heather's grandmother's old silk blouses—a well-preserved heirloom—of muted browns and greens and whites that's colored like autumn leaves fluttering in a silvery afternoon haze. Your heavy skirt—the hem halfway down the calves—is of blue wool, and you're wearing white silk hose underneath. After touching your curls and turning your head this way and that to make sure that they stay in place, you pull open the jewelry box to find a bracelet—something muted and understated. The phrase <i>Vanity before the Lord</i> runs through your head.<br/>
<br/>
Wearing gaudy jewelry to church is probably the least of the sins you are about to commit.<br/>
<br/>
"Alec? Are you ready?" you call.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm! Putting on my jacket now!"<br/>
<br/>
"But he still hasn't put his pants on!" one of the twins calls.<br/>
<br/>
"Your dad's starting the car now!" you holler. You've no idea if he is, but it's Heather's diplomatic way of saying "Asses down, now!" which is what her mother used to say.<br/>
<br/>
"Is Eric ready to go?" you ask Alec (a little breathlessly) when you meet him just outside your door. He is looking very trim and handsome in his navy-blue jacket and cream-colored slacks. He nods. "I didn't hear him come in last night."<br/>
<br/>
"He came in a little after eleven-thirty."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't hear him."<br/>
<br/>
"He made sure to be extra quiet."<br/>
<br/>
You give him a sharp glance: there's just the faintest suggestion of a smirk on his lips. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, twenty minutes before curfew or twenty minutes after, he's cutting it close. Riker! Micah!" You turn toward the stairs. "If you're not downstairs in three then you're walking to church and you're grounded if you're late!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And yet you and Sydney are not struck dead on stepping into the South Creek Presbyterian Church. Is it because your acting is good enough to fool God? You sing lustily along with the hymns, drop an extra twenty into the collection plate, and nod along alertly to the sermon as though there's going to be a pop quiz at the end of the service. Afterwards, in the fellowship hall, you catch up with Heather's church girlfriends, exchanging news about family members—their triumphs and tragedies—and cadge a recipe for a low-calorie key lime pie off the pastor's wife.<br/>
<br/>
At home, you cut up and boil potatoes for mashing, brown dinner rolls in the oven, and set out the roast and the vegetables. Lunch is taken with everyone still in their Sunday clothes. That's when and where the pop quiz is conducted, though you're the one who springs it against the kids by telling them to report on what got taught them in Sunday School. Eric wins extra points by gruffly announcing that Ms. Delahanty, who teaches the college-age class, is flirting with the Arian heresy. You ask him what the Arian heresy is, and he explains, but it rather goes over your head.<br/>
<br/>
Then everyone goes upstairs to change into sloppy, Sunday afternoon clothes, with you putting yourself into clean, flannel pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt, and socks. Eric takes the twins over to the Athletic Fields to play with a football; Victor—forgetting his promise to ravish you—drives over to an Army buddy's house to watch a game on TV.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck me, but you were totally in character today, Will," Alec informs you when you're alone with him.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm glad," you reply. "Except I'm not. I'm trying to 'burrow into her', like you said we should," you explain. "Trouble is, I feel like I'm just <i>being</i> her. You know? I feel like I need to do something that will—" You twist inside your clothes. "Change her. Start converting her. She's too much the goody-goody for this Baphomet business, Sydney."<br/>
<br/>
His lips twitch "Know what we can do that'll do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
He pushes you up against the wall and jams his tongue into your mouth.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231111
author_id: seuzz
title: Wand Work
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Oh God!</i> He's so heavy. So thick and hard and rigid and heavy. <br/>
<br/>
Your son's penis heaves inside you, wedging you open for the flood to come. It has the weight of bone and the power of hard-packed muscle behind it.<br/>
<br/>
You groan and throw your head back and close your eyes as Alec forces himself deeper into the tender tissues out of which he and his brothers blossomed. You dig your fingernails into his muscled back and pull him to yourself. His hot breath billows off your face.<br/>
<br/>
But even as you buckle beneath him, and twist to take him in deeper, and guide him to those spots where your membranes itch and buzz and spark with unspent electricity, in the back of your mind you can't help comparing him to his father. For rare is the weekend that doesn't open with Victor and Heather Brown prying each other open and pouring themselves into each other.<br/>
<br/>
<i>He's trying to impress me,</i> you can't help thinking. <i>He's the young stud, the young buck, and he's trying to impress me, to show me he's the only one who can satisfy me, that I shouldn't even look to anyone else. And he's trying to mark me too, trying to grind the shape of his member and the stink of his discharge so deep into me that any other male whose penis comes sniffing around will snap back in fear and awe of him who came before.<br/>
<br/>
Oh God, he's about to cum.<br/>
<br/>
Oh he's got the body for the job, as if you ever doubted your boys would lack that, oh no, Heather girl, you never doubted and now you know he's got the girth and the length and the stamina and th power and—</i>Nngghhnnn!<i>—the presence, oh yes, he's got the presence. His daddy was a wiry one, like a spring-loaded stallion, but Alec—</i>Mmph!<i>—and Eric, too, they've got my grandpappy's genes. Oh, he was a bear of a man, and Alec thinks being a bear is enough. Maybe every boy thinks that, thinks it's enough to let the spirit animal out and rampant, his daddy thought so too, first time we met, first time I let him, he came at me like a starving wolf after a little lamb. Oh sweet Lord, those nights in that dirty little motel just off the beach, those nights and afternoons when we staggered back, sunburned and salty, and tore each other raw on those awful, scratchy sheets. <br/>
<br/>
But Victor learned finesse, and now— Oh! he conducts me like a maestro! Call and response, call and response, he calls and I respond, I call and he—</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh! Ohhh!<i><br/>
<br/>
A deep breath, Heather, a deep breath, gather it up, gather into you all he's spending and—!</i><br/>
<br/>
You bite hard into the tense muscles that join Alec neck to his back and shoulders, to keep from screaming aloud as a blazing singularity opens in your loins.<br/>
<br/>
<i>To blazes with call and response.<br/>
<br/>
Sometimes you just want the kind of hard fuck that hammers you into jelly.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So how many girls at school have you done that with?" you ask him afterward.<br/>
<br/>
You're standing in the hallway, in the three-way junction where Alec's, the twins', and their parents' bedroom doors face each other. You didn't linger in bed after you and he were finished. He pulled out almost immediately, and rose, and smirked in your face as he showed you his dripping hog before turning away and padding out to cross the hallway into the bathroom. With a creaking hips and stiff legs you'd risen to follow, snatching up the sweatpants and underwear that you'd torn off in your hurry to get his hairy cock up and into you. In the master bathroom you rinsed yourself out and off until you were cool (but warmly satisfied) throughout, then removed your make up and washed your face all over with a wet cloth so there'd be no obvious flush of sexual satisfaction showing. The clothes you dumped in the hamper (where they mingle with clothes that have Victor's musk on them) and you changed into fresh ones. When you reemerged from the bedroom, you found Alec loitering at the junction, balancing bashfully on the sides of his feet with a secret smile tweaking his lips and a mischievous glint in his eye.<br/>
<br/>
But he flinches and rolls his eyes at your question. "Aah, Jesus," he mutters, "you're not going to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Alec Jacob," you warn him.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up, <i>Mom,</i>" he retorts. "I'm not gonna go eat any soap for saying <i>that,</i> not after what we just did." The smirk flares anew on his lips. "That help you out any, Will, help get you out of character?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not trying to get out of character, hon," you correct him. "If I wanted to do that I could just—" You let out a short, sharp sigh. "I thought we wanted to <i>change</i> our characters. Convert them. Leave them the same but change them to be—"<br/>
<br/>
You step up close to him, until you can sigh hotly into his face, the way he had sighed hotly atop you in his bedroom. "The kind of bad people who'd dedicate themselves to Baphomet," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
He grins, and takes your lower lip between his teeth. "Mmph. 'At's right."<br/>
<br/>
You chortle a little, then pull away. "Well, I'd call that a start. Now, how about you show me those magic wands again. I think I can handle one now without wetting myself."<br/>
<br/>
He touches the side of your breast with a fingertip, and turns back to his room. You follow, sniffing at the tang that floats in the air, and as he takes the box down from his closet you roll a window open to let in a cool, fresh breeze. "Get you some freshener in here before anyone gets back," you warn. "Don't you forget, now."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm." He takes out one of the wands. "Here you are."<br/>
<br/>
You take it without hesitating, grabbing it by the shaft. It's solid but not heavy—not as heavy as Alec was, surely—and you slide it over the palm of your hand, and rub and squeeze it. "How does it work?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not a machine. It doesn't 'work'. <i>You</i> do the work. It just gives you something to concentrate on while you do it."<br/>
<br/>
"So what kind of thing do you do with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just about anything, I think." He pulls at his nose. "The two main things we need to do with it first are, to open up some portals, and to meditate on them."<br/>
<br/>
"Portals?" you ask him sharply. "What kind of portals?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're not going to freak out on me again, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
You answer by waggling the dildo in his face.<br/>
<br/>
"A portal for Baphomet. It's not like opening a doorway into Hell," he hastens to add, "or into another dimension. It's no physical door. Like I told you, it's all psychological. People think in physical terms," he continues, and it sounds like he's quoting something. "So to imagine Baphomet making himself manifest in your living space, it helps to imagine, and to <i>make</i>, a door for him to come through."<br/>
<br/>
"And he comes through?" Despite yourself, you feel a cold twinge of misgivings.<br/>
<br/>
Alec gives you a look. "I told you, it's psychological. There's no <i>thing</i> to come through. It's just a visualization to help the manifestation of the inner powers that, um—" His brow furrows. "You are seeking to express."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your eyebrows go up. "Sounds to me like someone needs to do a little more close study of his devil-church readings."<br/>
<br/>
Alec makes a face back at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He talks a little bit more about how to use the wand to make a door, and he shows you the spot in the closet where (he says) he has already drawn one, but he suggests waiting until the entire household is securely yours before making any more. He also describes a meditation ritual, which involves gripping and caressing the wand, that is supposed to firmly fix in the adherent's mind that the door is real and that something real is coming through it. That too, he thinks, should wait.<br/>
<br/>
And when will the next move come?<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't, until some hours later.<br/>
<br/>
The twins have returned, but only briefly before running out again to meet up with friends. Eric you've not seen, but he prefers to keep to himself in the spare room over the garage. You're curled up on the couch in living room with Victor's arm around your shoulder as you watch a travel show on the TV. You glance over as Alec goes padding through the room; a moment later, you hear the side door shut.<br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later, your ringtone goes off in the other room. "Oh, peanuts," you sigh, and heave yourself onto your feet. "Don't stop it," you tell your husband as he reaches for the remote.<br/>
<br/>
"I wanted to make myself some nachos anyway," he replies.<br/>
<br/>
Your phone is in the study, and you frown at the name over the text: It's Alec. What's he texting you for instead of—?<br/>
<br/>
A little light goes off over your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Take your time with the nachos, sweetheart," you tell Victor as you pass the kitchen on your way out. "Make them good and deluxe for us. Somebody stained something in Eric's room, and I have to go take a look at it." He gives you a wry smile.<br/>
<br/>
The side door in the dining room leads into the side yard, where a wooden staircase rises up the side of the house to the spare room over the garage. You mount it and tap at the door; it flies open and Alec, looking flushed and excited, hauls you inside.<br/>
<br/>
His brother is splayed out on the bed, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
Your second-born son, it looks like, has been prepped to join the Brotherhood.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you think, Will?" Alec asks you. "You want him, or leave him to me?"</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311112
author_id: seuzz
title: Developmental Psychology
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stare down at Eric Brown, who is splayed across the narrow bed, the sheets a sloppy tangle beneath him. A musty odor of unwashed socks and sweat permeates the stuffy room.<br/>
<br/>
Eric is a big kid, bigger even than Brownie. No surprise: He's got two years on Alec in age and in time spent at the gym.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe more than that. Heather's memories are a little hazy on when her sons started working out consistently. But Eric was burly for his age even in elementary school; he was a linebacker during middle school and high school; and he started bulking up for it long before Alec decided he wanted to be a wrestler.<br/>
<br/>
Last Friday, when you were looking for a new place to hide, Eric would have been one of your top choices. Even though he's in college, he could have swaggered back onto school property in Brownie's company, and together the two of them could have straightened out Blake and his friends and anyone else you'd want to straighten out.<br/>
<br/>
But plans have changed. And you're not sure Heather has changed enough, even after this afternoon's bed-romp with Alec.<br/>
<br/>
"You can have him," you tell Sydney. But still you can't tear your eyes off him. His pectorals bulge beneath the tight t-shirt. <br/>
<br/>
"You sure?" Alec says. "It doesn't matter, I guess. One for me, one for you, next for me, next for—"<br/>
<br/>
"Did you have any trouble with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"With the mask, you mean? Nah, I just waited till his back was turned." He points at the chest of drawers in the corner. Half the drawers are pulled open, and whites and jeans are half-stuffed into them. "Asked if I could borrow one of his pullovers, and when he turned around— Fuck." He shakes his head. "Dad trained us better. He should'a seen it coming in his peripheral vision."<br/>
<br/>
You ignore the cuss word. "I should get back to your father. Are you going to switch places with him now?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll have to let it play to see what happens." He rest his hands on his hips. "To start with I'll just put the mask back on him, see how he takes it."<br/>
<br/>
"You be careful. Your brother treats you a lot more carefully than you think. You don't want him surprise you."<br/>
<br/>
"Shit."<br/>
<br/>
"Alec, don't get sloppy now. We're only halfway through."<br/>
<br/>
He makes a face. "So, you want to take a mask back with you, convert the major while the twerps are away?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then shake your head. "They could be back any minute. That's another reason you need to hurry." You glance around uneasily. "I'm not sure they haven't been concocting some kind of prank against Eric." You don't voice the fear, but you can't shake it. <i>What if they've hidden a camera-phone in here?</i> But surely Eric would have found it and broken it in half and rammed it down their throats if they had.<br/>
<br/>
"Ops," Alec corrects you. "We don't call them pranks, Mom. We call them ops."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, get this 'op' finished off before they get back. And lock the door after I'm gone." You give the shabby room one last glance-over, and step back out, pulling the door after you.<br/>
<br/>
Your husband has the nachos in his lap when you rejoin him. "It wasn't blood, was it?"<br/>
<br/>
"What? No, just water damage, I think," you improvise. "To the ceiling."<br/>
<br/>
He pauses in mid-chew, and leans forward to get up. "I'll take a look."<br/>
<br/>
You restrain him with a firm hand. "It's the Sabbath, honey. You can look at it tomorrow or the next day. If it's kept this long it'll keep until then."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're woken early the next morning by the rumbling tread of heavy feet in the hallway, and the sound of running water in the bathroom. You clench your eyes shut and try to burrow deeper beneath the sheets. <i>Teenage boys always think they're being quiet,</i> you think, <i>and that their mother will never hear them.</i><br/>
<br/>
It rumbles for several minutes, before it's interrupted from far below by the sound of a truck motor roaring to life. Feet run, and there's a muffled squawk. The front door creaks open, and slams shut. The truck motor races; more doors slam; the truck growls to a crescendo, then gradually fades. <br/>
<br/>
A hand gropes your thigh under the sheets, and slips between your legs.<br/>
<br/>
You groan pleasurably, and allow yourself to be rolled over. The bedroom is dark—the sun is still the better part of an hour from rising—as Major Victor Brown slips off his pajama bottoms, rolls up the hem of your night gown, and finds your nest with his member.<br/>
<br/>
By seven o'clock, though, you're downstairs (still in your nightgown) fixing scrambled eggs, slices of ham, oatmeal, and coffee. At seven-thirty your husband—still dark of hair, though a little gray is starting to show at the temples, is downstairs in his fatigues. Together you eat breakfast without talking much as he reads a tablet and you a newspaper. Only when Victor rises to leave, and pulls you close, do you murmur endearments and anticipate the day to come.<br/>
<br/>
After cleaning the kitchen you go upstairs to shower and dress in workout clothes: the family gets a military discount at the Steel 24-Hour Gym, which Mrs. Brown is the only one to take advantage of, but for that reason is fanatical about it. You're ten minutes early to the spin class, so that you can get your favorite bike. On the way back home, you drop off some clothes at the dry cleaners, and pick up last week's batch.<br/>
<br/>
Then it's a lunch of tuna fish and toast, after which you'll do the day's housecleaning chores: vacuuming the upstairs and cleaning the master bedroom and bath.<br/>
<br/>
But you're interrupted by a phone call from the middle school.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Why don't you just call it what it is?" you brusquely inform the principal after ten minutes of her pussyfooting around. "Bullying."<br/>
<br/>
A couple of different colors—pink and white, mostly, but there's a little green, too—swirl around Dr. Moss's face. She's a heavy-set woman wrapped up in a ruffled white blouse and pancake makeup. Her pudgy fingers tighten as she clasps her hands atop the desk. "I didn't want to call it that, Mrs. Brown," she starts to say, "but if we're—"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't want to, but you all but did," you retort. "Even though it wasn't. My boys—Micah and Riker—are not bullies."<br/>
<br/>
She smiles as though it pains her. "I'm not sure the name we put to the behavior is important, Mrs.—"<br/>
<br/>
"Names are always important. Always call things by their true names, unless you have a special reason to dissemble. My grandmother taught me that. Maybe we agree and maybe we don't on whether it was bullying. But call it like you see it, Mizz— <i>Doctor</i> Moss." You feel your teeth grinding at the title. "That way we know where we stand and we can grapple direct with the issue."<br/>
<br/>
The principal's smile tightens even as it widens. "What would <i>you</i> call it, Mrs. Brown? What I've described?" A cat-like glint comes into her eye.<br/>
<br/>
"Horseplay. High-spirited horseplay. That's what I heard you describing."<br/>
<br/>
"You weren't there. They reduced the boy to tears."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not saying they didn't misjudge. But it's better if you tell this classmate of theirs—"<br/>
<br/>
"Steven," she says in a pinched voice. "The boy has a name, and it's Steven Pope. If we're to call things by their proper names." There is now steel behind her half-smile.<br/>
<br/>
"It's better if you tell Steven to play rough right back with them. They can take it. Better he do that than fall to the ground in a crying jag. Tell him to pop my kids in the mouth," you continue as the principal gasps. "Let 'em get in a scrape. They'll all come out the other end as friends. It's how boys bond."<br/>
<br/>
Dr. Moss's eyes nearly pop from her head.<br/>
<br/>
"Mrs. Brown!" she squeals. "I'm sure you think you know your sons best, but I have a degree in developmental psychology, and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you suspending them, Micah and Riker?" you interrupt. "Suspending, expelling, putting them in detention?"<br/>
<br/>
Her lips disappear. "No."<br/>
<br/>
"Then why are we having this conference?"<br/>
<br/>
"We are having this conference," she says, "to forestall us having to, er, mete out any such, uh disciplinary actions in the future."<br/>
<br/>
You pick up your purse.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll take them home now," you announce. "I'll talk to them—"<br/>
<br/>
"They're still in class, Mrs. Brown!"<br/>
<br/>
"They have a doctor's appointment," you tell her. "With their own developmental psychologist."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The twins are very quiet on the drive back home. They sit in the back seat and answer your questions in forthright but very clipped statements, as though they are under hostile interrogation.<br/>
<br/>
The long and the short of it is that they grabbed a classmate's gym clothes at the end of P.E., wadded them into a makeshift football, and played keep-away with the kid as he, clad only in his tidy whities and socks, ran back and forth trying to intercept the passes. None of the other boys interfered; rather they cheered the twins and jeered the victim.<br/>
<br/>
"Sweethearts," you tell them, "I know you think you were just having fun. But did it look like Steven was having fun? It's not fun unless you're <i>all</i> having fun."<br/>
<br/>
