# chapters

author_id: seuzz
title: Rites of Obedience, Part 2
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're pretty certain you know what's waiting for Kirkham over at Andrea Varnsworth's place: ritual humiliation of the sort that they bragged about practicing on Kevin Winkler. You don't need to see that.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, you've got stuff you need to do. You need to make a couple of more masks before tomorrow afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
Right now, though, you've got to finish up the latest switch. Kevin Hall is naked, and he's looking more than a little freaked out at the silent company he's keeping.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, I don't need you guys anymore," you announce to the crowd still huddled around the unconscious Douglas Canfield. "Mendoza and Hall, you stay. The rest of you, out. But keep your phones charged 'cos I might need you tomorrow." The acknowledgements are silent, and a small crowd turns its back on you and shuffles out.<br/>
<br/>
If anything, Hall now looks even more freaked out, and he keeps licking his lips and looking over at the Mendozabot. "Don't worry about him," you say. "In fact, don't worry about anything, and don't say anything. Both of you just lay down on the floor." The Mendozabot instantly complies, but Hall is slower to stretch out. You can tell he desperately wants to say something, but there's nothing intelligent he can offer, so you move out of his eye line and sit next to Canfield.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus.</i> It sure doesn't seem like it takes this long for a mask to copy someone when you're not in a hurry for it to get done. You check your phone, and find that only four minutes have gone by. You go onto the internet to waste some time while waiting.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, the mask appears on Canfield's face, and you quickly seal it up with some of the regular old paste. You crouch next to Hall. "I'm gonna pull Hall's face off of you," you tell him. "It's gonna knock you out, and when you wake up you're gonna be Dougie Canfield. People call him 'Dougie', don't they?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. I don't call him anything."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he looks like a 'Dougie' kind of a douche. Get ready. Just close your eyes." He shuts them and you lay your fingers across his brow. It's like pulling a thick scab away, and then there's George Mendoza lolling on the floor. You drop Canfield's mask onto him, and when that great honker materializes you grab it and pinch it closed.<br/>
<br/>
He flies up, gasping and batting feebly at you. "Quit that," you snap at him. "Get up and get dressed. We have to get out of here."<br/>
<br/>
But he doesn't move, not instantly. "Oh, fuck," he gasps, and rubs his face hard. "Jesus." He curls up.<br/>
<br/>
"I said move it!"<br/>
<br/>
"I heard you! But fuck!" He groans and coughs and sputters. "I feel like -- Gah! Like shit!"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll feel better when you're dressed and moving. I can't do anything else until you're prepped."<br/>
<br/>
He grabs at some striped boxers. "Prepped for what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Prepped for your new life, what the fuck do you think I mean? You got any of his memories yet?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus! No," he adds after a frown.<br/>
<br/>
"Well come on, get up, get the blood going, see if that starts stirring them up."<br/>
<br/>
He gets shakily to his feet. Canfield is lanky naked, and the long shorts and long sweatshirt only accentuate his lankiness. But it doesn't take Mendoza long to get into the clothes, and less than a minute after you prodded him awake, the 2.0 version of Douglas Canfield is ready to go into circulation.<br/>
<br/>
Except he has no idea where he circulates.<br/>
<br/>
"What the fuck am I supposed to do until I remember where this dipshit lives?" he whines while plucking at his shirt.<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, check your driver's  license if you can't remember. If you don't want to face the parents, go to the library. Text 'em and tell 'em you're studying. I bet this asshole is all about studying. He probably jacks off to his calculus homework."<br/>
<br/>
"It'd be nice if he had a girlfriend," he says grumpily. "At least I got laid when I was being Hall."<br/>
<br/>
"Who with?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do I have to tell you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, on second thought I'd pay you <i>not</i> to tell me."<br/>
<br/>
With the ice broken, he apparently finds it easier to ask those questions that had been bothering him earlier. "So I guess you showed this stuff to Josh Call and them."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but don't go bothering them with it. They won't have anything to say to you, and you don't got any business with them. I got a special thing going there."<br/>
<br/>
"What kind of thing? They seemed -- " He trails off.<br/>
<br/>