"We didn't have any fun on the wilderness run this morning," one of the twins retorts. That's where they (and Eric and Alec) go off to so early every weekday and Saturday morning: to jog in the Suffolk Wilderness.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sure you did have fun," you sigh. "But what did your brothers do to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kept hitting us in the butt in with sticks when we lagged."<br/>
<br/>
"That's them showing they care about you. You're <i>training</i> with them."<br/>
<br/>
"We were training with Steven. He's fat. Did we mention that? He needs to sweat it off."<br/>
<br/>
"Honey, you can't just—"<br/>
<br/>
But you break off when you see one of them nudge the other.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What are they up to?</i> you wonder.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111122
author_id: seuzz
title: Lords of Discipline
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You continue lecturing the boys about what they did at school while keeping your expression carefully neutral. And all the time you are calculating: <i>Can I get each of them alone, get a mask onto him, convert him, without the other one realizing what their mother is doing to them?</i><br/>
<br/>
But the longer you temporize and strategize, the more you lean toward waiting to consult with Sydney. When you get home, you send the two boys upstairs to get an early start on their homework, then go up to the spare room and knock on the door.<br/>
<br/>
There's no answer. You look inside, and find it empty. That's when you remember that the truck isn't in the driveway. It usually isn't, which is why you didn't notice its absence, but you should have realized that Eric isn't home.<br/>
<br/>
Then it occurs to you that you don't know if that's even where Sydney is. You haven't talked to either Eric or Alec since last night. So which one is Sydney off being? You hesitate to text: As you don't know where she is, you're not sure how the pedisequoses will react if you poke at them with a query.<br/>
<br/>
You still haven't heard from either one of them when five o'clock rolls around and you start on supper. You're cutting up pork chops for a quick-and-dirty sweet-and-sour recipe that one of Heather's church friends gave her when you're startled by the appearance of the twins in the kitchen doorway.<br/>
<br/>
"We've been talking about what you said, Mom," Micah tells you. (Or is it Riker? You'd have to peer at him more closely to tell for sure.) "We understand now about what we did that was wrong."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you? Tell me." You return the slicing the meat as you listen.<br/>
<br/>
"Steven doesn't have any friends," Riker says. "Well, not a lot of them, not in P.E. On account of he's—"<br/>
<br/>
"Overweight," Micah bursts in. "We were just trying to make him feel like he was one of the guys, you know, horsing around with him like we horse around with the other guys."<br/>
<br/>
"And when he told you to stop it," you ask, "why didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"We got carried away," Riker resumes. "And we didn't realize he's so sensitive about being, um—"<br/>
<br/>
"Overweight," Micah interrupts again. Even out of the corner of your eye, you can't miss the smirk that twitches at his lips. "If he'd get in shape, though, he'd probably feel a lot better about himself, and, you know, be more like one of the guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Well," you say, "that could be. But—"<br/>
<br/>
"So we're going to talk to him about working out with him," Riker says. "Like Eric and Alec work out with us. We wanna show him that we want to be friends, and that'll be our way of showing it."<br/>
<br/>
You pause in mid-slice. This doesn't sound like the best idea the twins have ever had—it fairly makes the hair on the nape of your neck stand up—but you can't decide if they are clueless about their plan or if they actually know what they're doing and are planning for exactly the kind of awful consequences you can imagine.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you just make sure that it's something that <i>he</i> wants to do," you tell them. "Okay? I mean, how would you like it if— What does Steven like to do? Do you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"He plays the clarinet," says Riker. "He's in the school band." His smirk is now even wider than his brother's.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, how would you like it if Steven told you that he wanted you to play the clarinet, and that he was going to <i>make</i> you play it?"<br/>
<br/>
Micah snickers through his nose. "That'd be awesome," he says. "I'd love to see him try to make us."<br/>
<br/>
Riker nudges him. "We'd try it with him. Because we really do want to be friends with him."<br/>
<br/>
Micah wheels. You have the unmistakable impression that he doesn't want you to see him crack up with laughter.<br/>
<br/>
You decide to ignore it, as whatever mischief they're up to won't last more than another day or two, by which point you will have them converted.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, as long as you understand," you tell them. "How about you invite him over in a day or two. If he's going to be your friend, you'll want to be hospitable."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." Riker's face freezes. Then he smiles. "Sure!"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright. Go get cleaned up. We're—"<br/>
<br/>
But already they are away, and with a thunder of footfalls they fly up the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are seriously on edge when Victor gets home. Supper is completely prepped—it took much less time to prepare than you were planning for—and you are further wrong-footed by having to set the table yourself in order to kill time.<br/>
<br/>
But the worst part, of course, is that neither Alec nor Eric have shown up, and you haven't heard from either of them.<br/>
<br/>
Your mind begins to fill with morbid fantasies. Perhaps Eric was not fully converted last night after having the mask put on him, and he has kidnapped Alec and has been slowly torturing Sydney in order to get the mask off her. Or maybe it's the other way, with Alec (freed of Sydney's control after she switched into Eric's mask) who has rebelled against his master. Perhaps they have both rebelled, perhaps Sydney is trapped and helpless beneath the masks as the native personalities reared up and overthrew her influence, and both the boys have travelled out to Fort Suffolk to tell their father what has happened, to explain to him that the woman that looks like their mother and his wife is actually an imposter plotting to enslave them all and sell them into the service of a demon.<br/>
<br/>
There are so many ways things could have gone wrong. There is so much about this magical stuff that you don't understand, for you are only following recipes in a book.<br/>
<br/>
And Heather Brown knows all about the ways that recipes can go disastrously wrong when you don't understand the principles in back of them.<br/>
<br/>
So you're not real happy when Victor gets home before they do. "Is Eric out with his friends again tonight?" he asks after kissing you hello. "I notice the truck's not here."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know where they are, him or Alec," you tell him, and you don't bother trying to keep the edge out of your voice. "I haven't heard from them all day."<br/>
<br/>
"Have you texted them?"<br/>
<br/>
"No I haven't! It's not my responsibility, Victor, to keep track of them. They're old enough and responsible enough they should know to—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, shh!" He touches your lips. "I'll text them then. I'll—"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't <i>want</i> you to text them! When they get home I want you to take them aside and <i>explain</i> to them that if they're going to be out—and <i>especially</i> if they're going to be <i>late</i>—that they need to keep me informed!"<br/>
<br/>
He pulls you cloase and clasps your butt. "Consider them grounded," he says. "Well, consider Alec grounded. For Eric—"<br/>
<br/>
You shove his hands off your ass. "I want you to <i>talk</i> to them, Victor." You set your mouth in the firmest line you can manage.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm," he says. "Before or after we eat?"<br/>
<br/>
"Before."<br/>
<br/>
He glances over at the stove. "Will it keep that long? Because I'll be giving them a <i>very</i> long and stiff reprimand."<br/>
<br/>
You suck in your lower lip. "Yes, before," you say. "It'll be awkward at the dinner table otherwise."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll go wash up, then. And I'll text them and meet them outside."<br/>
<br/>
Only after he's gone do you reflect that you didn't have to blow up so hard about it, and that Sydney's probably not going to appreciate the scolding she's likely to receive.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's another quarter-hour before the pick-up truck rumbles up in the drive. You're watching out the window as two filthy teenage-boys—Eric and Alec look as though they've been wrestling in a pig sty—come tumbling out with giant grins splashed across their faces. But their expressions falter a little as their father steps forward with his hands on his hips.<br/>
<br/>
"Is it ready yet?" the twins bawl out in unison as they step into the kitchen behind you.<br/>
<br/>
"Go wash up," you order them. "We're eating early, just the three of us. Your dad's busy with your brothers," you add.<br/>
<br/>
They react again in unison: eyebrows raised and mouths split into grins. "Oooo!" they exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"I <i>said,</i> wash up." They scamper off.<br/>
<br/>
There's a sound of running water outside, and of the spray of the hose hitting the house: Victor cleaning up the older boys. Micah and Riker exchange gleeful glances as they settle across the table from you. Everyone is quiet, though, quiet enough to hear the door to Victor's workshop open and close.<br/>
<br/>
Riker sucks on a tooth, stabs a chunk of pork, and elevates it. "Boiled snake eyeball," he surmises as he examines it.<br/>
<br/>
"Just because your dad's not here," you inform him, "doesn't give you license to be gross." You take your own meal very slowly; your gut is twisting.<br/>
<br/>
So you jump a little when the side door opens and Alec—sopping wet—looks in. "Mom," he says, looking very grave. "Dad wants to see you."<br/>
<br/>
"Sit!" you bark at the twins as they bolt up. "Finish your meal. Does your dad need <i>you?</i>" you ask Alec. He shrugs. "Watch them," you order, pointing at the twins. "See they finish and clean up after themselves. I think they're gonna get a talking-to too." You brush past him.<br/>
<br/>
Victor's work shop—a shed where he keeps his tools and a few "projects" to relax over—is in the corner of the tiny back yard, opposite the rear of the garage. The door is closed. Your heart is in the back of your throat as you gingerly pull it open. "Honey?" you call into it. "You—?"<br/>
<br/>
Your query dies when you see your husband propped up in the corner of the shed with his eyes staring blanking from his lolling head.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, Will." Eric smirks at you; like his brother, he's dripping. "Wanna join the Army?" he asks.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231111222
author_id: seuzz
title: Strategery
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You nearly swallow your tongue with surprise. "You just up and <i>ambushed</i> your father in his workshop?" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
Eric Brown gives you a look. "He's not <i>my</i> dad, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I mean! I thought he took you and, uh, Alec straight out here."<br/>
<br/>
"He did."<br/>
<br/>
"But—"<br/>
<br/>
"We were ready for him." He puts a forefinger to his forehead. "You don't know a tenth of the ops these guys are running against each other every day. And this one was cake. Mm!" His eyes light up. "Are we having a dessert tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, we're having Chinese." You stare distractedly down at the rag-like form of Major Victor Brown. There is something ... unappetizing ... about the way the major is slumped on the floor, as though he's a puppet waiting to be inhabited. "Dessert doesn't go with Chinese," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"They have pudding over at the Panda Gar—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't— Look." You pinch the bridge of your nose. "You can add him to your collection, Sydney." <br/>
<br/>
"Really? We're running out of Browns, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"We've still got the twins. Besides, if you turn yourself into him, we'll be able to talk in private without it looking weird."<br/>
<br/>
"It won't look weird after we've got the twerps."<br/>
<br/>
"You can still have him, Sydney."<br/>
<br/>
Eric shrugs and turns to contemplate the major. "Keep dinner warm for me," he says. You nod, and slowly withdraw, eyes still locked on the limp body of the paterfamilias.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Alec is at the table, wolfing down his meal, and the twins are washing their dishes in the kitchen. Alec looks up at you from under his brow; the twins look over with the hang-dog guilt of puppies who are afraid they've done bad.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll finish here," you tell them. "Upstairs and into your p-jays. You're grounded for the night."<br/>
<br/>
They look at each other, and drop their plates with a splash back into the sudsy sink. "And by grounded," you holler after as they scamper off, "I mean you don't come out of your room unless one of you is bleeding! Bleeding!"<br/>
<br/>
Alec gulps down a mouthful. "Not much of a punishment," he observes.<br/>
<br/>
"It's to keep them upstairs and out of sight for when your dad comes back in."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh?" He shovels up another forkful, but pauses with it in mid-air. "Except it's not really going to be dad, is it?"<br/>
<br/>
You catch yourself doing a double-take at him. He is so calm, so unruffled by what he just said, that you momentarily wonder if <i>this</i> is really Sydney, and that Eric was the fake.<br/>
<br/>
Was she really able to convert him so thoroughly after just one day inside his mask?<br/>
<br/>
So it's with genuine curiosity that you ask, "What do <i>you</i> think is going on, honey?"<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a quick look, then shrugs and jams the food in his mouth. "I figure it's above my pay grade, whatever it is," he mumbles through a full mouth—a bit of insolence that the real Alec wouldn't indulge with the woman that is really his mother. "I know it's got something to do with the demon the Templars used to worship, and that you need to do it undercover." He sucks in his upper lip as he swallows. "And that you figure we're the perfect cover for it. But who exactly you are and how you're doing it—"<br/>
<br/>
He breaks off, and his eye travels up and down your body and over your face with undisguised curiosity. "It's some kind of disguise, something to do with masks." He points at you with his fork. "You're wearing something that makes you look like my mom. I know, because I was there when you got at her. But it's also something like possession, isn't it? Because I was possessed for a little while, but now I'm back to being myself. Except I'm also hypnotized or something." A little flush creeps up his throat. "Because this isn't like me, talking this way. Not to mention," he adds darkly, "what we did the other afternoon up in my bedroom."<br/>
<br/>
You feel a flutter at own throat. "So why are you acting this way, if it feels unnatural?" The question drifts in the air, like a vapor.<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs again. "Because it's what I feel like doing, somehow. Also, it's expected of me. I got my orders." He gobbles up the last of his sweet-and-sour and rice. "Eric and I had a long talk out on the fields while we were playing, waiting for the major to get home. Longer than the one we had last night. He explained a lot about what we were doing, how we were doing it, and what else I should be doing." He rises from his chair, plate in his hand. You stand aside to let him pass. "Same as I assume you've got your orders."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric comes inside a few minutes later to get his dinner; you tell him to finish cleaning the kitchen when he is done, then go upstairs to change into your writing wear. You pause outside the twins' door to listen; music is softly playing, but underneath you can hear the murmur of voices. You hope they are only consulting on homework and not plotting something. Eric's confession that Heather only knows a tenth of what her boys are doing to each other has alarmed you.<br/>
<br/>
Your phone is going off as you enter the bedroom: a text from your husband, asking if the coast is clear. <i>Wait for me in the study,</i> you tell him. <br/>
<br/>
"Here, I brung you some things," you tell him when you meet him there ten minutes later. He's sitting on the couch with the tense, nervous air of a man in a doctor's office, and his brow wrinkles anxiously as he looks up at you. That expression alone would be enough to set off alarm bells in his wife and children: Major Victor Brown never looks worried. You quickly kick the study door shut with your heel.<br/>
<br/>
"Clothes for you to change into," you tell him as you drop the folded jeans and sweatshirt into his lap. "And this," you add as you extend a Rubbermaid container filled with the last of the rice and sweet-and-sour, "is your dinner. Chinese takeout."<br/>
<br/>
"When did you get takeout?" he asks as he accepts it and the fork.<br/>
<br/>
"I <i>made</i> it, honey. The twins are upstairs, confined to barracks for the evening, but I figured you didn't want to be out in public more than you needed to be, so I'm bringing it in to you here."<br/>
<br/>
"That's against protocol, isn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>hasn't</i> been against protocol since Alec brought his friend Will over last Saturday?"<br/>
<br/>
Victor only grunts, and starts to eat. You watch. There's a deep shadow over his face, and he is very stiff as he eats. "Is something worrying you, sweetheart?" you finally ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? No, I'm just—" He gives you a quick, anxious look, then sighs. "It's only, this is the first time I've been sitting with you, talking with you, Will, without my, uh, my host's memories."<br/>
<br/>
"Why is that a problem?"<br/>
<br/>
His brow furrows, and he squirms.<br/>
<br/>
"Because I feel like a girl stuck in a guy's body, okay?" he blurts out. "It happened to me with Alec and with Eric. I don't feel comfortable until I've got the personality. Until then I feel like I'm wearing a lot of thick, padded clothes."<br/>
<br/>
"But why's that a problem being with me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because it's someone watching me," he says. "It makes me even more self-conscious, which makes me even more uncomfortable."<br/>
<br/>
"Then you close your eyes, and I'll close mine," you say. Then, before he can react, you shift over and onto his lap, and cover his lips with yours.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You kiss deeply for a long time, pulling at each other's mouths. Then you get off and force him to strip and change into the jeans and sweatshirt. The major has a lean and muscular torso with a mat of black, wiry hair spreading across his chest and a ridge of it down his stomach, and when he's dressed again you can only think of him as an animal that's been loosely draped with the accouterments of civilization.<br/>
<br/>
You make him spend the rest of the evening in the best character he can manage, which means he massages your feet while he reads his book and you write yours. Tossing Heather's chaste caution away, you shove Roman and Rebecca into a downy bed and force them to screw each other in every way you can imagine.<br/>
<br/>
"I've been thinking about what comes next," Victor tells you later that night, after you're in bed and snuggled under the blankets. "After we've converted the twins."<br/>
<br/>
It gives you a funny turn to feel his arms around you, and not just because you're clutching hard onto a dude. <i>This is me and Sydney,</i> you keep thinking. <i>We're in bed together. And we're not just dating, we're not just sleeping together. We're </i>married<i>. And it's like we've been married for twenty-five years and are still madly in love.</i> "Don't count our chickens," you warn him to cover your embarrassment.<br/>
<br/>
He smooches you on the forehead, then scrapes it with his night-time growth of beard. "I don't think we have any worries there. But after. There's six of us in this family. We need four more. Where are we going to find them?" He nuzzles you. "You have any thoughts?"<br/>
<br/>
"Been too busy with Heather's day."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I thought about it yesterday, in Eric's classes. That kid's going to be a master tactician. It was his brain came up with the scheme for getting his dad tonight."<br/>
<br/>
"Which was?"<br/>
<br/>
"Simplicity. Best plans always are. I came home and hid a mask in the workshop. You were out. Then I took Alec out and we played hooky past dinner time. I knew that'd set you off, and you'd send us out to see the major for a whipping."<br/>
<br/>
"You little cuss."<br/>
<br/>
"But for later plans— Well, I guess first we have to divvy up the twins."<br/>
<br/>
Her remark gives you pause. Is it maternal instinct or something else that makes you want to leave the youngest boys out of your plans?</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311112222
author_id: seuzz
title: Gemini Falls
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The next morning, even as the boys are still tiptoeing in the hallway, like elephants trying to do ballet, Victor wakes you rudely, rolls himself atop you, and shoves aside the fabric of your night gown. His cock, hard as a clenched fist, rams itself home without so much as a by-your-leave.<br/>
<br/>
You take that as a sign that Sydney got comfortable with her new body during the night.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Unlike most mornings, on this one you take the meal in the kitchen, your plates on the countertop, standing and picking at your food while raking your gazes over each other. Victor is showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh fatigues, and with his cap pulled low over his eyes and his booted feet planted widely apart, he is the picture of rude, military health and confidence; the tendons in his forearm pop and flex when he reaches out to rub and pull at the side of your neck. "It needed shaking up, this marriage," he murmurs. "This'll be good for all of us."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your nostrils flare. "It wasn't so bad before, was it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was comfortable," he says, and "comfortable" as he says it sounds like "soul-killing." "It was jammies and sweatpants and his-and-her shelves in the medicine cabinet."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know you were so unhappy, sweetheart."<br/>
<br/>
His dark eyes are hard, unwinking, but bright with ... adrenaline? "I wasn't unhappy," he says. "But I've been craving a mission."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, now you've got one." You cup your hand over his as it kneads your neck. He crushes you inside his arms, and you press your torso into his. He smells clean, of unscented soap and mild shampoo, and you bury your nose in his neck to snuffle his scent up.<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" he says, for you mumbled something at him.<br/>
<br/>
"I said, now you've got a mission. And when you get home you'll have four bright, strong, clever boys to help you put it into effect."<br/>
<br/>
You feel him stiffen. "You're going to add the twins this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Planning on it. Almost took them yesterday, but I decided to wait for you to get home. You, Sydney," you clarify. "But then you were late and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Wait for me," he says. "I'll come home early, get Eric and Alec home early too. The three of us can do it."<br/>
<br/>
"I can handle it," you assure him, but he shakes his head.<br/>
<br/>
"Like you told me up in Eric's room, let's not risk screwing anything up, not here at the end. It'll be three to two," he says. "They won't stand a chance against me and their brothers."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, alright, if that's the way you want to do it." You give him a quick squeeze. "Father knows best."<br/>
<br/>
He pulls back. "Who are you and what did you do with the colonel?"<br/>
<br/>
"Smart-aleck." You clap him in the small of the back and push him away. "Go conquer the world, honey."<br/>
<br/>
"Starting with the boys. I'll have Eric email you the plans I worked on yesterday, while I was being him. Oh," he adds. "It's lucky we didn't take the major over the weekend. He had to take a blood test yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
"A blood test? What for?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. He just had orders to have blood taken." A shadow crosses his brow. "The base might be someplace to look for the rest of our Brotherhood. It's a research base, did you know that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't, but Heather sort of did."<br/>
<br/>
He nods. "There might be some stuff out there worth snooping into. Well, we'll talk about it later." He pulls off his cap, runs his hand over his thick buzz-cut, then snaps the cap back into place. "Anyway, lucky it was still the real him when they took the blood."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because what would the lab technicians think when his blood evaporated, like Blake's did? Mm." His gaze crawls over your bosom. "Now that I think about it, we can stop using protection, babe, now that I'm shooting blanks."<br/>
<br/>
"That's nothing to brag about, honey." You nod at the door. "Now, you don't wanna be late, do you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be home early," he reminds you. He gives you one last, long look from inside the doorway, then pulls it shut after him.<br/>
<br/>
You sag back against the refrigerator. It's like he took all your electrical chemistry with him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The day passes in something of a haze. At the gym, your instructor reprimands you a couple of times for not keeping up, and when running errands you twice miss your turnoff and have to take the long way to the post office and to the box store. You even have to return to the grocery store after getting home with supplies for the next couple of days, for you somehow contrived to not look at the back of the shopping list for the rest of the items.<br/>
<br/>
But the worst part comes when you face up to the fact that today is Heather's day to clean up the twins' bedroom. You stand in the hallway for a solid minute, trying to work up the nerve to go in, before crumpling and slinking back downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Are you really going to do this to them?</i> Are you really going to turn them into a couple of magical robots that you can inhabit when it's convenient? When you desire?<br/>
<br/>
<i>They're only twelve years old, for God's sake, they've just started seventh grade.</i> They're younger than your own brother back home in Acheson.<br/>
<br/>
Are you really going to do to them what you did to their brothers, and to their parents, all because your girlfriend wants a house full of innocent faces to hide behind while she (and you) study and practice black magical rites? Do you want the twins—or their duplicates—right there with you—sometimes it will <i>be</i> you, <i>as</i> them!—waving those phallic wands around and summoning demons or whatever?<br/>
<br/>
The mood build on you during the afternoon, so that you almost wish Heather drank. Very nearly you resolve to tell Sydney that you're not going to go through with it, that the rest of the family can stay converted but the twins cannot. You know what she'll say, that it's not safe for you to leave them as themselves. But you'll say—<br/>
<br/>
But you don't know what you'd say.<br/>
<br/>
Ultimately, though, it's the memory of yesterday's incident at school that pulls you over the hump of your doubts and discretions. They really are not so innocent, perhaps. Were Carter and Eric and Alec so inclined to push friends and classmates around when they were that age? None of Heather's memories suggest that they were. (But then, Sydney tells you that Heather doesn't know a tenth of what her boys get up to.) The part of you that is channeling Heather Brown's own thoughts and intuitions (and insecurities) wonders if you—that is, <i>she</i>—has unconsciously been spoiling them.<br/>
<br/>
And it's that thought—Heather's own worries about her twins—that suffocates the last of your lingering doubts. <i>You've been playing Heather too long,</i> you tell yourself. <i>Even if you haven't got her converted, you need to get out of her head before she converts you!</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Ten minutes before the twins come barreling in, you get a text from the major telling you that he's on his way home, and that Eric and Alec will be rendezvousing at the house at about the same time. So when Riker and Micah come scrambling into the kitchen after depositing their school bags upstairs, you let them get their snacks and drinks, but stop them before can scuttle out: "Take your stuff upstairs and wait there in your bedroom," you tell them. "Your dad'll be home in ten, and he wants to talk to you."<br/>
<br/>
They stop and pale and look at each other, and ask you what it's about. "It's about yesterday," you tell them. "Your dad only had enough energy to deal with your brothers. Today it's your turn."<br/>
<br/>
"Are we going to the work shed?" Riker asks. Dread mixes with hope in his countenance. To be taken to the work shed is a sign of serious trouble, but also of serious respect.<br/>
<br/>
"That's up to him. Upstairs, and finish off what you're eating before your dad comes in."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm," they gulp, and tear out of the kitchen. You sag back against a countertop with a beating heart.<br/>
<br/>
Fifteen minutes later, Victor parks in the driveway and comes around through the side door. As you approach him, he stops you with an upraised finger and a quizzical smile. A minute later, the roar of a motor augurs the arrival of Eric and Alec. This time it's the front door that bangs open, and they stride into and through the living room without a word; you flinch a little when you see the masks they are openly carrying in their meaty hands. <br/>
<br/>
They vanish up the stairs with a thundering of footfalls. From above comes the sound of a door banging open; there's a crash and one loud, sharp squawk of surprise.<br/>
<br/>
Then silence.<br/>
<br/>
Victor takes your hand and grips it tightly.<br/>
<br/>
Footsteps again sound on the stairs, this time slower and more softly. Eric appears at their foot. "Gemini has fallen," he smirks.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The time has come to decide how to divide the twins between you. It makes most sense for you to take one and Sydney the other. But maybe you should take both—they're practically identical—so as to balance the family split more evenly.<br/>
<br/>
And yet ... Heather Brown by herself outweighs all the men. Maybe you should let Sydney take both. You'll get your other four outside the Brown family.<br/>
<br/>
You're about to tell Sydney your choice when a wicked thought comes to you. Maybe you shouldn't convert the twins at all. Maybe you should subject them to a body swap—put them in masks of their schoolmates, and their schoolmates into masks of them. That schoolboy they were bullying, maybe.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111122221
author_id: seuzz
title: Bare Moments Between Masks
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Victor nods after you've told him your choice. Still, you have to ask, "Is that alright with you, honey?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're all okay with me," he says, and he puts his hands on your hips. "As long as you're with me, Will. God!" He closes his eyes and draws in a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm so lucky—I'm so <i>fucking lucky</i>—that I found you. Is there anyone else who'd—?"<br/>
<br/>
He finishes that thought, and you answer his question, by trying to suck the tongues out of each other's mouths.<br/>
<br/>
Not even the sound of Alec coughing theatrically behind you can cause you to break off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric and Alec took the trouble to lay the twins out on the bottom-most of the bunk beds that they sleep in, and you and Victor survey the pair with your arms clasped about each other's waist as Alec busily sets about stripping them of their jeans and shirts and underthings.<br/>
<br/>
"Which one do you want?" Victor asks.<br/>
<br/>
"They're basically the same."<br/>
<br/>
"Pff. Twelve years, and you haven't picked up the little differences between them?"<br/>
<br/>
You punch him lightly in the shoulder. Actually, there are some temperamental differences between them; you just mean that they're not great enough to really worry about. They're not like the differences (aside from age) between the sober, officer-in-training Carter; the diffident, too-tough-to-be-bothered-with-shit Eric; and the snoot-cocking, frustrated-middle-child Alec. <br/>
<br/>
But Riker is the slightly dominant of the pair, the one with the brighter eyes and the shiftier grin, and the one who is imitated by his brother more often than he imitates him. Not that Micah meekly follows his twins' lead; Heather has the impression that Micah comes up with more of the plans, and he's a bit more of a show-off. Riker, when he relaxes, strikes more of a cool and superior pose; Micah, more hooded and watchful, looks readier to cause and receive trouble.<br/>
<br/>
"Flip a coin, hon," you tell Victor.<br/>
<br/>
It comes up in a way that will give Riker to Sydney, which somehow seems appropriate to you, and once that is decided you pull Victor back into the bedroom, where he peels off his boots and fatigues and underwear and lays out on the bed. You stretch over him, give him a last kiss, and spread your hand over his face. You pull, and a moment later, it's the slim, golden form of Sydney McGlynn laying there. She's extraordinarily beautiful, and you're struck again at how, if she's lucky to have found you, you're even luckier to have found her. But Heather mutters <i>Succubus</i> in the back of your head. "Oh, hush," you mutter to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
The mask is already treated with the stuff that will turn any wearer but Sydney into a <i>pedisequos,</i> so as soon as the masks come out of the twins, you are ready to bring Victor back into the world. Gingerly you lift the masks from the boys' faces and lay them on the floor. You hesitate when you realize that Micah is the twin nearest the edge of the bed, then reflect that it doesn't matter which boy gets which mask. So you set Victor's mask on Micah's face, and the naked, grown-up body of Victor Brown unfolds next to the slim and hairless body of one of his sons. He opens his eyes and blinks up at you. "What?" he says. "Am I—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shh, hon." You put a finger to your lips. "Try to get up without waking Riker."<br/>
<br/>
He looks over, startled, then carefully slides himself off the bed and to his feet.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on." You take him by the hand and tug him toward the doorway. It gives you a queer thrill to be with this lean, naked man who just a few moments ago was inhabited by the mind and will of your girlfriend, but who is now—you quietly hope—a converted reproduction of the original major.<br/>
<br/>
"Your clothes are in there," you tell him as you point him toward the bedroom doorway. "Get dressed and don't bother the girl." He gives you a worried look, but complies.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the twins' bedroom you study the remaining boy with worry. You have to get Heather's mask off of yourself and onto him, and you've only got a few minutes to do it in. But removing the mask will knock yourself out.<br/>
<br/>
But a movement in the corner of your eye brings you the solution: Alec, looking in from the hallway.<br/>
<br/>
"You know that bag of stuff you used on your brother and your dad?" you whisper to him. He nods and fetches it, laying it on the twins' desk. You draw out the plastic tub containing the sealant that will turn a mask-wearer into one of your slaves, and with a brush you apply it to the inner surface of Micah's mask. The boy himself is still breathing quietly when you bend over him and place it on his face.<br/>
<br/>
It seems to sink into him, and his eyes flutter open. He gives you a frankly bewildered look. "Mom?" he says, and he sits up. He starts when he finds himself naked, and he scrambles back on the bed when he sees Alec looking down at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Shh, honey," you tell him. "Everything's alright."<br/>
<br/>
"But—!" He gulps and jabs an accusing finger at his brother. "Alec! He—!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's alright, Micah. Quiet. Don't talk, just be still."<br/>
<br/>
He shuts his mouth, and glares between you and Alec with a look of bewilderment—and no little fear.<br/>
<br/>
You take a second tub from the box: the one with Sydney's name written on the label. This goop you apply to the inside of Riker's mask. As you work, you glance back to see that the now-dressed major has returned. He stands at ease in the doorway and watches with undisguised interest. "Excuse me, sweetheart," you tell him after you're done, and brush past him into the hallway.<br/>
<br/>
You shut yourself inside the Browns' bedroom, and Sydney stirs as you sit on the bed beside her. She pries her eyes open, and looks up at you. For a moment she frowns with no look of recognition in her eyes; then she gasps and sits up smartly. "Oh, jiminy!" she gasps, and pales.<br/>
<br/>
"Sydney?"<br/>
<br/>
She gapes at you like a landed fish, then with a groan covers her face with her hands. "Will," she says from behind them, in a weak voice. "Oh my God."<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing," she says, and drops her hands. But she is still pale. "I just— It took me a moment to—" She swallows. "For a moment I thought it was, um, really Heather Brown. You scared the shit out of me, sitting there like that!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sorry. Here." You hold out the new mask. "Maybe this'll make you feel better?"<br/>
<br/>
She stares at it with a look of veiled loathing, then carefully takes it from you and gazes down into it, where the name blazes out. "If it's all the same, Will," she says, raising her face but looking away from you, "I'd like to catch my breath first."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure there's nothing wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, really, I'm fine. I felt like this the other two times, after taking off Alec's mask and Eric's." She swallows. "I told you last night I didn't feel comfortable in the major's—" She breaks off. "Where is the major?"<br/>
<br/>
"Outside. I should get back to him. Him and Micah." You furrow your brow at her. "I really need you on your feet, helping."<br/>
<br/>
"I can do that," she says, and sits up.<br/>
<br/>
That's when she notices that she's naked.<br/>
<br/>
That she doesn't instantly shriek and try to cover herself—<br/>
<br/>
That she only looks at you with a mild expression of embarrassment—<br/>
<br/>
Well, that even more than the sex play with Alec and the major, tells you that she completely accepts you as her boyfriend. A warm glow of affection shoots all through you. "Lemme get you a housecoat," you tell her with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Once Sydney is on her feet, the rest goes off easily. She orders Victor and Alec out of the bedroom where Micah still cowers, then closes you and herself and the boy inside the bedroom. She opens the door to the walk-in closet (a necessity in a room shared by two boys) and pushes you inside. There you disrobe and lay on the floor. She bends over you, gives you a wry smile, and places her hand on your brow. You close your eyes, and allow her to rip Heather Brown's face and form from off your frame.<br/>
<br/>
She's still in her own skin and in Heather's housecoat when you wake and put your head out of the closet to find her sitting at the twins' desk, frowning with a distracted expression. You try to be more discreet about flaunting your nakedness than she did, and sit up on your knees with your hands arranged delicately over your lap. "Hey," you grunt when she doesn't move.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," she says, and turns toward you. "You're awake."<br/>
<br/>
"Sort of." You grip your head between your hands and try to twist the top off it so that the headache can fly out. "Jesus, I see what you mean about wanting to catch your breath."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh," she says. "It's like coming up for air after being underwater for a really long time."<br/>
<br/>
It's true, and a strong sense of Heather Brown's mind and personality still lingers inside your brain, like a heavy smog. "So how'd the rest of it go?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Went fine," she says. "I took the mask off Micah and put Heather's onto him."<br/>
<br/>
"You have any problems with her?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I think you did a good job 'converting' her. Though I think she kind of gave me a dirty look. Does she call girls she doesn't like 'hussies'? Because I think that's what she wanted to call me."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe," you grunt.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, I told her to get dressed, then went downstairs with her to give her and everyone else their orders. Well, the men their orders. For her, I think it was just a suggestion that she get started on supper."<br/>
<br/>
You nod.<br/>
<br/>
She nods too, then reaches behind her to pick a mask up off the desk. She extends it to you. The mask of MICAH REUBEN BROWN.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231111222211
author_id: seuzz
title: Brothers in Mischief
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>When next you're aware of anything, it's of a blanketing chill. Vaguely, you feel yourself pawing for covers to pull more tightly over you; then, muzzily, you wonder if it's almost time to get up for the morning run. You make a face and turn over to paw for the cell phone you share with Riker.<br/>
<br/>
That's when you find that you're laying on the carpet in ... your closet? You sit up on an elbow and blink stupidly. You look down, and find yourself naked. You twinge hard at that, and your legs twitch and flail.<br/>
<br/>
Then a rent opens up somewhere in your head, and a whole universe of new memories explodes inside your mind.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Whoa!</i><br/>
<br/>
You bend to put your face between you knees, and cover your head with your arms. The faces of Harrison and Martha Prescott, Caleb Johansson, Sydney McGlynn, Mr. Walberg, Lester Pozniak, and Lisa Yarborough jostle and tumble and merge with those of Victor and Heather Brown, your brothers Carter and Eric and Alec and Riker, Robyn Castle, Coach Cook, Steven Pope and Millie Martinez. Your chest tightens and you breath comes in short spurts as the sloshing, gulping flood of new and old memories, experiences, instincts and desires sorts itself out and settles, still hissing like a turbulent sea, into patterns that are at once intimately familiar and completely novel.<br/>
<br/>
But when you next lift your head, you can do it without trembling. You know who you are again.<br/>
<br/>
Still, your feet and legs are a little unsteady as you stumble upright. Sydney, you find is still unconscious on the lower bunk of the bed, and you twist around to bend over her and peer into her face. <br/>
<br/>
It's your face.<br/>
<br/>
It's the face you live with every day, the one that grins at you and sometimes glares. The face you see in the desk next to you at school, or across a line of scrimmage. The face you see in the mirror as you're getting ready to go, only there it's often doubled, though only one of the doubles follows your movements. It's a face with a small nose and deep-set eyes under a bristling pad of dark hair.<br/>
<br/>
On instinct, you smack and shake the recumbent figure. By the time you realize whose instincts you're following, it's too late to step back and let Sydney wake at her own pace. The boy on the bed winces, then the dark eyes open in a squint, and Riker Simeon Brown wrinkles a puzzled nose at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, brah, wake up," you tell him. "Supper'll be ready in a couple, no way mom's lettin' us eat at the table with our dongles hanging out. Come on, before she sends the Ishmaelites after us." <i>Ishmaelites</i> is the twins' code name for Eric and Alec.<br/>
<br/>
Riker sits up on an elbow. "Will?" he says in a muzzy voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it's me. How ya doon? Riker in there with you?"<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't answer as you pick up the clothes that Alec left strewn all over the floor. Quickly you sort them out into piles of "his and mine," except for the underwear which, being indistinguishable between wearers, you fling with a grimace at the closet. You pull out two fresh pairs and only then turn back to stare at your silent brother.<br/>
<br/>
He's giving you a level, dirty look. "'S'amatter, brah?" you ask him as you jerk the new tidy whities on. <br/>
<br/>
He rubs an eye and mutters only a single word: "Show-off."<br/>
<br/>
You grin as you pull on the jeans. "Aw, someone cheesed off I'm better at this than her?"<br/>
<br/>
His glare deepens. "Do you really have all his ... upstairs stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Come on." You fling the other pair of jeans at him, which he catches in the face. "Don't you wanna get downstairs, review the troops? Oh, man. <i>Fuck,</i>" you add, savoring a word that Micah (and especially Riker) indulge at school but don't even breath aloud at home. "We're gonna be in charge, brah. That'll put a salute in your shorts. The major, the colonel, the Ishmaelites. <i>They're</i> gonna have to salute <i>us.</i>" You drum your still-bare chest with the flats of your hands.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, yeah," Riker grumbles. "I'll be more excited about it tomorrow." He sits up with a grunt. "Will, can you please act just a little less like a twelve year old?"<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a hissing breath. You <i>are</i> twelve years old, again, and you'd forgotten how <i>wired</i> you could be that age. You feel as though you could step from the desk to the door in one long bound.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I'll try," you promise, though you don't feel very sincere. "But ... wow. Oh! Wow!" You dance on the balls of your feet. "You should be loving this as much as I am!"<br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow, Will. Can you give me the rest of, uh, my things?"<br/>
<br/>
You hurl over the other pair of underwear, then on an impulse toss him the red shirt you wore to school, and pull on his blue one. Heather tries to dress the twins in consistent colors—red, cyan, and yellow for Micah; green, purple, and blue for Riker—so that their teachers and other adults can tell them apart at a distance. In practice, the boys switch up colors at least once a week, answering to each other's names and going to each other's classes. Sometimes they do it at home. On this, your first evening as Micah Brown, you should probably stick to his intended wardrobe. But you've feeling an irrepressible desire—probably Micah's—to multiply the impersonations.<br/>
<br/>