"They seemed normal to me," you tell him boldly. "You know, not talkative."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh," he says, not looking convinced. "What about, uh, that guy?" He flicks a finger at Mendoza, who is staring at the ceiling with a patient, bored look.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to worry about him either."<br/>
<br/>
"But isn't that -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I said, you don't have to worry about it. Don't go bothering George Mendoza or Kevin Hall. Especially Hall. That's gonna be the real asshole after this afternoon, and he's gonna be plenty confused and we don't want to give him any ideas about what happened to him."<br/>
<br/>
His face tightens further. "How much is he going to remember?"<br/>
<br/>
"Enough. Not enough to get us into any trouble, but enough that you don't want to give him anything to chew on. Now get out of here. Text me Wednesday. I'll be busy tomorrow with Evans. Gonna put him someplace new as well."<br/>
<br/>
"Where?"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll find out. And you'll like it." You clap on the shoulder that is half friendly and half "get the fuck out of here like I've been telling you."<br/>
<br/>
After he's gone you finish up with the other two. You peel the Mendoza mask off Hall and place it on Canfield; the 'bot instantly wakes, and you tell it to get dressed. After it's done, you and it sneak out the portable so that Kevin Hall can wake up, back in his old body, by himself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's four-thirty by now, and when you swing by Panda Garden for your usual you get it to go, telling your aunt that you've got some errands to run before heading off to work. "You not eat while driving," she cautions you, and you assure her you won't. And you don't except for the finger food that can be sucked down with one hand while steering the Jeep with the other.<br/>
<br/>
Your "errands" consist in getting as much homework done at the elementary school as you can before splitting into yourself and the Chenbot. You concentrate on getting the hard stuff -- the stuff that needs Chen's brain -- done first, and you get most all of it done before deciding it's time to make the split.<br/>
<br/>
Before doing that, though, you call Seth Javits's number. "Yo, how busy are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Getting ready to eat."<br/>
<br/>
"Any chance I could hook up with you at the school. The club house, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"Hook up, you say? Doing what exactly?" he sniggers.<br/>
<br/>
"Keeping me company. You're not eating with Chelsea, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but I was thinking of going over to her house afterward."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. But think of me, will you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to think of your greasy face while going down on my girlfriend."<br/>
<br/>
"I meant -- " But the line goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're through with the homework and halfway through some runework for a brain band when you hear a car outside. Too late you douse the lights and sit in the dark with a sick stomach and a hammering heart as you hear a car door open and close. A moment later the basement door opens with a creak. "Will?" a voice calls. "Uh, Chen?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Christ.</i> "Jesus, Johansson, why didn't you tell me you were coming?" You put on the light again and try to get back the five years of life he scared out of you.<br/>
<br/>
"I thought I did," he says as he comes down the stairs. "I called you and I got you and -- Why'd take the mask off?"<br/>
<br/>
"I put it on the Chenbot and sent it in to work for me. Oh fuck, you talked to <i>it</i>, didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess." His furrowed brow relaxes. "Anyway, you -- I mean, <i>it</i> -- said I was welcome to do whatever the fuck I wanted to do." He rolls his eyes. "It sounded just like you've been talking recently, so I assumed it was you."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh." Then you add a "What?" as you see the gleeful grin spreading on Seth Javits's horsey face.<br/>
<br/>
"You're nude," he says. "You're fucking little naked jaybird, and I could haul you outside and -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Caleb, don't you fucking dare!"<br/>
<br/>
He hoots. "Oh, listen to you. Little Will Prescott! Oo! <i>Don't you fucking dare, don't you fucking dare!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean it! Once I'm back in that mask -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just busting your balls, man." He hops up on a desk. "It's easier to stay in character these days than to fall out of it." He shudders all over, and flinches. "Christ," he says in a low voice. "I guess you probably heard what I did to Tilley the other day."<br/>
<br/>
"No. What?"<br/>
<br/>