As Riker slowly dresses, you slip your bare feet into a pair of soft, broken-in moccasins (the preferred footwear of all the Brown boys) and flatten yourself behind the bedroom door before tugging it open. You peep out. The hallway beyond is empty. "Field grade weather," you whisper at Riker.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"It means the coast is clear."<br/>
<br/>
"Of what?'<br/>
<br/>
"Pee-oh-eye."<br/>
<br/>
<i>"What?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Never mind. Oh hey, that's my shirt you're putting on, and mine is yours. We're going downstairs as each other tonight."<br/>
<br/>
Riker rubs the side of his head. "You're making this more difficult than it has to be, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Just having fun. But seriously, come on."<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't hurry, though, and hunts about for his own moccasins as you twist impatiently on your feet. When he finally does follow, it's at a stately pace, whereas you tumble down the stairs like a bundle of sticks knotted together with rubber bands.<br/>
<br/>
But the downstairs is empty, except for the kitchen, where your mother has her hands deep in a bowl of raw, pink meat. "Hey, what's for supper?" you gasp out. Your heart races as she turns toward you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That was me,</i> you find yourself thinking as you return her stare with a rapt one of your own. <i>Just a little while ago. That was me all day yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. I was her and all that time I was planning and plotting with the person who's now my brother to turn all of my family into </i>things,<i> and now she's one of the things and I'm Micah and I'm one of the things too, except I'm actually someone else and I'm only pretending to be—</i><br/>
<br/>
"Meatloaf, honey," the mom-thing says. (<i>Mom-thing,</i> it comes to you. <i>It's a mom-thing, same as it's a dad-thing and an Eric-thing and an Alec-thing.</i> Your heart gallops in your chest. "You boys want to set the table?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes'm." You bump into the late-arriving Riker, and haul him by the elbow over to the cabinet with the tableware. You give him a hard look as you pull down and shove half-a-dozen plates at him. He makes a face back.<br/>
<br/>
You ought to be making a game of it, you and Riker always make a game of it. There's a pattern to it, the pair of you circling the table with one of you setting out plates and knives and napkins while other sets out spoons and forks and glasses. But Riker's off his game—he's not <i>Riker</i> yet, he's not even a <i>Riker-thing</i> yet—so you stumble over his heels as you jog along behind, setting the table. Then you put out butter and salt and pepper, add ice to the glasses, and make a short recon of the house and grounds to pin the locations of the other members of the family. Alec you spot in the garage, squatting on the concrete and bent over his cell phone; the major is fooling around in his work shed; Eric presumably is in his room over the garage.<br/>
<br/>
In other words, the house seems to have fallen into standard procedures.<br/>
<br/>
This worries you, slightly.<br/>
<br/>
So when your mom sends you and Riker out to round up the rest of the family for supper, you nudge your co-conspirator, and tell everyone you want them in the living room instead.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you all know why you're here and what we're doing, right?" you address them when the whole family is in a circle before you and Riker. You've planted your feet wide and got your hands on your hips, but you can't help feeling a little daunted by all the burly guys staring back down at you. <i>Damn it, but they're big.</i> "All of you, except the colonel"—you nod at your mother—"answer to Riker here." Four pairs of eyes shift to him. "Mom, when I'm not around, you answer to Riker too."<br/>
<br/>
You nudge Sydney, and she says, "Oh. And the rest of you, you answer to, uh, Micah here when I'm not around."<br/>
<br/>
"We're still a family, we're still the Browns, we still need to act like them," you say, "especially at church and at school." Again you nudge Sydney. "That's right," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"But here, at home, when it's just us," you continue, "who do we follow and worship?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a moment of electric silence. The things dart their eyes at each other.<br/>
<br/>
Then Eric speaks: "We worship Baphomet."<br/>
<br/>
"Baphomet," agrees Alec. "Baphomet," your parents say in unison.<br/>
<br/>
Their eyes and their faces are now clear of that moment of doubt and confusion.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right," you tell them. You take Riker's hand and Eric's. The others also join hands until you form a circle. "Do you have a prayer for us?" you ask your twin.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney looks up at the ceiling. "Baphomet, hear us!" she cries. "Your Brotherhood awaits!"<br/>
<br/>
"Amen!" you and the others say. Your mom's exclamation is particularly fervent.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311112222111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Morning Rituals
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>That meeting in the living room went off well, but the rest of the evening is "off." At dinner, Riker won't mimic you, so you try to mimic him, but Sydney doesn't know how to send the little signals that warn you she's about to go for the potatoes or pick up the water glass. And instead of following you, she shoots you dirty little looks. Finally, Eric reprimands you with a growl: "Brah, he doesn't wanna play."<br/>
<br/>
After dinner you troop upstairs to do your homework. Again, the rhythms are off because Sydney can't do Riker's handwriting and so can't do his homework. So the best she can do is solve the problems and write out the answers in a notebook, then pass it along to you to copy, for as in almost everything else, the twins strive for an identical, cramped chicken-scratch. By the time you're ready to tumble into bed, Sydney seems exhausted and peevish, and you have to fight back Micah's native urge to whale on his brother.<br/>
<br/>
"Brah," you shout at the bottom of the bunk above, for as Micah you have to take the lower bunk. "If your head isn't screwed on straight at oh-five-hundred, I'm telling the Ishmaelites you have a fever and can't do the morning run. And then you know what they're going to do?"<br/>
<br/>
Silence.<br/>
<br/>
"'Course you don't! They're gonna make you run at the front and take turns smacking that skinny ass of yours with a switch!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be fine tomorrow, 'brah'!" he retorts from the darkness. "I just have to sleep on it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, don't go thinking the Ishmaelites are going to go easy on your butt. Laurent's gonna be there, and you know how gay Alec is for him. Oh, look who I'm asking. You know <i>exactly</i> how gay—"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut. Up. Will," Riker growls. "I'm trying to get to sleep."<br/>
<br/>
You scramble in the dark for one of the baseballs that the twins have rolling around in the mess of their room, and amuse yourself by bouncing it off the bottom of Riker's bunk, until he hollers that he's going to come down there and feed it to you. You grin.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You just have time to hear the alarm bleating when something crashes to the floor next to you. "Wake up!" a hard voice screams in your ear, and you fly up from sleep with a beating heart. "I'll grab the bathroom, you grab our stuff!" Riker yells as he runs for the door.<br/>
<br/>
Habit takes over, and you scramble across the floor on your knees, searching for loose clothes in the dark. You find it: shorts, underwear, shirts. You throw yourself at the door and charge out, right into the waiting arms of Eric.<br/>
<br/>
"Shh! Slow down," he growls. The yellow glow of the nightlight is the only illumination in the hallway. "The officers are still a'bed." You make a face, and hustle on softer feet to the bathroom door, where you tap out the—you have to think a moment—"Wednesday" code. The door opens just enough for you to squeeze through. Riker already has the shower running. He is as naked as you.<br/>
<br/>
Something is bothering you—like soft wings fluttering against the back of your head—but you don't remember what it is until you and Riker are under the hot shower water. Not until   your twin brother seizes you by the elbows and puts his muzzle to yours. His lips part, and he jabs at your mouth with his tongue.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Brah, what are you doing?</i> you almost exclaim with a gasp.<br/>
<br/>
Then you remember who you are, and who he is.<br/>
<br/>
You open your mouth to take his tongue, and you slurp softly and shyly at each other. And, even though this is your brother, you get a hard-on as he strokes and kisses you under the steamy water.<br/>
<br/>
But you haven't got time to waste. You break off, then after efficiently soaping each other down, you hop out, give yourselves a quick, rough toweling, and shove your still-damp selves into shorts, t-shirts, socks, and running shoes. Riker pauses in front of the mirror long enough to smooth down his glistening buzz cut, then the two of you run out the door and fall down the stairway to the living room. Outside, in the cold, dark October morning, Eric already has the truck motor running, and he guns it threatening as you race out to jump in the cab. Half a minute later, Alec dashes out the front door, pulling it shut behind him.<br/>
<br/>
Eric doesn't wait, but backs out of the drive, and Alec has to sprint to catch the side of the truck and spring up into the bed.<br/>
<br/>
"Are we doing anything with Laurent?" Eric asks as he steers the truck, like a ghost, down streets that are dark and deserted at this ungodly hour.<br/>
<br/>
"Taking him for a run, I thought," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"No. I mean like we did with you little twerps."<br/>
<br/>
"Ishmaelite!"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"We weren't planning on it." Riker, who is pinned in the middle, looks over at you. "We didn't bring any stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"He'd be a keeper," Eric says.<br/>
<br/>
"There's lots of keepers," Riker reminds your brother-thing. "You know lots of keepers." Eric shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll tell you when we figure it out," you say, then settle back in your seat with the cell phone you and Riker share.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric makes one short detour only, swinging into the parking lot of the Lazee-Nites Motel. He slows to only a few miles an hour but he doesn't stop, so the shadowy figure waiting there has to run and leap onto the back bumper, and Eric is roaring out the lot and picking up speed fast even as the hitchhiker is scuttling across the bed to join his friend Alec.<br/>
<br/>
It's five-thirty when you pull into the parking lot in front of the Suffolk Wilderness Ranger Station. Naturally, it is deserted. Eric shuts the motor off and you all pile out to join Alec and his best friend, Laurent Delacroix, who is the captain of the wrestling squad. A short walk takes you to a meadow, where you all stretch out and warm up for the cross-country run. No one talks, but concentrates solely on getting warmed and limber.<br/>
<br/>
Then you start to run.<br/>
<br/>
Dawn is only a gray smear on the horizon, but the trail is wide and smooth for most of the way. It carries you deep into the wilderness, over gently rolling rises and across smooth shoulders. For the first half mile you all take it fairly easy, for you don't want to hit the hard trails until there's more light. But as the limb of the sun peeps over the horizon your quintet quickens its pace as it approaches a fork in the trail. With Eric in the lead, you turn onto the narrower trail that winds up into rougher country.<br/>
<br/>
The ground is soon lost in shadows under the overhanging trees as it runs up a hillside, and there are a couple of spots where it steepens into an incline like a staircase. Soon your legs are burning and your lungs are seared with each breath you take. The air is cold but close under the foliage, and sweat prickles your hair and forehead. Halfway up the hillside, you slow down to nurse the stitch in your side.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Whap!</i> You yip with shock and pain as the switch slices across your buttocks—your shorts are so thin you might as well not be wearing any padding at all—and leap like a fawn, brushing past Riker. A moment later a "Yipe!" from him tells you that he just got a lash, and you put your head down, jogging hard to stay ahead of him. "You little pukes don't catch up to Eric before we hit the summit," Alec barks from the darkness behind you, "and we'll pin you down and take turns whipping you till you bleed."<br/>
<br/>
Three more times you get tapped on the ass, the last time hard enough that you find reserves of stamina you didn't know you had, and burst forward at a pace that at last keeps you out of reach. The sun is fully up when you break cover near the top of the rugged Mt. Suffolk—the highest ground for twenty miles around—and catch sight of Eric's shirt up ahead. A sharp "Quit it!" warns you that Riker and Alec are close behind, and you spring forward to fly up the steep trail to the top. <br/>
<br/>
Your legs and lungs are aflame when you reach the top, and you are gulping down raw oxygen by the lungful. Riker's face is chalky and haggard, and you know that yours is too. You failed to catch Eric—most mornings you don't—but you don't get beaten for your failure. Instead, Alec makes you do twenty push-ups on trembling limbs.<br/>
<br/>
After your company has silently rested, you make the return trip down an alternate trail. The return jaunt is easier on the heart but a lot harder on the legs. At the bottom of the mountain you alternate sprints and walks as you circle the hill the long way about to rejoin the main trail, and then it's back to merely a hard jog to the parking lot. A ration of Gatorade is shared around when you're back at the truck, and you all silently walk off the exhaustion and stretch out some more. Eric has the cab to himself on the drive back into town—it's well past six-thirty—as you and Riker, Alec and Laurent, sprawl in the truck bed to enjoy the clean, cool air. "Good job," Alec tells you.<br/>
<br/>
Eric swings back into the motel parking lot, and Alec and Laurent both spring out as he slows to only five miles an hour before the burly truck guns back out into the street. "It was so much easier," Riker groans as he falls onto his back, "when I was being one of the Ishmaelites."<br/>
<br/>
Ten minutes later, Eric swings into the drop off in front of Proctor Middle School, and you and your brother hop out.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111122221111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Middle School Muddle
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Hey Riker! Micah!"<br/>
<br/>
You're swinging your backpack onto your shoulders as Knox McCarty comes hurtling up. He's a small kid—he can look you in the nose if he tilts his neck—but he more than makes up for it in energy and mischief. His eyes are glinting hard as he skids up to you and your brother. "Your mom grounded you yet?"<br/>
<br/>
"Peh! No!" Riker shoves him.<br/>
<br/>
Knox reacts like you'd expect, charging in to head-butt Riker in the chest. Your brother grunts, and he and Knox grapple. Eventually Knox pushes himself off Riker. "So can you guys come see a movie tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
"Where?"<br/>
<br/>
"Up at the picture show, dumb ass!" His eyes glint. "Me and Luke set it up with Cameron! We're gonna go with their sister, you know, Stacy? She's gonna take us all up to see that CG movie, um—" He snaps his fingers.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Rat Race?</i>" Riker makes a face. "Yeah, we saw that already."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but we're not really gonna see it!" Knox looks like he's about to burst. "She's gonna buy us all tickets and stuff, then her and us and her boyfriend are gonna sneak in to see a devil horror movie instead!"<br/>
<br/>
You and Riker exchange a glance. Knox catches the look that passes between you, and his face craters. "Oh, shit!" he cries. "Your <i>mom's</i> not gonna—! She doesn't hafta <i>find out!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No, that sounds—" you start to say, but Riker finishes the thought. "We can totally swing that," he assures Knox. "If we can get her to— Wait, did you say tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
Knox nods. "It's cheap night at the show."<br/>
<br/>
"Wednesday," Riker muses. "A weekday."<br/>
<br/>
"Alec'll tell her it's cheap night," you say. "We can get him to explain."<br/>
<br/>
"Crap. What if she makes him go with us? I don't wanna see that dumb cartoon again!"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll text you when we find out," you tell Knox. "'Cos if she makes Alec go with us—"<br/>
<br/>
"So tell him what's going on!" Knox cries.<br/>
<br/>
"We don't wanna owe him," Riker says.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you have <i>no idea</i> how he'll make us pay him back!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, try and make it," Knox pleads. "I'm gonna ask Hudson too. We wanna do a big thing! 'Cos, like—" He wriggles with excitement. "Devil horror!" <br/>
<br/>
Then something catches his eye, and his lip curls. You turn to look. From one of the buses is dismounting a chubby kid with close-cropped, curly black hair that matches his thick-framed glasses. He's in a button-up shirt and shorts, and he's got fat pink legs and dimpled knees.<br/>
<br/>
It's Steven Pope. The kid that you—<br/>
<br/>
The kid that <i>Micah and Riker</i> made cry the other day in the changing room after P. E. <br/>
<br/>
Knox pokes you in the stomach. "We should get Steven to go with us," he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
"Pthbt!" Riker says. "No!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, we get him go!" Knox insists. His eyes glint with malice. "And we go into the theater that's showing the cartoon. Then we all <i>sneak out and leave him there!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You and Riker exchange another glance, then bust out laughing. <i>That would be great!</i><br/>
<br/>
Except it would be totally unbelievable if the invite came from you or Knox. "I'll think of something," Knox assures you after you point that out.<br/>
<br/>
You don't doubt he can. Knox is very "cute", with a button nose and a clever eye, and his mom's a hairdresser so he's constantly coming to school with his light-brown hair styled in a variety of fashionable ways. (This week, for instance, it's buzzed short on the sides and back, but long on top and in the front, giving him a button-mushroom look.) But he has one of the nastiest brains in your class.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You and Riker part for first period, with you going to Language Arts while he heads to History, but you reunite in Technology class. But the teacher there, Mr. Ray, makes you and your brother sit on opposite sides of the room. At least you get to sit next to Hudson Perry, another one of the twins' friends. He tells you that he's in for the movie thing tonight, but asks if he can get a ride from you.<br/>
<br/>
After that comes Math and then lunch, which you take in the cafeteria with a huge group of friends: Knox and Hudson; Tai Belton; Luke Hill and his brother, Cameron, who is one year ahead in the eighth grade; and three girls: Millie Martinez, Robyn Castle, and Jane Holcombe. You tell the girls about your plan for the movie, but they're grossed out by the idea of seeing a movie about people who worship a goat-devil, except for Robyn, who though she acts scandalized and repulsed you are sure is actually piqued by the idea. You and Riker, who is just as smitten with Robyn as you are, take turns goading and teasing her into coming along.<br/>
<br/>
"No!" she exclaims. "I'm not going to—! My God!" She covers her face with her hands. She's got stubby little hands with stubby little fingers, but they glisten with clear nail polish, and her thumbnails are decorated with stars. "I don't wanna have <i>nightmares!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"You can come have a sleepover at my place," Knox promises. "I'll keep you from having nightmares!"<br/>
<br/>
Robyn squeals again, and Luke shoves Knox. "That'll <i>give</i> her nightmares!"<br/>
<br/>
Knox throws himself at Luke, knocking his milk across the table. Screams erupt as they tussle, and a couple of trays are knocked to the floor. But all at once the fight is over, and Knox is back in his seat, looking angelic and innocent, as Mrs. Bell, the cafeteria monitor, comes hurrying over to check on the commotion. Everyone pretends that nothing happened, despite the spilled meatloaf under several of the seats, and the gravy dripping off the edge of the table.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After lunch you and Riker part again, he for his own math class while you have History. Steven Pope is in there, and when class ends you trod on his heels all down the hallway toward the gym, where you share P. E. class. The little chickenshit never once turns around to confront you, which is just as well, because you'd just shove him into a locker if he did.<br/>
<br/>
<i>My God,</i> you find yourself thinking. <i>So this is where bullies and assholes come from. They really are born and not made.</i> You find you really do hate what a fat and sad little shit-sack Steven Pope is. He just <i>begs</i> to be hassled.<br/>
<br/>
It's a rainy day, so instead of taking you outside to play football, the coach puts your class in the gym to play dodgeball. On the football field, Coach Yellin makes sure to put you and Riker on opposite teams, but in a dodgeball scenario there are no teams, and you and Riker always surreptitiously cooperate to take out all the other players. You circle around, watching each other's back while hunting down the weaker prey, and taking out anyone who threatens to bean the other; and you take turns driving the stronger opponents into corners where the other can pop around with a hard-rubber ball and nail them. The goal is drive everyone off the floor first before turning it into a brother-on-brother duel to the death.<br/>
<br/>
You usually do pretty well at it, but today Riker gets caught in the ass with a ball flung by Ronan Williams, a psychotic little sixth-grader who shares the class with you. You retaliate by bopping Ronan in the groin with a ball. He takes it badly, charging you with swinging fists and crashing to the floor with you on top. Coach Yellin has to haul him off you while you cuss and puff and yell at him for being a "crazy-ass little bitch." That gets <i>both</i> of you sent to the locker room early to change. Ronan leaves you alone, same as you do him, but there's no missing the fiery glower he keeps shooting you. The kid's going to be Trouble when he's older.<br/>
<br/>
At least you don't get sent to the office again. But it means you have to miss the fun and have to watch from the sidelines when the second round starts. Riker, Knox, and Luke dominate, letting each other be as they eliminate all the other players, until it's just them ... and Steven Pope. He gets ahold of one ball, which he limp-wristedly hurls at Knox, but Knox easily ducks it. The other three, armed, then just circle Steven, grinning at him and bouncing their rubber balls off the floor like basketballs. Steven turns a mix of green and white.<br/>
<br/>
Coach Yellin cuts the game off at that point and sends everyone else in to change, including Steven, but he keeps Knox, Luke, and your brother behind. You can't tell what he says, but he gives them some kind of stern talking-to.<br/>
<br/>
Then he gets called into the locker room by loud yelling. You find out later that some of the other kids tried a repeat of "keep away" with Steven's clothes.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You and Riker share the bus ride with Knox from school, for you only live a few blocks from each other. Knox is in a hyper mood, not only on account of the movie tonight but because the coach's lecture after P. E. has given him the perfect way to "get" Steven. "I'll text him and invite him out to the movie," he tells you. "Tell him I felt awful after P. E. today and I wanna make it up to him. Then—!" He slams his palms together and falls sideways in the bus seat, laughing.<br/>
<br/>
Back home, Riker crooks his finger and leads you up into Eric's room over the garage, where he astonishes you with the sight of four masks, polished and with memory strips attached.<br/>
<br/>
"Remember the memo I sent you when I was being Eric?" he says. "Which plan did you like? Because," he adds as you pull at your lip. "We could totally get started with Knox or Luke tonight, if that's what you want."</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231111222211113
author_id: seuzz
title: Boys Will Be Boys
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Brah!" you exclaim. "When'd you have time to make all these?" You can't believe the riches laid out in front of you: four masks, ready to enslave and convert new allies.<br/>
<br/>
"Brah!" Riker retorts. "I had all the time in the world when I was playing Eric! When I wasn't jacking off to our mom I had, like—"<br/>
<br/>
He stops short with a frown, and gets a furtive look. Carefully, he creeps around the room, peeping under some of the books and papers piled up on the rickety old desk that Eric has shoved into the corner of the room, and peering inside the bookshelf. When you start to ask what he's doing, he motions you to silence. Each step he takes is elaborately careful and silent.<br/>
<br/>
The skin ripples up and down your spine. <i>The room is trapped!</i> you think. Eric caught the twins going through his room a couple of months ago, and after half-suffocating each of them in a mud puddle he warned them that they'd never live to see their thirteenth birthdays if they ever did it again.<br/>
<br/>
<i>He won't catch us,</i> Micah jeered at Riker when he hung back from making another secret search for contraband. But Riker reminded him of Eric's exact words: "If you ever do it again." <i>He won't have to catch us direct,</i> Riker said. <i>He'll know!</i><br/>
<br/>
But why is Sydney creeping around, looking for the trap? She was Eric for a whole day. Surely she remembers where it is!<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Nah, I couldn't remember, not exactly," Riker tells you later as you and he root through Alec's closet. He had finally found the cell phone inside a ratty old teddy bear perched on the corner of the desk. The lens was positioned behind a wormhole in the bear's chest, and a wire led out from the bear's ass to the laptop. The laptop (he explained) in turn was wired to an electrical system attached to the door. The result was a jerry-rigged motion-sensor alarm that would automatically bolt the door shut if it detected an intruder. You and he escaped capture only because Eric had fortuitously shut the laptop, putting the whole system to sleep.<br/>
<br/>
Together you find an old pair of Alec's sneakers, which you take outside to muddy up inside an impromptu puddle. You slip them on, and track them up the outside steps to Eric's room, then slip them off and throw down to Riker so he re-muddy the soles. (He takes great care to cake as much stiff, red clay to their bottoms as possible.) Then he hurls them back up to you, and you track them all over the floor of Eric's room. That done, you open the secret compartment under the loose floorboard, extract the bottle of rye, and carefully pour most of it off into the empty Pepsi bottle you retrieved from the garbage. You replace the depleted bottle, close the floorboard, and toss the Pepsi bottle out the window down to Riker.<br/>
<br/>
Last, you power up the laptop. The deadbolt in the door shoots shut with a hard <i>clack.</i> You stop the recording, then delete the video file, but you leave the laptop open.<br/>
<br/>
Last, you toss back the sheets to Eric's bed, jump up and down on them a couple of times in Alec's muddy shoes, and push open the window just over the bed. You clamber out—planting one last muddy footprint on Eric's pillow—and drop to the ground below. Riker high-fives you, and you collapse, snorting and giggling, against each other.<br/>
<br/>
"What have you boys been up to?" your mother asks in a guarded tone when you and Riker reenter the house.<br/>
<br/>
"No good," Riker replies.<br/>
<br/>
"I hope it's the kind of 'no good' our Lord would approve of," she replies.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Alas, the attempted frame-up goes awry because Eric gets home before Alec. Eric catches you and Riker by the neck and hauls you up to his room, where he sets you to scrubbing his floor and changing the sheets on his bed. And while you're doing that, he makes a special trip to your mud hole, and when you get back to your room you find <i>his</i> footprints on your floor, in your beds, on your desk, and on your walls, so you have to wash them down as well.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, stop it, Will," Sydney says, breaking character when you suggest that she "order" Eric to clean it all up himself. "It's good training. We should have been smarter, and this will teach us to be smarter. And we <i>want</i> to be smarter, brah," he adds, and the shift back into character is subtle but noticeable, "if we're gonna get us some more converts!"<br/>
<br/>
You talked about it while you were setting up the raid on Eric's, and you could tell that Sydney was getting aroused as you talked over the possibilities: she got a noticeable tent in her shorts while ticking down her fingers about which kids at the church you could "convert" to the worship of Baphomet while pretending to hold Bible studies at the Browns'. But you thought that was a little too creepy, though you tried to be diplomatic about rejecting it.<br/>
<br/>
But she was almost as excited about the prospect of taking over another family. There were lots of possibilities at the church, she said, from some of the respectable middle-aged people to some of the young couples. There are also the families of some of your school friends, not only at the middle school, but at the college and at the high school.<br/>
<br/>
That's the move you ultimately pick, because look how well the Browns have worked out for you. But who?<br/>
<br/>
"There's only one thing I really want out of this next stage, Will," Riker says when you're done cleaning up from Eric's rampage. Word came upstairs that dinner would be ready in about fifteen minutes, and you and he are changing into fresh clothes. You're both in your underwear when he surprises you by putting both arms around you and pulling you over to the bed. He throws you onto it and, as he did in the shower this morning, he nuzzles at your mouth with his. "I need one more face for myself," he murmurs as he pecks at you with tiny kisses. "And I want it to be a girl. So that you can—"<br/>
<br/>
He gurgles with excitement, and grabs the front of your underwear. Though it's a shock, you shoot to attention as he rubs you hard through the front.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you're late getting downstairs, and Riker has to bark a sharp word through the locked door at Eric when the latter comes upstairs to bang on it, and then you have to order your mom back downstairs when she comes up to insist that you boys join the family <i>right now.</i> You both peeled off your underwear, and rolled around on the lower bunk bed, squeezing your rock-hard penises between you. You hug each other tight, identical face pressed into identical face, and kiss each other all over your mouths and cheeks and noses.<br/>
<br/>
"Jeepers, I think I could do this forever," Riker says as he squeezes you inside his arms. "You're so <i>hot,</i> brah! I really wish— I want to feel you up inside me. But from the front!"<br/>
<br/>
Your dinners are still sitting on the table, though the rest of the things have been cleared away, by the time you get cleaned up and get downstairs. Riker finds Alec and Eric, and orders them to stand at silent attention while you and he, grinning at each other as you eat in clockwork unison, wolf down the meal. Your mother says nothing when she comes out from cleaning up the kitchen, and only takes the plates while you and your brother compete in a belching contest.<br/>
<br/>
"Have you done your homework yet?" is her only question—and a carefully stated one it is, too—after you and Riker push away from the table. You're about to promise that you'll get started when Riker catches your eye and lifts an eyebrow.<br/>
<br/>
"We're going to a movie with Knox and some friends," you tell her. "So we'll need someone else to do our homework for us.<br/>
<br/>
"I see," she says, after a fractional hesitation. "But won't your teachers—?"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll copy it out when we get back."<br/>
<br/>
"Alright," she says. "If that's the plan."<br/>
<br/>
"And one more thing," you add, then gesture everyone to follow you into the family room, where your father is relaxing on the sofa. He looks up with an expression of mild curiosity. "We're going to add another family to the, uh, organization. It's got to have four people," you continue as you tick off the necessary prerequisites off on your fingers, "all living in one house."<br/>
<br/>
"One of them has to have a pussy," Riker smirks.<br/>
<br/>
"And the rest—"<br/>
<br/>
"Cocks," he finishes for you. His smirk deepens.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It'll be nice to have Sydney back to being a girl,</i> you think. It's unsettling having her talk and act so much like a twelve-year-old boy.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The trip to the movies is uneventful, and even a little boring, because it's <i>Cravenmoor,</i> which you've already seen. Afterward, Riker teases you about being so freaked out after your first viewing of it.<br/>
<br/>
Back home, you find that the others have been busy. Not only have they finished your homework, they have given you four candidate families.<br/>
<br/>
Or quasi-families. Eric suggests four roommates up at the college he knows. Two are a boyfriend-girlfriend who are living together, and the other two are some of his friends. But from the others:<br/>
<br/>
Your mom suggests Dylan and Cheyanne Ritchie, a twenty-something couple from the church with a baby. Your dad suggests Colonel Malcolm Green, a British officer stationed at Fort Suffolk with two twin boys attending the prep school west of town. Alec suggests Gabriel Kern, a wrestling buddy of his who graduated last year, who along with his younger brother lives with his older brother and the latter's wife.<br/>
<br/>
But you have a candidate of your own: the family of Eli Cabot, an eighth-grade soccer player at school whose family is impossibly WASPy.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311112222111135
author_id: seuzz
title: The Golden Child
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You and Riker question the rest of family closely about their suggestions. By the time you're done, you're less than enthusiastic about any of them.<br/>
<br/>
The Ritchies are only two people when you need four. And the baby, Logan, sounds like a complication you'd rather not deal with.<br/>
<br/>
The family at the base leaves you lukewarm as well. There might also be a problem getting the two boys at the boarding school (St. Xavier's, a dozen miles west of town) into Saratoga Falls for your "meetings."<br/>
<br/>
And Eric's and Alec's suggestions aren't even families. Sure, they both have a couple at the center of them, and the Kerns are all related. But neither of them is a "family" the way the Browns are.<br/>
<br/>
"What's the matter with you, brah?" Riker demands after you've gone upstairs to copy out your homework for tomorrow. He sounds irritated. "I thought the Ritchies—"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you want a baby, Sydney?" you bluntly ask him<br/>
<br/>
Riker blanches.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it sounds, uh, interesting—" he stammers.<br/>
<br/>
"How about Elijah Cabot?" you interrupt. "How about him and his mom and his dad?"<br/>
<br/>
Riker's eyes widen.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, wow!" he exclaims, and breaks into a huge grin.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Cabots are "royalty." At least, that's what Riker and Micah's mom says, but she doesn't say it in a good way. "You'd think they were royalty," she would fume on the drive home from the soccer games that Elijah and the twins participated in. "At least <i>they</i> think they're royalty!"<br/>
<br/>
They're certainly a very WASPy family. A golden haze seems to shimmer off them, for they are all three very blonde and tan, and the parents dress in beiges, creams and tweeds. Elijah's mom and dad seem very aloof, too. At the soccer meets they would stand apart, watching from behind sunglasses, and offering only the smallest chitchat to anyone with the nerve to approach them. Elijah didn't keep apart, but he was very intense and concentrated on the game and at practices, and he only relaxed with a handful of other kids, neither of whom were Riker or Micah. Knox, who's as much into soccer as Elijah is, can't stand him, and calls him a stuck-up snot.<br/>
<br/>
But all the girls have a crush on him.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe Sydney does too. Because that night, after you're huddled in bed together, naked, arms about each other and penises erect and touching, she whispers between kisses: "We'll do this when you're Elijah, won't we?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Wednesday. Lunch.</i> You and Sydney talked the idea over only briefly, because you don't need to rehearse when you're Micah and Riker Brown.<br/>
<br/>
You enter the lunchroom late and scan the tables. Knox sees you and shoots up a frantic hand to signal you, but you ignore him as you search out for—<br/>
<br/>
There he is. <br/>
<br/>
Elijah's back is to you as he hunches at a table with his friends. But his wind-tousled hair—butterscotch, shot through with streaks of brown and bright gold—is unmistakable even from behind. Also, he's wearing a green-and-white tracksuit jacket with the name of the Proctor Middle School soccer team—the Falcons—embroidered on the back. <br/>
<br/>
You slap Riker in the arm, then lope over to your target.<br/>
<br/>
Cameron Hill—older brother of your friend Luke Hill—greets you with a jerk his chin as you saunter up. "Hey guys!" Bits of food shoot out of his full mouth.<br/>
<br/>
You drop heavy hands onto Elijah's shoulder, and bounce up and down, like you're going to leapfrog over him. Elijah shrugs you off and looks around with a scowl. He's got doe-like eyes—big and soft and brown—so he doesn't look angry, just pained and annoyed and reproachful.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey man, we're having a party over at our house on Saturday," you tell him. "Barbecue. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. You're coming, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"First I've heard about it," Eljiah mutters, and turns back around.<br/>
<br/>
"So now you heard about it," Riker says. "And you're gonna come." He puts his head around Elijah's shoulder, to grin into face. Elijah pushes him away.<br/>
<br/>
"Who all's coming?" Cameron asks.<br/>
<br/>
"All the guys," you tell him. Riker says, "Like, you're coming." "Luke's coming." "Everyone's coming." You poke Elijah in the side of the neck. "Elijah's coming." He swats your hand away.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, hamburgers!" Cameron tells Elijah. "What else?" he asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Ball games. Football, basketball." "Frisbee." "Squirt guns." "Capture the flag." "War."<br/>
<br/>
"You got room in your backyard for all that?" Tai Belton asks. <br/>
<br/>
"We got the whole neighborhood." "We got the whole street."<br/>
<br/>
"What's going on?" That's Knox, who's hurried up with an anxious expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Talkin' about our party on Saturday." "You're coming." "Everyone's coming." "Elijah's coming." You poke him again.<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say I'm coming!"<br/>
<br/>
"Whole soccer team's coming. Cameron's coming," you tell him. "Luke's coming." "Hamburgers and football, squirt guns." "Knox's coming."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah!"<br/>
<br/>
"I have to think about it," Elijah says. He sounds harried.<br/>
<br/>
"If you don't come to our house," Riker says, "we'll take the party to your house."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey everyone!" you shout at the table. "Big barbecue party at Elijah's house on Saturday!"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright!" Elijah yells.<br/>
<br/>
"Cool. Now ask us what time it starts."<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "What time's it start?"<br/>
<br/>
You jab him between the shoulder blades with a sharp fingernail. "Fun starts when <i>you</i> get there!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It irritates and offends you that Elijah was so reluctant to come over to your place. (Maybe Knox is right and he is a stuck-up snot.) But his attitude seems to have excited Sydney. "That's what make it so hot," she says at dinner that evening, after you and she have explained the weekend plans to the rest of the family. "He doesn't want to be with us. But then he's going to <i>be</i> one of us." Flecks of mashed potatoes show in her mouth—Riker's mouth—as she grins at the table.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know we've got money in the budget for the kind of party you boys are planning," your dad says.<br/>
<br/>
"Baphomet will provide," Riker serenely replies.<br/>
<br/>
"Amen," your mom says. "Boys, break formation," she adds, for without even noticing it, you've fallen to mirroring your brother's actions.<br/>
<br/>
By "Baphomet will provide" (it turns out) Sydney means that she will get the money, in cash, from her obedient stepfather. And sure enough, the next day, Alec brings a fat bundle of twenties home from school (passed on to him via Sydney's doppelganger), and he and Eric and your dad make a store run that evening to buy supplies for the party.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The guest list grows even longer on Friday, when you and Riker have a football game in Fletcher Grove, so that by the time that Saturday dawns you will be expecting almost twenty-five schoolmates. Your mom and dad are looking harried by ten o'clock, even with help from you and your brothers. Texts and calls are coming and going from all directions as you ask friends—and friends of friends—to bring over every spare bit of sports equipment they have so that you'll have enough entertainment for a lot of rambunctious twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys (and a handful of girls). The major (characteristically) is soon grousing that he wishes you'd set the party up at another location.<br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately, the day turns out to be cold and windy and cloudy with intermittent rain. Cameron and Luke Hill—looking sullen—are wearing rain slickers when they are dropped off at your place a little after noon. "Way to check the weather forecast," Cameron glumly observes.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you were gonna get wet anyway," you retort. "Knox is bringing three super-soakers."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean we're gonna have a squirt gun fight in the middle of this?" Luke wails. He points at a window, against which a cold rain is rattling.<br/>
<br/>
"It'll toughen you up," says Eric as he passes through the living room.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah!" Riker shouts. "We all went <i>running</i> in this weather! Before <i>dawn!</i>" That only earns him a fish-eyed glare and a muttered <i>Weirdos!</i> from Cameron.<br/>
<br/>
The mood of the other guests isn't any better when they start arriving, and pretty soon the unspoken consensus develops that the day is better spent indoors, sprawled across a couple of different rooms, on cell phones, playing games. Eric and Alec do the cooking outside, in the drizzle, on the gas grill, and as the patties and wieners come in, two dozen middle schoolers take turns filing through the kitchen to pick up paper plates loaded with burgers and hot dogs and chips and store-bought cupcakes, while spreading out across several rooms. At your mom's suggestion, some old board games are taken down and broken out, but no one seems to have much fun with the ancient copy of Battleship, still less with Candyland.<br/>
<br/>
And in the midst of it all, the only person doesn't seem gloomy and disappointed is Elijah Cabot.<br/>
<br/>
Not that he's turning handsprings, exactly. But he is polite and quietly cheerful, and goes out of his way to help your mom and brothers by carrying and fetching, and complimenting them on the food. After half an hour of this, Riker leans in at you and mutters, "Is he <i>already</i> part of a cult or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"The cult of good guesting," snorts Eric, who was standing within earshot. "Is he the one we're adding?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. How did you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"You keep hovering. He's gonna figure out you twerps are up to something, if he hasn't already."<br/>
<br/>
Riker gives you a panicked look. "What are we gonna do?" he asks. "If everyone was outside, we could lure him back in, and then—"<br/>
<br/>
"Leave it to me," says Eric. "You ready now? You got the stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um—"<br/>
<br/>
"I think it's in Alec's room," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Then I'll ping number three and you twerps follow him out."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you—?"<br/>
<br/>
But Eric is already stalking off toward the living room. <br/>
<br/>
There, as you gape, your burly older brother grabs Elijah and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your recruit-to-be gasps.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111122221111351
author_id: seuzz
title: The Hiding Place
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Twenty pairs of eyes stare with astonishment (and a little fright) as Eric throws Elijah Cabot over his shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen up!" Eric hollers. "This is a game of hide and seek! I'm taking this little pecker off to hide him somewhere, and <i>you</i> little peckers get to try finding him!" <br/>
<br/>
He carries Elijah out. You watch, boggle-eyed, as he goes out the side door. Probably he's taking your recruit-to-be up to his bedroom over the garage.<br/>
<br/>
"What the <i>fudge?</i>" gasps Cameron Hill.<br/>
<br/>
"That's how we play hide and seek around here," you improvise. "You don't pick your hiding place. You get <i>hidden.</i>" You exchange a terrified glance with Riker.<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa!" Nervous grins start flashing around the room. "Where—?"<br/>
<br/>
"We once found Micah stuffed inside a laundry sack with a bunch of my brother's dirty socks," Riker says. "And the sack was in the garbage can." He nudges you. "Remember how we couldn't get the smell out of your t-shirt?"<br/>
<br/>
Shouts of excitement break out, and there's a small rush for the dining room. You and Riker jump in the way to block them.<br/>
<br/>
"You have to give him a chance to hide him!" you yell. "Uh— Alec'll tell you when it's time to start!" you add as your other brother—a smaller but hardly less powerful giant—passes through from the kitchen, loping toward the stairs.<br/>
<br/>
Naturally, you're pounded with questions about how the game is supposed to work. Are there boundaries? Is there a time limit? Are you supposed to hunt in teams or one by one? You and Riker put them off as best you can, and you're happy to leave your twin to field the questions as you follow Alec when he reappears with a grocery sack that clinks as he swings it by his side.<br/>