He shudders again, even more elaborately. "Fuck. I can't even look at him anymore without seeing what Javits sees, and that makes it -- Yugghh! I feel awful if I do anything to him and it's like a horrible, unscratched itch if I don't."<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong with Tilley? What's Javits's problem with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think you asked me that before, and I still don't know how to describe it. It's just his overall 'Tilleyness'. He needs to have it scrubbed off him, but he's like an onion, he's Tilley all the way through, and if I really went to work on him there'd be nothing left." He shudders again. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about it. What are you doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Making a mask for my new identity." Actually, it's to use on Kelsey Blankenship tomorrow, but you're not going to tell him that.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah? Who'd you pick?"</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: A Delayed Demolition of Most of Your Plans
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Justin Roth. You know him?"<br/>
<br/>
You look up when Caleb doesn't answer. He's frowning, with a distant look in his eye. "Vaguely," he says after a moment. "He's always wearing, like, tie-dyed t-shirts?"<br/>
<br/>
"That doesn't pick him out, and I don't think he's always wearing them."<br/>
<br/>
"But he's a hard-core pothead, right? That's the picture I'm getting." Caleb laughs. "Jesus, Will, you're planning to become your own best customer?"<br/>
<br/>
"He doesn't look weird hanging out with Chen," you retort. "But he's not always hanging around with him. I'm picking him because, well -- " You can't give Caleb your real reason, which is that he'll help you cement down the party scene at Andrea's house and the Warehouse. "He's just really laid back and no one gives him shit, and he can hang out with Chen's crowd without, actually, being part of that crowd." You shrug lamely.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. Well, whatever. Would it look funny if he hung out with me?" Caleb stretches in a way that suggests he's trying to flex without being obvious about it.<br/>
<br/>
"We could try it and see. I don't know when I can get ahold of him, but I'll let you know when I do."<br/>
<br/>
"Do that, and do it in a hurry. We got the real Chen out of our lives, I'd like to shake the fake one."<br/>
<br/>
You say nothing, because anything you said that would be true would piss Caleb off, and anything that would make him happy would be a lie.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Chenbot is surly when it gets back to the basement, but it's got a sour smile on its face. You're feeling very wary when you put the mask back on.<br/>
<br/>
"Fucker," you mutter to yourself after you've recollected the parallel life at the country club. It's not the Chenbot you're cussing -- though it deserves a cussing even when it's behaving well -- but Kirkham. He was bombarding your cell with texts and is demanding a meeting. He doesn't say what it's about, but you can guess. Well, he's the one who insisted on laying his dick out on Jelena Petrovich chopping block. No less than the Chenbot, he deserves some pain in his life. <i>talk tmorow,</i> you reply, and turn the phone off before you've even gotten in the Jeep.<br/>
<br/>
And you'd forgotten completely about his texts when you pull into the parking lot the next morning, flipping off all other drivers who are trying to cut you off. Not until you see Kirkham leaning against the wall of the gym and staring into the lot do you remember how he was pestering you. He's got one foot up against the wall, and his arms are folded and his chin raised. His upper lip curls into a sneer as you approach. "Thought you were gonna try ducking me," he says in that soft rasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Why the fuck would I duck you, I don't even know what you want."<br/>
<br/>
His eyebrows go up. "You didn't hear from Call?"<br/>
<br/>
"Josh Call? Why the fuck would I want to hear from -- "<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham grabs your shoulder. You knock him away with a snarl. "Keep your fucking fingers to yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"I wanna talk, but not here. Back at the portables."<br/>
<br/>
"About what, asshole?"<br/>
<br/>
He shows you his teeth. "About masks."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
In the instant after the instant when you realize what he's talking about, you think maybe you can bluff him. But that's just reflex. After loosing a curse, you jerk your head at the far corner of the gym. "Alright, portables it is."<br/>
<br/>
Neither of you speak on the long walk around the gym, past the athletic fields and the agricultural annex back to the portables. In a stupid anticipatory echo of what you're planning, Justin Roth is one of a small cluster of students already crouching near them. They don't pay any attention to you, and you don't pay any attention to them as you lead Kirkham around to one of the portables in the back. Once you're inside and got the door closed, you turn on Kirkham with a weary sigh. "So what happened yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't answer right away, but discards one toothpick and pulls a fresh one out of his pocket. He sucks on it thoughtfully a minute, and looks you up and down. "So they weren't shitting me," he finally says.<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Those bitches. Jelena and Fatima. You really do know what they were talking about."<br/>