<br/>
Outside, he runs up the crooked, creaking wooden staircase to the spare room over the garage. You follow, brushing away the drizzling rain, and find Eric is standing guard over the prisoner, who is sitting on the bed. Of Elijah you can only glimpse a shoulder and arm, and one leg, from around your brothers' burly forms.<br/>
<br/>
Then the rest of the boy appears as he falls back onto the bed. His mouth sags, and his soft, brown eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
"Riker needs help downstairs," you tell Eric and Alec with a gulp. You find you can't take your eyes off Elijah. "This stupid hide-and-seek game you invented— No one knows the rules!"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I just getting the job done," Eric snorts. "Clean up is you twerps' job."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, go downstairs and help!"<br/>
<br/>
Alec punches Eric in the side. "Come on, he's saying he wants some alone-time with the new guy."<br/>
<br/>
"I do not!" But your brothers are already swaggering away, smirking at you and at each other. You glower after them, then scurry over to lock the door after them.<br/>
<br/>
Which leaves you alone with the unconscious Elijah Cabot.<br/>
<br/>
He came dressed for the weather in a green-and-white soccer team track suit. Your hands shake as you start to peel it off him, exposing his smooth, tanned limbs and a slim torso that is still a dusty pink from the summer. He is a year older than you, and quite a bit taller. But up close he seems even bigger, with strong legs that have already gained some firm muscle.<br/>
<br/>
You've got him stripped to his tidy whities when there's a gentle rap at the door. You peek out the dirty window. It's Riker, and you unlock the door long enough to open it and haul him inside. "What's going on downstairs?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Eric and Alec are making up the game rules," he says. "And they're not making any sense!"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course they're not! Leave it to the Ishmaelites to—"<br/>
<br/>
But Riker has done a double-take at something behind you, and he pushes you aside to advance on the bed. "Oh, wow," he says as he stares down at the golden-limbed Elijah.<br/>
<br/>
"You think they can keep everyone distracted until—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, wow! That's going to be <i>you,</i> Will!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know. We have to keep—"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you think he has a girlfriend?" Riker slips his arm around your waist.<br/>
<br/>
"What? I don't know! Don't <i>you</i> know, <i>Riker?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"You should start getting ready," he says. "Get undressed." His voice falls to a whisper. "Get on the bed with him."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your hackles going up.<br/>
<br/>
But Sydney's right. You don't have a lot of time, not with classmates getting ready to look for your self-to-be.<br/>
<br/>
So you strip yourself of your own clothes—warm, heavy sweatshirt and sweat pants; socks and dirty sneakers—and clamber onto the bed to lay next to Elijah. Your bare arm touches his as you look up anxiously at Riker.<br/>
<br/>
"This is going to be so cool, Will," he says in a soft voice as he leans over you. He pinches your temples as he closes his hand over your brow. You shut your eyes and hold your breath.<br/>
<br/>
Skin, bone, and everything else seems to tear off you in one swift motion, leaving you in a cold darkness on the other side. You sink into a welcome oblivion.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are chilly when you waken, and a huge shiver runs through you. You raise your head and frown at the world.<br/>
<br/>
You're in a cold bed, wrapped in chilly sheets, in a strange room that smells like unwashed gym clothes. A gust of rain rattles against the grimy window pane just over your head.<br/>
<br/>
You sit up, peer under the covers, and confirm the dreadful fact that your clothes are gone. Panic washes over you. <i>What the dang happened?</i><br/>
<br/>
But as you glance around with a wondering frown, another feeling—a clammy feeling of deja vu—begins to steal over you.<br/>
<br/>
The room looks like the inside of a box car—narrow, with bare wooden walls and a ceiling that's oppressively low. Besides the bed there's only room for a small desk with a laptop, a couple of small bookshelves stuffed carelessly with thick paperbacks, and a weight bench that's draped over with discarded jeans and shirts.<br/>
<br/>
As you turn to look for a door, two memories sweep over you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>This is the room that Micah and Riker's brother carried me up into! I'm at their place, and this is that room over the garage! He put me down and winked at me and took out his phone and said it was a game. Then their other brother came in and—<br/>
<br/>
This Eric's room over the garage. I was just up here with Sydney, and I was laying down on the bed so we could change me out and put me in a mask of Elijah Cabot, and now—</i><br/>
<br/>
Your consciousness swims, briefly, as the two thoughts—and many others that are strangers to each other—merge into one. It leaves you cold and shivery on the other side, but also grimly confident in your sense of self. <i>My name is Will Prescott, but now I'm Elijah Cabot. Aand no one can say I'm not.</i> A faint smirk twists your lips. But it also feels a little uncertain.<br/>
<br/>
Then you lift the sheets to again peep at your own nakedness. Your legs are smooth and tan and strong. There's a tangle of dark hair at the fork and inside it—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Holy crap!</i><br/>
<br/>
Your peter is <i>enormous.</i> Like, even flaccid it's longer and fatter than—you struggle for a comparison—<i>Than the longest and fattest magic marker I've ever seen!</i> you lamely conclude.<br/>
<br/>
It's so big that it's—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Horrible,</i> a voice says in the back of your skull. A hard flinch runs through you.<br/>
<br/>
And that flinch brings you back to the moment, and your sense of where you are.<br/>
<br/>
You scramble from the bed and glance around for your clothes.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've got your shoes on and tied, and are just zipping up the soft green-and-white jacket, when you hear feet running up the outside stairs. A moment later the door bursts open.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh good, you're up and ready!" Riker exclaims. "Eric and Alec—!"<br/>
<br/>
Then he catches himself, and his eyes pop. He looks you up and down. "Oh wow," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh wow!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"What?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
He bites the small smile that curls onto his lips, and shuffles forward. He gives you a twinkly-eyed once over. "Oh wow," he says a third time.<br/>
<br/>
He puts his arms around you, and hugs you tight.<br/>
<br/>
In a flash, you shove him off. "Quit it!" you yell.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" He looks hurt.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want you—!"<br/>
<br/>
You catch yourself with a gasp as Riker gapes back with a wounded expression. You wheel away and hang your head.<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong?" Riker asks. "Will?"<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a quick breath.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That's right. I'm Will. That's Sydney. And she expects me to—</i><br/>
<br/>
Another shudder ripples through you. "Nothing," you murmur. "It's okay. I'm sorry."<br/>
<br/>
"No, what's wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing's wrong!"<br/>
<br/>
"You're not acting like nothing's wrong!"<br/>
<br/>
She's right. Something is wrong. "You were touching me," you murmur. It sounds so lame.<br/>
<br/>
"So?"<br/>
<br/>
You wince. She's right. <i>So?</i><br/>
<br/>
You let out a ragged breath. "You're gonna have to bear with me a little, Sydney. Until I get used to it."<br/>
<br/>
"Used to what? Being touched?" He sounds incredulous.<br/>
<br/>
But he's right. Elijah doesn't like being touched.<br/>
<br/>
Not since his ... <i>things</i> ... came to sudden, violent life a few months ago, and he started waking in the middle of the night with the juiciest, most bed-shaking wet dreams.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231111222211113511
author_id: seuzz
title: Flashback
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'm gonna call my mom to come get me," you tell Riker, and not until after you've spoken does it strike you how thoughtlessly the phrase "my mom" came tumbling out. "It was great, but I'm kind of done with it."<br/>
<br/>
"But the party's just getting going!" Riker protests. "And Eric and Alec, they've come up with this game, it's like a version of the thing—"<br/>
<br/>
"I want to go home," you tell him firmly. You don't want to glower at him, but you can't stop your brow from lowering and your mouth from curving.<br/>
<br/>
"Will!" Riker squeals. "I wanted us to spend the night together!"<br/>
<br/>
You have to fight to keep from shuddering all over, and your heart hops about with fright.<br/>
<br/>
"Some other time," you tell him as you pull out your phone. Your fingers tremble as you tap in your mom's number. "I told you, I have to get used to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Will." Riker lays his hand over your phone, and you look up into his frowning face. "Can you at least tell me—"<br/>
<br/>
Your nerves flare, and you shove him back. His eyes pop in surprise. You're instantly filled with remorse.<br/>
<br/>
But that doesn't change the feeling that is crawling all over you.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll talk to you about it later, Sydney," you tell Riker through gritted teeth. "I'm— Me and Elijah are kind of all mixed up at the moment. I need to settle down, figure out—"<br/>
<br/>
You squirm on your feet, and your face goes hot. <i>This is so embarrassing!</i> "I think I need to sleep on it."<br/>
<br/>
Riker looks very grave. "I could come over with you, to your house. We could get your mom. Then we could—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"No!"</i><br/>
<br/>
Riker whitens. "I was just going to say we could talk!"<br/>
<br/>
"No. That would make it even weirder."<br/>
<br/>
Riker bites his lip. "Will. Is everything okay with ... Elijah?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm fine," you tell him with ten times the assurance you actually feel. "And he's fine. We're <i>all</i> fine." <br/>
<br/>
Then, leveraging all your willpower behind the move, you put your hands on Riker's shoulders, and lean in to kiss him, gently, on the mouth. "We'll do everything you want to do. For serious, Sydney," you promise. "Only, you need to give me more than, you know, five minutes to get used to ... it."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah.</i> Elijah Cabot is going to need a lot more than five minutes to come to grips with <i>it.</i> <br/>
<br/>
And also with the life change of being turned into a skin-suit inhabited by a total stranger!<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Gradually you get your thoughts sorted, after you're back "home" again, upstairs in "your" bedroom, on "your"bed, playing a pro soccer game on "your" cell phone. Through the swirling confusion you are at least able to put a name to the problem, to give an answer to the question that has left Elijah obsessively horror-struck for the last few months.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What is </i>wrong<i> with me?</i><br/>
<br/>
You're still dressed in your soft, warm track suit and socks, and are tucked under the comforter, with a cold rain pattering against the window. (It's cold even inside, for your mom hates central heating, and runs the furnace only in the absolute depths of winter.) This cozy solitude is a huge relief after the hurly-burly at the Browns. That was fun for a little while, but soon your brain began to feel brambly and tangled.<br/>
<br/>
Which is another lobe in the vast, shapeless, blobby fear (<i>What is </i>wrong<i> with me?</i>) that oppresses you. <i>I didn't used to get tired of seeing and playing with my friends!</i><br/>
<br/>
So how come now, ever since—?<br/>
<br/>
Yes, ever since his ... <i>things</i> ... came squirting to life ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Puberty.</i><br/>
<br/>
That's the answer you have for Elijah. It was an answer he himself grasped, but only intellectually, and was helpless to comprehend in all its immensity.<br/>
<br/>
And even for you, the word does nothing to relieve the heavy, sinking horror of the thing, now that it's returned—<br/>
<br/>
—a second visitation—<br/>
<br/>
—to you in a vivid, in an almost <i>vengeful,</i> way.<br/>
<br/>
Like punishment for stealing the mind and body of someone it has just struck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was last year that Elijah started to feel weird, and started to worry. He found himself getting into pointless fights with his friends. Started getting snippy with his mom and dad. Felt restless and distracted, even when he wanted nothing better than to play games on his phone.<br/>
<br/>
But all that was nothing as compared to the night his ... things ... reared up and lunged at him.<br/>
<br/>
There'd been presentiments there, too. Overnight, it seemed like, they'd gotten very big. Ginormous, even. They'd swelled up and bulged out, so that he couldn't sit comfortably with them anymore. His underwear didn't fit comfortably around them, and he found himself (to his own hideous embarrassment) having to tuck and retuck himself inside his own shorts.<br/>
<br/>
Without saying anything, his mom and dad bought him some jockstraps, and showed him how to use them. That made it better. But it also made it worse. It made him feel like a mutant.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What's wrong with me?</i> he started to ask himself.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, he had a general idea about what was happening. He probably knew even more than you did at his age, because his father (unlike yours) sat him down when he was turning twelve to give him a very cold and business-like lecture, and told him where to look online if he wanted to know more.<br/>
<br/>
He didn't, not particularly. But reluctantly, fearfully—but also fascinated—Elijah had ... educated himself.<br/>
<br/>
But knowing what was happening, and dealing with it, were different things. Elijah had blanched when he read about what to expect, and he dreaded it happening. And then when it did—<br/>
<br/>
When his ... things ... exploded like a bomb in the middle of the night—<br/>
<br/>
They were alive—writhing, spasming, erupting—when he woke. And he couldn't make them stop.<br/>
<br/>
It was like they weren't his anymore, like they were a ... a <i>thing</i> ... that had fastened itself to him, gripping him in the crotch and digging into his loins. Fire shot through the nerves and muscles of his thighs and hips and the small of his back, and his peter lunged and bit and spat as it fought through the tangled front of his underwear. Elijah sweated and shook, but he could only softly gasp and cry as the thing spent itself, violently and mindlessly.<br/>
<br/>
But though it was an agony, when it was done he was left limp with a radiant exhaustion.<br/>
<br/>
Afterward, he gingerly unpeeled himself from his soppy underwear and stole into the bathroom to obsessively soap himself off. His underwear he left to soak in the sink, then early the next morning squeezed it dry, shoved it to the bottom of his garbage, and took the sack out to the dumpster.<br/>
<br/>
He's had to throw away several pairs of underwear since.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div> <br/>
You went through an almost identical experience yourself, of course, and you can take some solace in knowing how to deal with it. It's just a matter of getting ahead of it, is all. Clean the pipes on your own schedule, so they don't try to take care of themselves in the middle of the night. But Elijah was still too freaked to think about taking matters into his own hands (so to speak) this way.<br/>
<br/>
So, the actual physiology of the thing won't be a problem. But Elijah's shame and confusion and disgust with his nightly ... struggles ... seems to be also tangled up with other ... things ... that arrived in a rush. <br/>
<br/>
He can't stop thinking about boobs, for instance. Snowy white breasts with a sprinkling of tiny brown freckles on them. Visions of them—firm, creamy mounds dusted with cinnamon—will just pop into his head, almost randomly. Like the other day, when Mrs. Green plotted a curve on the whiteboard in math class (she was graphing a formula with an exponent)— Well, to Elijah the outline of the curve looked just like the silhouette of a drooping breast. <br/>
<br/>
He also can't help noticing how nice the girls have started to smell, and at how beautiful their skin and hair is. And it's like he can't stop <i>hearing</i> the sound of their bodies rustling inside their clothes.<br/>
<br/>
And his overactive organs aren't his only physical challenge. Elijah hit a growth spurt over the summer—he's now one of the tallest kids in his class, and his dad (who is well over six feet tall) has started teasing that he's going to start bumping his head against the tops of doorways. But it's not just in height (or in his shorts) that he's burgeoned. His limbs have gotten bigger. Things that were once the right size now feel oddly small in his hands, and sometimes, when he looks down at his feet, it seems to him that he's sitting on the shoulders of someone who has much longer and bigger legs. He's gotten clumsy, too. It's like the ground is too far away, so that he puts his feet wrong. He bumps into things that should be out of reach. The whole class exploded in laughter a few weeks ago when, as he went up to turn in his vocabulary test, he tumbled over the corner of the teacher's desk, and pulled an empty chair over him as he fell to the floor. <br/>
<br/>
So ...<br/>
<br/>
Your new persona is saddled with a sack of organs as big as a bagpipe, that pulse and wheeze and drone of their own accord, even in the middle of school. He can't stop thinking about girls, and their skin and their hair and their firm but tender breasts, all of it rustling around inside their clothes. And his own body is like a suit of armor he's clanking clumsily around inside. It's all left him with a skin that feels like it's crawling inside and out with bugs.<br/>
<br/>
And somehow you're supposed to explain all this to Sydney, so she'll know why you flinch like a scalded cat when she tries to touch you.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311112222111135111
author_id: seuzz
title: Mother Dearest
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>That evening Sydney texts you, and then she calls you so you can talk directly.<br/>
<br/>
You are perched on the window seat that looks down into the back yard. The Cabots live in a big, two-story house in the south-east part of town, only a block or two from where your real aunt and uncle live, in a neighborhood where the trees are old and the lots spacious. You're curled up on a quilted comforter with one shoulder pressing against the cold glass, in your socks and sweats, when your new mom comes in with some hot cocoa and two small peanut-butter cookies for you. You take them with a smile and a thanks, and suspend your conversation until she's gone and closed the door behind her.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney—who is still playing Riker Brown—wants to know if you really are okay.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm fine," you sigh. (But even alluding to it causes your ... things ... to rustle, like a dog that's heard its name dropped. You squirm to open up a little more room for them.) "I think these things hit me kind of hard, you know. It— Well, it might take me awhile to get, uh, used to this, uh, place."<br/>
<br/>
"There's nothing wrong with Elijah, is there?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I told you. Well, no more than usual."<br/>
<br/>
"What's that mean?"<br/>
<br/>
You bite your tongue. Then you say it. "Okay, how many guys have you pretended to be so far? How many <i>horny</i> guys have you been?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a gasp on the other end, then a giggle. "Is Elijah—?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's going through the usual, okay? And he's kind of freaked out by it. Which means <i>I'm</i> kind of freaked out by it."<br/>
<br/>
Riker laughs. "Haven't <i>you</i> been through puberty yet, Will? Judging by your whiskers—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes! But going through it again is—!" <br/>
<br/>
That was when your mom came in with the cookies.<br/>
<br/>
Which was a relief, because when you mentioned that to Sydney, it jumped her train of thought off the previous tracks. "If I came out there tonight, do you think you could get her for me?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a bad idea. My dad's home, for a start." As earlier, you twitch a little at how easily the phrase <i>my dad</i> came tumbling from your mouth.<br/>
<br/>
"So we could get both of them! At the same time! Then—"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought we wanted to take these things slow."<br/>
<br/>
"But I miss you, sweetie!" Riker coos.<br/>
<br/>
"You've got Micah there. The whole family."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not the same." There's an unmistakable pout in his voice. "If I just wanted a lot of dummies— It's no <i>fun</i> without you here!"<br/>
<br/>
That's sweet of her, and you tell her that you miss her too. "We could try for something tomorrow," you tell her. Then you correct yourself. "No, Monday. My— My dad'll be at work then, you can come over and—"<br/>
<br/>
"What's your dad do? What's your <i>mom</i> do? You guys look like you're <i>rich!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You know what she means, but Elijah is not conscious of being "rich." You report that Mrs. Cabot, as far as you know, is a homemaker, while her husband works for a book company.<br/>
<br/>
"What book company?" Riker's question is sharply put.<br/>
<br/>
"Parsons."<br/>
<br/>
Riker's breath sounds like a hiss. "Oh my God. Will," he says, "that's the company <i>my</i> dad worked for. And Nicholas works for."<br/>
<br/>
You'd forgotten. "Did your dad—? Does Nicholas know, uh, Thomas Cabot?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. I'll have to find out. Oh my God, but this is— I don't know what to think, Will! I'll have to look into this," he continues. "Oh my God! I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Let's say we made plans." The line goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
It takes only a little thought to sort out why Sydney reacted as she did. Her father and her step-father both were members of a Brotherhood, and both of them also worked for—you have to concentrate to pull up the name, for Elijah doesn't pay <i>that</i> close of attention to his dad's work—Parsons Collegiate Media.<br/>
<br/>
Is it possible you've unwittingly infiltrated the household of another member of the established Brotherhood? It seems unlikely.<br/>
<br/>
But when you eat dinner it's with one eye cocked warily on your new father.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What I don't understand," your mother is saying as she vigorously cuts herself off another bite of chicken parmesan, "is how they <i>can't even know</i> what the problem is. It's a simple mechanical system! And it's all laid out in front of them. If you can't <i>see</i> it with your own eyes—"<br/>
<br/>
You haven't been paying attention, so you're not sure exactly what she's rattling on about. Only that it's about a grandfather clock that your Aunt Emily had repaired, after which a new problem with the chimes began. <br/>
<br/>
"A frog's a purely mechanical system too," your father mildly replies. "Nobody's completely figured <i>them</i> out."<br/>
<br/>
"That's different!" your mother snaps. "Nobody <i>designed</i> the frog. You know what I mean!" she adds when your father opens his mouth to reply. "Anyway, it's all laid open. You can see the gears and everything else. So why in God's good name—? <br/>
<br/>
"Elijah!" She interrupts herself with a sharp frown in your direction. "What was that look for?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say anything!" you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't accuse you of saying anything," she archly retorts. "I asked you to explain the expression on your face!"<br/>
<br/>
You have no idea what she's talking about. Unless you accidentally let show the boredom and irritation you feel. She gets so spun up about things these days. And when she does, she gets that brittle Yankee accent like your cousins—her nieces and nephews—have. The r's vanish from the ends of her words, so that "here" becomes "heah" and "there" becomes "they-ah!" It hits your ears like vinegar.<br/>
<br/>
"I was thinking about something else," you mumble. "I wasn't even listening to you."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, really?" she exclaims, and inwardly you wince. "That's a fine excuse to give when—"<br/>
<br/>
"Apologize to your mother," your dad says.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sorry," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmph. Well, you're forgiven. What were you thinking about?"<br/>
<br/>
This is even worse than listening to her go on about that clock. "Just school."<br/>
<br/>
"And how is school?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's the same."<br/>
<br/>
"Deserving of a dirty look, eh? Who is it this time?"<br/>
<br/>
"No one!"<br/>
<br/>
"Elijah," your dad says.<br/>
<br/>
"If you're going to give me the look you meant for them," your mother says with arched eyebrows, "I would like to know who it was deserved it. Was it school, or was it your play date this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't <i>anything!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
She turns to your dad. "You know, I had misgivings letting him go. Dr. Moss was telling me she had those two boys in her office just the other day. For being a couple of Army brats, they don't seem to get much discipline at home."<br/>
<br/>
"What were they in for?"<br/>
<br/>
"She said—"<br/>
<br/>
Then she breaks off to turn back to you. "What in the world is becoming of your underthings?"<br/>
<br/>
A scalding fear flashes over you. "What do you mean?" you ask. You have a vision of her sorting through a pile of your cum-sodden BVDs.<br/>
<br/>
"They're vanishing."<br/>
<br/>
"Vanishing?" Your dad looks between you and her with a frown.<br/>
<br/>
"The last time I put laundry away I counted only half-a-dozen pairs in your dresser."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need more than that anyway," you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"You most certainly do!" your mother exclaims. "And I bought a dozen pairs for you the last time I— Where did the other half of them go?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're probably up at the school. In my gym locker."<br/>
<br/>
"Why aren't you bringing them home?"<br/>
<br/>
"I forget?"<br/>
<br/>
"Bring them home tomorrow. Every pair."<br/>
<br/>
You cringe.<br/>
<br/>
"He's going to lose some anyway, Carolyn," your dad says. "Clothes are always getting lost in gym class."<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I'm wondering." Your mother turns a suspicious frown onto you. "Dr. Moss was telling me that—"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So it's with some trepidation that you approach her later that night, to ask if you can go over to the Browns again tomorrow, after church.<br/>
<br/>
She's in the "studio" in the back of the house, where all the family's "art" projects are executed. It's where the piano and writing desk are, and it's where she is sitting now, vigorously streaking an open sketchbook with a hunk of charcoal.<br/>
<br/>
She's in a much more mellow mood now. "Are the Brown twins going out for soccer again this year?" she asks when you tell her the "play date" is to talk about soccer.<br/>
<br/>
"I think so."<br/>
<br/>
"They were quite good. What did Mr. Cook have to say about them?"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. Why would the soccer coach share his opinion about the other players?<br/>
<br/>
"Well, of course you can go over. What time? Will there be anyone else there? You know," she says, giving you a grave look, "I want you to remember how many people—how many of the other boys on the team—look up to you. You're the best player on the field, you know that?" You nod, though you find the compliment more than a little embarrassing. "You set an example."<br/>
<br/>
"Mm-hm."<br/>
<br/>
"You might set an example for those two. You know what a 'mentor' is, don't you? Well, you might think about acting as a mentor to those two boys. Show them how to comport themselves, on the field <i>and</i> off it. Come here." She gestures you over with a quick flick of her hand.<br/>
<br/>
"You have so many gifts, Elijah, so many talents." She strokes your hair. "Don't let them go to your head. But share them." Her mouth turns prim as she tugs at the seams of your jacket. "Don't let <i>them</i> change <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Too late!</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Whoa,</i> Sydney texts later that night, when you report that tomorrow's play date is a go, and what your mom had to say about it. <i>What kinds of crazy am I going to find inside her head?</i><br/>
<br/>
You have no answer to that. Except, maybe to suggest finding a different family to target.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111122221111351112
author_id: seuzz
title: May We Borrow Your Mother?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Sunday morning dawns cold, but the sun is shining in partly cloudy skies, so it's much nicer than yesterday, though the temperatures promise only to reach the mid-fifties. <br/>
<br/>
For church you dress in soft, cream-colored slacks, a charcoal-gray dress shirt, dark sports jacket, and a striped tie. You add sunglasses while studying yourself in the mirror, and the effect of it all (you have to admit) is good. Very good. You look like a catalog model.<br/>
<br/>
Then, vividly, there comes to you a mental picture of Kristen Humphrey, one of the girls at school who secretly fascinates you. She's grinning at your reflection in the full-length mirror as she steals up behind you ...<br/>
<br/>
She's in a flimsy silk dress with a plunging neckline, the tops of her boobs showing. She comes up behind you, grinning, and the scent of her hair and skin envelopes you like a cloud. She bumps up against you, and ask asks if you want to sit in her pew with her and her family. (They don't go to your church, but the fantasy, like an avalanche, sweeps all reality away as it engulfs you.) She plucks an invisible dust mote off the shoulder of your jacket ...<br/>
<br/>
You have to sink onto the edge of your bed with tightly shut eyes in order to tame your swelling erection. It's a good thing you broke in a sock last night, and used it again this morning. Or else ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Church itself is a bit of a trip. The Cabots go to the same Episcopalian church as the Prescotts, and though you don't remember ever seeing Elijah there, he remembers seeing you, and with a twinge of trepidation you keep alert for your replacement. He shows up, looking shaggy and itchy in an ill-fitting jacket and pants, with a depressed scowl creasing his face. He jumps with he sees you in the church foyer after services, and his eyes bug out, and for awhile it looks like he is going to come over and say something to you. But other parishioners get in the way, cutting you off from eye contact, and you hurry away before he can find you again. You have the very strong impression that recognized you—<i>you,</i> his original, not "Elijah Cabot."<br/>
<br/>
Back home, after a luncheon of roast beef and new potatoes, you change into a more relaxed costume of baggy soccer shorts and heavy sweatshirt. Then, with a soccer ball under your arm, you ride with your mother back to the Browns. She's running an errand, though, and declines to come in even after you ask. So you and Riker have to kill time until she comes back to pick you up. You go in the back yard—still squishy from yesterday's rain—and talk about the Cabots as you kick the ball between you.<br/>
<br/>
They're originally from New England but moved to Saratoga Falls when Thomas Cabot got a job with Parsons. Thomas has no relatives, but through his mother Elijah has grandparents and several aunts and uncles in Connecticut and Vermont. They all seem well off, but Elijah doesn't pay much attention, and you can only say that there's at least two university professors in the family; a banker; an architect; and you <i>think</i>there's a family trust related to something called the Merrimack Companies. "Wow, they <i>are</i> old money," Riker says with a whistle. You shrug. Then, because one thought will lead to another, you volunteer that the Cabots are members of the country club, though you don't remember the last time they went out there as a family.<br/>
<br/>
Then you ask Sydney what she found out about the Baphomet cult and Parsons. <br/>
<br/>
"There's three of them out there," Riker tells you, "but your dad's not one of them. But I got, uh, Sydney McGlynn, to pick me up and take me back to her place." He grins. "I made Nicholas tell me all about them, who they are, where they are, all of it. Oh my God!" He clenches his fists and bounces on the balls of his feet as he gives you their names, but except for Nicholas's, they mean nothing to you. "I guess it'll be something to keep an eye on, when you're— Because your dad, you know, he might know some of those guys. And we could totally spy on them!"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess we can talk about that later," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"Can we get the rest of them today? You know <i>we</i> could take you back home. Me and Micah and Dad and the Ishmaelites. We could <i>blitz</i> your mom and dad!"<br/>
<br/>
That is an idea. "You'd have to fake your way through as my mom, at home," you muse aloud. "Remember how much trouble you have getting the memories? So if we blitzed them—<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I think I figured out a way around that," Riker brags, and he explains his idea. You agree to try it out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're standing out front when your mom pulls into the Browns' driveway, but you don't run around to the passenger side. Instead you slide over to the driver's side window. Your mom rolls it down to regard you from behind amber-framed sunglasses. <br/>
<br/>
She's a fairly young woman (Riker pointed out to you after you told him her age): only thirty-five. She has smooth skin and high cheekbones, and light brown eyebrows that easily arch with puzzlement, and a small mouth that easily puckers with disdain. Now that you get a close look at her, with eyes that have <i>looked at</i> her without <i>seeing</i>, and a mind that now has a stranger's curiosity about her face, you see that she doesn't wear much makeup. Maybe just a trace of powder to take the shine off, and a drab, brown lipstick that almost matches her tan. Her yellow-blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and covered with an olive-green scarf.<br/>
<br/>
"Micah and Riker's mom wants to talk to you," you tell her. "Something about organizing a bake sale for the soccer team?"<br/>
<br/>
From the way her nostrils flare, you expect her to say something cutting. And in a way, she does. "Oh, all right," she sighs, and her Yankee accent hardens. "Just as long as she lets <i>me</i> explain why we don't <i>need</i> a bake sale instead of her explaining why she thinks we <i>do.</i>" <br/>
<br/>
She shuts off the engine, gets out, and you hustle alongside as she marches briskly for the house. You direct her to the side door. She steps inside, pulls off her glasses—<br/>
<br/>
And two small giants—Alec and Eric—seize her by the arms and lift her between them. She squawks, but it's a sound of anger and annoyance, not fear. You hurry after as they hustle her into the living room and throw her onto one of the sofas. Her face is flushed, and her lip curls as the brawny Ishmaelites stand over her.<br/>
<br/>
Riker steps out of a corner and holds something out to you. "I want <i>you</i> to do it," he says.<br/>
<br/>
He's holding out a metal strip, with runes scratched into it. You stare at it, then look up at him. "Me?" you gulp. You feel your eyes widen.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." His voice is a gurgle. "I want— I want to <i>remember</i> what happens next," he says. "I want to remember ... <i>you</i> ..." He trails off, but his eyes are shining.<br/>
<br/>
"Elijah!" your mom snaps. "What in the <i>hell</i> is—"<br/>
<br/>
But her voice fades beneath the roar in your ears as you take the metal strip from Riker. It feels heavy in your hands, and hot.<br/>
<br/>
You turn to your mother.<br/>
<br/>
The lines around her eyes and mouth are standing out fiercely, and her lips are compressed into a bloodless line. Her eyes flash. There's no fear, no confusion and indignation in her face as Eric and Alec lean over her, pinning her to the sofa by her shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
You step in front of her. But it's like someone else was moving your limbs.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry, Mom," you say, and it's like you're repeating words that are coming from outside you. "You'll understand when it's over. I did. I didn't like it at first either. But after you're one of us— After one of us is <i>you</i>—" <br/>
<br/>
"Elijah?" she says. Now fear does show in her face.<br/>
<br/>
"It's because we love you, Mom," you say as you lean over her. "It's because we want to <i>be</i> you."<br/>
<br/>
You push the metal strip onto her brow. The runes glow briefly as you withdraw your hand. Then the strip seems to sink beneath the skin, like a plank of wood slipping under the surface of a muddy pond. Her face slackens, and her eyes go out of focus. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh, wow," Riker says. He puts an arm around your shoulders. <br/>
<br/>
This time, you don't flinch.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you copy Eljah's mom in pieces—first her mind, then her body into a mask—instead of all at once. That was Sydney's idea. She got it last night, she said, after shifting from Riker's body to Eric's.<br/>
<br/>
"I wanted to try something out," Riker said. "I wanted to find out if it would take all night if I got back into a mask that I'd already been inside." He grinned. "I got 'em instantly, like I'd never been out of Eric's mask. And then—" A shadow of embarrassment stole across her eyes. "Well, afterward, maybe 'cos I was thinking with his brain— He's really smart, you know. I mean, he looks like a lunkhead and a bruiser, but he's <i>so smart!</i> Anyway, I thought I got the idea to try doing the thing in stages. See if I could get the memories first with the one thing, then add the mask on top."<br/>
<br/>
She gloats for a moment or two over Carolyn Cabot's prostrate body, then runs upstairs, leaving it to you to finish making the copies. After gathering first the memory strip and then the mask, you go upstairs to the twins' bedroom, where you find Sydney, naked and uncovered, on the bottom bunk. Riker's mask is cupped over her breasts in her nerveless hands.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111111122111111121212231111222211113511121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Mother of All Impersonations
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You snatch up Riker's mask and hurry back downstairs with it. There's no rush to get it onto Elijah's mom—she should still be knocked out for several more minutes—but you are suddenly and hideously embarrassed by the sight that Sydney laid out for you, like a banquet.<br/>
<br/>
Alec and Eric watch with hooded amusement as you lean over Mrs. Cabot to push Riker's mask—already prepped to enslave her—onto her face. Her clothes billow and pucker and collapse as the smaller and slimmer form of Riker Brown appears where she slumped. He raises his head, blinks at you, and looks around.<br/>
<br/>
Then he looks down at himself.<br/>
<br/>
He's in Mrs. Cabot's clothes. A crisp, white linen top with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the stiff collar pulled back; Capri-style blue jeans; and drab, olive-green, high-heeled sandals that match the scarf that's tied over his head.<br/>
<br/>
Riker lifts and examines his hands, flexes his fingers. Then he grabs the top of the blouse, where Mrs. Cabot's boobs had been.<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa!" he exclaims. "We made the switch?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
His face lights up. "And I'm still in her clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you need to get changed."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, c'mon, bro!" he wails.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, come on, whatsyername," Eric jeers. "Can't you see he's about to cream himself?" He and Alec chortle.<br/>
<br/>
Riker staggers onto his feet, wobbling on the sandals and feeling himself all over. "She's under this thing, right?" he says as he pats his chest and his ass. "Like, inside me?"<br/>
<br/>
Before you can answer, there's a thunder of tumbling footfalls, and Micah appears at the foot of the stairs. He gives you a wary double-take, then advances on his Riker with a smile. "Brah," he gloats.<br/>
<br/>
There's a click like a camera shutter, and Eric lowers the cell phone he'd raised. "<i>That's</i> going online," he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
Riker stares. Then he and Micah jump at him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The fight ends with Alec and Eric hiking Riker into the air by his shoulders and knees, and there's a lot of unfeeling brotherly laughter as, with your help and Micah's, you strip Riker of Mrs. Cabot's things.<br/>
<br/>
You take them upstairs and arrange them and the mask and the memory strip next to the still-sleeping Sydney, and your eyes water as you drink in her loveliness. Before you can work yourself into the kind of frenzy that would require a full beating off, though, you stumble back downstairs, to let her don her new persona at her own speed while you retreat into the back yard to kill time.<br/>
<br/>
You're kicking the soccer ball around with Riker and Micah when your name is sharply called. You turn to see your mom standing at the back door. "Are you ready to go?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
<i>See you guys at school,</i> you mouth to the grinning twins, and jog over to meet her. You find your heart is beating wildly.<br/>
<br/>
It's her, your mother exactly, unchanged from when she led you out to the SUV for the drive over. Dressed in that crisp linen top, those short-legged jeans, the sandals, the scarf, and the amber-rimmed sunglasses. Her key ring jangles in her hand. "So did you have fun?" she asks, so stiffly and archly that a fear grips your heart: <i>Is this really Sydney? Or has Carolyn Cabot returned?</i><br/>
<br/>
You gulp and nod.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, let's go. Your father will be wondering what happened to us."<br/>
<br/>
<i>What happened to us.</i> Your heart flips in your chest.<br/>
<br/>
You pass through the house on your way to the car, and Alec gives her a plastic grocery sack that clinks softly. "Tell your mother I said hello," she says. "And that I <i>don't</i> think a bake sale will be necessary."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes ma'am," Alec says. To Eric, who is standing nearby, he raises his eyebrows and mouths the query, <i>Bake sale?</i><br/>
<br/>
Your mom looses a deep, impatient sigh after you're buckled up in the SUV, but she says nothing even after pulling into the street. It's not until you're halfway home that she speaks, and then it's only to ask what you want on your Sunday-night pizza.<br/>
<br/>
By the time she pulls into the driveway, you can't take it any more. "Are you mad at me?"<br/>
<br/>
She turns to give you a very direct look from behind her sunglasses. "Now, why on earth would I be mad at you?"<br/>
<br/>
It's like your heart is sitting on the back of your tongue. "On account of what happened back at Riker and Micah's."<br/>
<br/>
"Darling, you did it perfectly," she says. Her nostrils flare, and she turns to gaze up at the house. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the steering wheel. "I've been reliving it all the way home. <i>We love you, mom,</i>" she murmurs softly to herself. "<i>We want to </i>be<i> you.</i> My God, Elijah." She looks at you sidelong. "That was—"<br/>
<br/>
She seems to catch herself, and her lips part. Slowly she lifts her hand, and strokes the underside of your jaw with a single finger. For a very long minute, you stare unwinkingly back at her.<br/>
<br/>
Then she drops her hand. "We have to remember who we are," she says through frozen lips. "Who we are <i>now.</i>" She holds your eye from behind her sunglasses.<br/>
<br/>
Then with a short, ragged sigh, she breaks away, and gets out of the SUV. You follow more slowly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
She leaves you to your own devices for the rest of the day, and you finally tackle your middle-school homework. It's easy, of course, but tedious. Even Elijah, who is a straight-A student, is bored with it.<br/>
<br/>
Sunday night brings three separate, small pizzas for each of you (yours is pineapple, ham and green peppers) which you eat together in the living room in front of the TV. Your mom and dad are engrossed in a PBS drama, while you split your attention (10 percent/90 percent) between the TV and a "Let's Play" video on your cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
Afterward, as you're polishing off the last of your homework, there's a soft knock at your bedroom door. It opens even as you turn around, and your mother leans with folded arms.<br/>
<br/>
"That was some foul weather we had yesterday," she says. "And you and your friends were playing outside in it."<br/>
<br/>
"Mostly we stayed inside," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"And today," she continues without acknowledging your correction, "you played soccer on the wet grass. That's a recipe for a nasty cold, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
With a hooded expression she glances back down the hallway. Then she leans into the room.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm telling you, my darling boy," she says in a low, clenched voice, "that tomorrow you will not come downstairs but I will come upstairs to check on you. You will be in bed, complaining of a sore throat and fever, and will have to stay home from school."<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes widen. "Okay."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't forget."<br/>
<br/>
"I won't. But— Um, what about Dad?"<br/>
<br/>
"The story is for <i>his</i> benefit."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I mean, when are we going to—?" You wave a hand in front of your face.<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't answer right away, but only stares at you levelly. Then she says, "Tomorrow night, I think, will be early enough." Then, with a last, narrow look at you, she withdraws, closing the door behind you.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. <i>Sydney sure is being mysterious,</i> you reflect.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Such is habit that the next morning you are out of bed and stripping off your pajamas when you remember last night's request. Hurriedly you get back into the PJs and crawl back into bed.<br/>
<br/>