<br/>
A faint ray of hope gleams about you. "Maybe I don't."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't bullshit me. I said 'masks' and you jumped."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I just -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you. I thought it was some psycho talk when those cunts were telling me about masks, about how they were in disguise and shit. Thought it was <i>really</i> fucked up when they started talking about shit that only me and Call would know about, that we'd never'a told those bitches or anyone else. Fuck, I came real close to caving their faces in and burying 'em in Andrea's back garden, the things they were saying."<br/>
<br/>
"Where was Andrea in all this?" You can hardly believe that Thomason was a party to it, and if he was you're going to do something about it.<br/>
<br/>
"Inside. We were talking out back. Jesus, you're a sick fuck, man. Dumb as fuck, too."<br/>
<br/>
"Get to the fucking point. Which is what?"<br/>
<br/>
"My fucking point?" He jabs you in the shoulder with his forefinger. "You show me what you're doing and how to do it, that's the fucking point."<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you telling me to go fuck myself?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes are hidden behind those tinted shades, but it's not hard to imagine them blazing with anger. "This is bigger than you, Chen -- "<br/>
<br/>
"It's bigger than <i>you,</i> asshole."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not doing it right."<br/>
<br/>
"Not doing what right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever you're doing with these things. Turning Call and Rennerhoff and them into girls just so you can sell a little more weed. That's what <i>they</i> told me is going on. Christ. Please tell me you're just telling those fucks a tiny, tiny bit of what you got going, because I wanna fucking puke when I think of what you're leaving on the table if that's all you're doing."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus." You roll your eyes. "Are you gonna try selling me on something different, on something I haven't thought of? Lemme guess, you wanna turn yourself into the president of the First National Bank, or into some dumbass politician, or some celebrity. You wanna turn yourself into some fat-assed fucker who actually has to work for his money."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham turns stony. "I'm not talking about work. I'm talking about finding someone where it isn't work -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I figured that's what a dumb fuck like you would think. 'Cos that's a hell of a lot harder than it sounds." Actually, you don't know that it is, but it seems like a good guess. "So what do you want? They told you what these things could do, and you instantly thought what? That you could have some fun being someone else, or that you could get a fucking job and make some fucking money by being someone else?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why not both? Or the money and the fun without the work?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why do you need money for fun? Look where I put Call and Rennerhoff. They're having fun. Were you at the Warehouse Friday? Did you see Jelena up on stage? Didn't it look like Call was having fun?"<br/>
<br/>
"Everything's more fun with money. And you just gotta know how to monetize these things, and it ain't hard to come up with a way. It took me about five minutes."<br/>
<br/>
"Really? So tell me."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham rolls the toothpick around contemptuously. "Get yourself a couple of hundred million by selling new bodies to rich old fucks," he says. "You think some of these eighty-year-old billionaires wouldn't give you almost everything they got just so they could start over again as a twenty-year-old kid?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "I don't know any billionaires."<br/>
<br/>
"So use a mask to find one. I know where we could start."<br/>
<br/>
"Where?"<br/>
<br/>
"A couple of places. There's that tech company north of town that Mr. Peters is always talking about. Proteus? The guy who owns that's a billionaire, and he's old. We get him interested, and he could connect us with a bazillion other billionaires."<br/>
<br/>
"And make a hell of a lot of trouble for us. Jesus, you tried threatening me, getting me to tell you how it's done. You think those guys wouldn't do that to us?"<br/>
<br/>
"Only 'cos you're such a dumbass you're still walking around under your own face." Kirkham's sneer combines contempt and incredulity. "You gave Andrea Varnsworth's body to fucking Thomason instead of keeping it for yourself? Fuck. If we go see that guy, we do it under some new faces so he can't trace it back to us."</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Making of Two Salesmen
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You have to admit that it's an interesting idea Kirkham is proposing. You've been concentrating so hard on Chen's business that you've not really thought through any other possibilities.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, it's occurred to you, as it has to Chen, that you could use masks to steal from people. It's even occurred to you, as it has to Josh Call, that you could use masks to steal the identities of rich or famous people. Neither appealed to you. One seemed risky, the other radical.<br/>
<br/>
But Kirkham's idea is high reward without a radical change. Basically, he's just suggesting that you sell a mask -- or a pair of them -- for thousands or even millions of dollars. And he's seen a way to manage the risk.<br/>
<br/>
"So what are you thinking?" Kirkham asks after you've been silent for a very long time.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm thinking you should shut up so I can figure out a way to pull this off. I like it, but I'm worried about the technical part. Who do we disguise ourselves as?"<br/>
<br/>
"What does it fucking matter? Some jerkass -- "<br/>
<br/>
"No, it's got to be done careful. It can't be anyone in school."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because we want disguises no one can trace back to us. We can't go as someone in school. Look, he won't take us seriously if we go see him looking like ourselves, and he won't take us seriously even if we're looking like, I dunno, Pruitt or Mansfield. We gotta be adults. Young guys, because we want him to think we use our own product, but adults. But we also don't want someone real, because if we wind up talking to some badass, he'll put his goons onto us, and if they beat the shit out of the real guys we're pretending to be, they might remember something that sends them to <i>us.</i> I wanna be absolutely covered, man."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham's eyebrows have gone up during this speech, and he replies with a broad shrug. "If you're such a chickenshit about it, we're not gonna get -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not a -- !" You savagely kick a desk. "Watch your fucking mouth, asshole! You think you're so goddamned smart, but you're a dumbass if you piss me off! I wanna do this, but I wanna do it right! Besides, <i>I</i> know how this shit works, what's possible, and you don't, so keep your fucking mouth shut while I think!"<br/>
<br/>
 Kirkham turns red, but clamps his mouth shut. You pace the room.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, an idea comes to you. You snap your fingers excitedly, and outline it to him. Kirkham stays at school, but you skip the whole day, returning to the clubhouse to make the four masks you need to pull your plan off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Robbery still played a role in the scheme, despite your intentions. It wasn't so much that Kirkham insisted as that he seized the chances. Every time he knocked a guy out, he rifled his wallet.<br/>
<br/>
It only took you two days to put the disguises together, and it was Kirkham who carried the ball. He took two of the masks and spent all his free time roaming from one coffee shop to another and ambushing any handsome assholes who were sitting by themselves. It takes guts to do something like that in public, and you warned Kirkham against it, but he did it anyway, and damn if he wasn't right. When people see something strange, he told you, they look away. All he had to do was get right in a guy's face, smush the mask into him, then sit with him while they slept. Only once did he come close to being caught, and that was when one of his guy's friends showed up. Kirkham shooed him from the sleeping form with a shushing gesture.<br/>
<br/>
So now you have two masks, each containing three or four faces that the masks melded into a composite before you sealed them -- faces that belong to no one. You also have a couple of hundred dollars that Kirkham lifted off the victims. You don't need it -- you've got more than enough cash yourself -- but you're glad to use it instead of dipping into your own stash. <br/>
<br/>
It's Thursday now, after school. You're at Nirdlinger's, in the changing room. Kirkham wanted to go along, but you put him off with an excuse, and he's changing separately. You took some jeans and a shirt into the stall with you, put them on, then changed Chen's mask for one of the new composite faces. You've still got Chen's personality with you, though. You made a special trip to see Chelsea, and after stripping the mask off the sleeping Chen you copied his brain into a brain band. Now you can still have his memories, his instincts, and his guts when you meet Kirkham and your potential customer.<br/>
<br/>
The face that meets you in the mirror when you step back into the Men's Department is swarthy -- Kirkham put mostly Hispanics into it, and an Arab. It's hairy all over, and the short, curly hair has an oily sheen. But it's handsome and buff and looks about twenty-five years old. It looks good in the suit and shoes that you quickly pick out and buy. You wish you had the money for a good watch, but content yourself with adding a thin gold chain to your wrist. You probably look completely out of place inside