It was a quiet night for you. Saturday night, Sunday morning, and Sunday night again you filled your new jerk-off sock with an eruptive fury that let you weakly wondering if maybe there <i>wasn't</i> something wrong with Elijah; certainly you don't remember the <i>rage</i> with which your cock seems to fill your sock. If it had with a voice instead of cum, it would roar like a T-rex.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you've worked enough of it out of you, though, because this morning, as you wait, your things are curled up quiescently in your underwear. You're doing nothing worse than sitting up in bed, scrolling through Instagram. when your mom lets herself in with another soft knock at the door. "How are we coming along?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't feel good," you tell her. "I think I'm getting a cold or something."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, let's check," she says, and marches in. She feels your forehead and examines your tongue and tonsils, then briskly declares that you will be staying home. "Is your homework for today finished?" she asks. You point to your desk. "I'll drop it off by the school," she says as she gathers it up, "while I'm out running errands. I'll be back by ten. You can have a hot shower after your dad and I are gone," she adds. "But I want you back into bed."<br/>
<br/>
"What's this all about?" you ask in a very low voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want the day off?" she asks as she marches for the door. "Don't you want some quality time with your mother?"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart goes sideways in your chest when you remember some of the "quality time" that Mrs. Brown had with one of her sons.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Her manner is very gentle when she returns at a little after ten. As she requested, you have showered and cleaned up but are back in bed. She sets an open cardboard box atop your dresser, and after telling you to climb out from under the covers she starts unpacking all sorts of bottles and jars. You eye them quizzically: they are medicinal ointments and rubs.<br/>
<br/>
"We can't have you getting sick, Elijah," she says as she helps you out of your pajamas, then out of your underwear. You lay face down on the bed as she sits on the edge. She slaps a cold ointment onto your bare back. "After all the trouble we went through converting you, the <i>last</i> thing the Brotherhood wants is for its most beautiful Brother to come down with the flu."</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221111111212122311112222111135111211
author_id: seuzz
title: Petted and Pampered
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>She starts as a very slow and cold rub-down, with ointments and creams that smell of alcohol and herbs. All across your upper back she rubs, kneading your shoulders and neck and upper arms. "You have such lovely skin, Elijah," she observes. "We're going to have to keep it clean and lovely. It would be a shame if you got any zits."<br/>
<br/>
Slowly she works her way down the valley of your backbone, and you flinch a few times when she hits a ticklish spot. Otherwise you keep very still, with your eyes closed and your limbs limp, as her hands move closer and closer to your butt.<br/>
<br/>
Before she reaches it, though, she leapfrogs it, dropping all the way to your feet. After giving the soles a quick massage, she moves up your calves, squeezing and caressing them. Then it's on to the back of your thighs, which is where she slows down. One at a time, using both hands, she works them up and down, pushing the heels of her hands into your flesh.<br/>
<br/>
"Soccer's been good for you," she observes. "You inherited your father's legs anyway, but all the running— Have you been working out on any weight machines?"<br/>
<br/>
"We don't have any," you remind her.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean at school. But maybe we should get some of our own. There's the spare room at the end of the hall that's going to rot." She lets out a trembling sigh. "You have <i>so much</i> potential, Elijah. And you're already unlocking it. With some concentrated work— And you're likely old enough now, you know. It makes sense. Erm." She lets out a small cough.<br/>
<br/>
You say nothing. <br/>
<br/>
You still say nothing when she lays her open palms on your buttocks.<br/>
<br/>
She holds them there for only a moment. Then she says, crisply, "Turn over, please."<br/>
<br/>
For a fraction of a second you hesitate. Then you flop over.<br/>
<br/>
She is sitting on the edge of the bed, and she holds your eye with a very cool and appraising expression. You return it with an unwavering one of your own. For a count of one ... two ... four ... seven ... no one moves or speaks.<br/>
<br/>
Then with a soft grunt, she rises off the bed to pick up a different bottle off your dresser.<br/>
<br/>
"You haven't been having any, erm, nightly misadventures, have you?" she asks as she settles back in place beside you. She squirts a heap of creamy lotion into the palm of one hand, sets the bottle aside, and rubs her palms together. Her eyes still locked carefully onto your face, she lays her palms onto your smooth chest and begins to rub. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Well, she's the one who brought it up,</i> you think. <i>And it's not like I'm talking to Elijah's real mom.</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, you have been having—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't blink or flinch. "I see. And—?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's where my underwear's been going. Remember, you asked me what was happening to it?"<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes open fractionally. "Oh. I see. Really. You've been—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Rinsing them out and throwing them away."<br/>
<br/>
The tiniest frown appears on her lips. "You could have told me. There's ways to—"<br/>
<br/>
"No I couldn't."<br/>
<br/>
She pauses, then resumes her rubdown of your chest. "No, I suppose you couldn't. Too embarrassing. But now—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm taking care of it. I've started using a sock."<br/>
<br/>
"A sock?" Her brow creases.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't Alec and Eric use a sock?"<br/>
<br/>
"For?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jerking off into."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I'm using. That way it happens when <i>I</i> want it to. Not when ... <i>it</i> wants to go off."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I see." She squirts some more lotion into her hands, then picks up one of your arms and begins vigorously massaging it into the bicep. "Well, as long as you're— Oh, but it doesn't matter now, does it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because the test we ran. With Blake. Remember, we—"<br/>
<br/>
You pull away and turn over, feeling for the spot under the mattress where you shoved the sock last night. When you pull it out, it's as clean and white as when you pulled it from the drawer. She sniffs it, and declares it has no odor.<br/>
<br/>
For some reason, you feel crushed. The thought of the stuff melting like snow, after it erupted with such a volcanic fury, is oddly disheartening.<br/>
<br/>
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. You pay no attention to your mother any more, and she doesn't speak any more either as she massages the front of your thighs. Nor do you speak—you only bore concentrated holes in the ceiling with your gaze—when she grasps your ... <i>things</i> ... and, with a skill that suggests long experience, raises the tower like a rocket gantry and helps you to a quick and powerful lift off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your dad comes looking for you right after he gets home from work, and he finds you sitting up in bed, in your pajamas with a warm robe wrapped around you, sipping a hot cocoa and doing an online Sudoku puzzle on your phone. "How are you doing, kiddo?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
Well, aside from being irritated and annoyed from being bored all day, you're doing fine.<br/>
<br/>
"Fever seems down," he says after feeling your forehead. "Think you'll be a hundred percent by tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
"I hope so."<br/>
<br/>
He glances at your desk. "Your mom pick up your homework from school?" You nod. "Well, if you feel like getting dressed, your mom has a clam chowder that's just about ready to eat." He tousles your hair. "I know, it sucks being sick."<br/>
<br/>
You run your hand over your hair after he's gone, and toss your phone away. If you have to keep on pretending to be sick for the rest of the night, just because Sydney—<br/>
<br/>
The morning rubdown was the climax of the day, but it wasn't the only activity. She got you out of bed and dug out Carolyn Cabot's old cameras and equipment (she went through a "photography" phase a few years ago) to take some portraits of you. She had you change in and out of various costumes. Your church clothes; your soccer uniform; a pair of tight running shorts and a sweat shirt; a track suit; track pants and a muscle shirt; khakis, a polo shirt, and a sweater with the arms tied about your shoulders. She put you in various poses. Leaning insolently in doorways. Lounging on the sofas. Standing behind the desk in your father's study. Sitting behind the wheel of her SUV, in a pair of aviator sunglasses. With a toothpick in your mouth. A book in your  hand. A cell phone held out as you were taking a selfie.<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't explain any of it, and you don't ask. Nor do you complain, though it leaves you feeling like a pampered dog being dressed up by its childless owner.<br/>
<br/>
You're tired of your "sick room," so when your phone dings with a text from your dad—<i>Soup's on!</i>—you throw off the covers, dig a pair of fluffy slippers out of your closet, and head downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
But you're intercepted by your mother, who has a bowl in her hand. "Take it upstairs," she tells you.<br/>
<br/>
"I feel fine. I want to eat—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't argue, just humor me. I'll come get you when I'm ready."<br/>
<br/>
"Ready for what?"<br/>
<br/>
"When I'm ready for you." She pushes the bowl at you, and with a sigh you take it and return to your room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
She shakes her head at you when she comes upstairs to take your empty bowl, and tells you that if you're bored you can get an early start on your homework. You've lost almost all patience—with her, with the situation, and with your pre-algebra—when at last there's a firm knock at the door. "We're ready for you," she declares after sweeping the door open.<br/>
<br/>
You suck on a tooth, then decide against saying anything cutting. <i>Let her have her fun,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
She stands aside as you march past, then with a word directs you away from the stairs and toward the master bedroom. You hesitate in front of it, and raise your hand to knock. "Go right in," your mother says.<br/>
<br/>
You give her a long look, then twist the knob.<br/>
<br/>
Your dad is lying on the bed, on his back. He has been stripped of all his clothes, and he is staring sightlessly at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
Your mom steals up behind you and grips your shoulders with both hands.<br/>
<br/>
"He's ready for you," she hisses in your ear as she tugs the robe off you. "Ready for you to take your father's place in my bed!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake to the pleasant tingle of fingertips pressing into the arch of your instep. You grunt and grin and shift on the bed. Sex is supposed to relieve stress, but a foot massage (you've found) works even better. And it also works you up to a better performance in bed.<br/>
<br/>
You lift your head to peer down over your wispy chest hair at Carolyn, who has both her hands cupped about your left foot as she pushes her thumb into the sole. "I think I fell asleep," you tell her with a smile. "And then you woke me up with—"<br/>
<br/>
There's an odd expression on her face. One you don't like, so you stop with a frown. There's a hard gleam in her eye, and a hungry cast to her mouth. It would be a turn on—my Carolyn, hot to gobble me down—but there's a light behind it that gives you a chill.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ready for you to take your father's place in my bed!</i> The words return to you, like an echo inside your skull.<br/>
<br/>
With a yelp, you come halfway off the bed, then fall back with a haggard sigh.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you okay?" your wife asks in a low, thrilling voice. But there's poison inside it.<br/>
<br/>
You rub your face and pinch your eyes closed. Memories—great blocks of memories; slabs of memories; memorials and cathedrals of memories—slam and lock together into new shapes.<br/>
<br/>
A ripple runs down your spine, concentrates in your lower back, and lifts your hips from the mattress. Your cock—a fat, heavy thing—swells and rises.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112211111112121223111122221111351112111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Man of the House
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>It's like I'm thirteen again!</i> you exult as you press your cock deeper into the velvety tissues of your wife. <i>Or seventeen or—<br/>
<br/>
Oh, fuck!</i> You heave yourself up and peer down at Carolyn as your cock, bursting with a vitality you haven't felt in years, seems to telescope out another inch inside her. <i>Have I ever been this far up inside her?</i> you wonder as you smirk down into her face. <i>She </i>looks<i> like she's in agony. But what is she thinking? That I've never pricked her this deep, that this is one for the record books? Because <i>I</i> think it is! This new blood inside me, this </i>kid<i> inside me—</i><br/>
<br/>
You falter a little, and the telescope slips and retracts just a hair. <i>The kid inside me.<br/>
<br/>
Is that what she's thinking about? Is that who she's fantasizing about? </i>You're ready to take your father's place in my bed.<i> Is it ... </i>Elijah's<i> boner she's feeling inside her? Fantasizing about? Because if it is—<br/>
<br/>
Oh, fuck it. Like it matters.</i> You gather up the banked reserves in your loins, and begin the final push. Carolyn's head sags even as she lifts her hips and drives herself deeper onto your already-prodigious spike, and a thin scream tears from the back of her throat.<br/>
<br/>
It's like the starting pistol for a race. Something cracks inside you, and in a stormy rush—<br/>
<br/>
—one that breaks the levees in your own mind, so that you are carried tumbling along in the catastrophic rush—<br/>
<br/>
—you blow yourself into her in a series of bone-crunching spasms. Your head roars as you try to merge your loins with hers—<i>one flesh, one boner, one geyser of cum; mated forever in pelvic embrace</i>—and as she crushes your hips between her strong legs.<br/>
<br/>
Then you fall onto your elbows, and press your face into the crook of her neck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Afterward, you lay in bed with your arms around each other. The foot of the bed faces a dresser with a mirror, so you can study the reflections of the bare-chested, thirty-something couple with the expensive bed sheets tangled up around their waists. You smile at the man in the mirror, then shift your smile to the woman.<br/>
<br/>
"Why didn't we do this last night?" you ask her.<br/>
<br/>
"You know the answer to that, you goose. It wasn't <i>us</i> last night."<br/>
<br/>
Your smile shades into a leer. "It isn't 'us' now."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes it is," she retorts. "This is <i>us</i> now. Except when"—she kisses your shoulder, and her tone softens—"you want to do it as someone else."<br/>
<br/>
"Who? Elijah?"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't reply right away. "You didn't like it much, when it was as him."<br/>
<br/>
You grunt. "It was weird."<br/>
<br/>
"For him? Or for you?"<br/>
<br/>
You can't resist turning her own words against her. "What's the difference? That was <i>me.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be sophistical." She nestles down under the sheets, and pulls herself closer to you, even as she continues to study her reflection. "You were pretty candid when we talked about his, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"Bed humping? It was still weird."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's not weird for you now." She kisses your shoulder again, then turns on her side to lay with her face on your chest.<br/>
<br/>
You rub her arm, but continue to study your reflection.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Thomas Anderson Cabot.</i> Thirty-eight. You wince slightly at your disordered hair. It is a sandy color, and like the sand on a beach it is starting to erode. Your hairline is cracking and thinning and receding. A tiny bald patch has opened out on your crown.<br/>
<br/>
At least everything from the hairline down is still in decent shape. And Carolyn has assured you that, even bald, you will look distinguished. "Just think of Patrick Stewart," she said.<br/>
<br/>
You are tall—a little over six-foot-two—with long, strong legs and a lean torso with a solid chest. You were a tennis player in high school and college, with dreams of turning pro. But the competition was too stiff, and your junior year you fell back onto academics, getting a degree in English literature. After one or two editorial jobs in New York, you tried becoming a literary agent, and achieved some small success.<br/>
<br/>
But then you met Carolyn Lowell. She came from an old and distinguished Connecticut family with strangling branches coiled around and through the establishment, like ivy. She had written a novel. You circulated it without success. But by the time the last rejections came in, neither of you cared. You were happily humping each other, even after she became pregnant.<br/>
<br/>
It was through her that you got a job first at a printing company owned by one of her relations, and then via him at Parsons Collegiate Media, where you are now a senior editor overseeing a series of high school history textbooks. It pays enough that you can afford the mortgage on this house, the payments on two luxury SUVs, and a food budget that easily encompasses expensive imported cheeses and wines. The furniture and clothes, though, are paid by Carolyn from her family allowance—three-hundred thousand a year—a large chunk of which goes directly into a savings and investment portfolio for Elijah.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm ready to do it again," Carolyn groans.<br/>
<br/>
You mull the request, then slide out from under her and turn over atop her. The climax isn't as explosive this time. But with fifteen years of experience with this woman, you don't have to hammer her to the mattress in order to reduce her, weeping, to a puddle beneath you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I'll be playing racquetball with Terry McCann after work," you tell Carolyn as you stride into the kitchen the next morning. You are dressed in a crisp white shirt with an expensive, powder-blue tie cinched up neatly to your collar. Your pants are pressed and your shoes buffed to a high gloss. Besides your briefcase—containing the latest chapter in a new junior-level American history—you are carrying your sports bag. You set all this on the bar that separates the kitchen from the dining room, then lean across it to smooch her on the lips. "We'll probably get drinks and a bite to eat, so don't worry about my dinner."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want to spend time with me?" she pouts.<br/>
<br/>
"You know I do." You caress the side of her head. "But I've got responsibilities."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't <i>have</i> to have responsibilities," she retorts, and glances past you at the breakfast table, where Elijah is munching on eggs and toast while scrolling through his phone. "You could change into someone else."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd still have to go to school. Isn't that right, kiddo? Elijah!" you call when the kid, enraptured by his phone, ignores you.<br/>
<br/>
He starts, and looks up guiltily. "You ready for the day?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess so," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Stand up and let me look at you."<br/>
<br/>
He lumbers obediently to his feet. He's dressed in faded blue jeans, new white sneakers, and an off-white pullover sweater with a green stripe across the chest. With a dog-like patience he lets you push a few stray locks into place. He never got in the habit of brushing his hair after getting out of the shower. But it probably looks better this way.<br/>
<br/>
"Finish your breakfast and get on your way," you tell him, and clap him on the shoulder. Then you turn back to your wife. "What are your plans for the day?"<br/>
<br/>
"I suppose I could keep the home hearth burning, if we're going to be boring and common," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you take Elijah over to the Browns after school? Start giving him, you know, whatever training we're going to need."<br/>
<br/>
"It would be better if it was <i>you</i> I was taking over there, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, get him introduced anyway. Tomorrow night we'll do something with them."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, I have—" You break off as she gives you a narrow look. "We need a tenth, Sydney," you remind her. "At least, I thought we did. Between us three and the Browns, we're only nine."<br/>
<br/>
"Terry McCann." Carolyn's eyes go distant. "Is he the one with the curly black hair?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. The one you were flirting with at the August retreat."<br/>
<br/>
"Mm. He's not married, is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought that's why you were flirting with him."<br/>
<br/>
"No, that's why <i>he</i> was flirting with me."<br/>
<br/>
You hold each other's eyes, and slow grins break out across your assumed faces. Terry McCann and his wandering wiener were the cause of a humdinger of a fight between Thomas and Carolyn.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a provocative idea," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, think about it. I have to finish getting ready."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that why you're having drinks with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, there's other business we have to talk about. But I can set it up so he has ... other business ... with us."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a busy day, but tedious, full of meetings and phone calls that interrupt the task of editing Malcolm Unger's chapter on Reconstruction. <i>I'm definitely switching places with Elijah tomorrow morning,</i> you think. At least he's got P. E. and friends to hang out with.<br/>
<br/>
You think you see Carolyn in the hallway at one point that morning, but dismiss it as wishful thinking. But then, at a little after lunch, she sweeps into your office. "Knock knock!" she calls.<br/>
<br/>
"Who's there?"<br/>
<br/>
She ignores the set-up. "I've got some extra candidates for you to think about besides Terry," she says after shutting your door and dropping with a satisfied sigh into the chair opposite your desk. "One's an assistant coach back at the high school. Early twenties, good looking, single. Friendly with the kids. The other's a French Lit professor up at the university, supposed to be absolutely to <i>die</i> for."<br/>
<br/>
"We've got a whole townful of random people we could pick."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if you're going to be like that!" She starts to get up.<br/>
<br/>
Then she catches herself. "Or we could pick up one of our <i>rivals</i> who works here with you. Spy them out directly with an infiltrator."<br/>
<br/>
"Nicholas?"<br/>
<br/>
She pauses. "Well, I hadn't thought of him. And we've got control of him anyway." Her eye glitters. "But you know, through him, we could catch the top guy. <i>You</i> could be the Sovereign Vicegerent!"</span></div></div>


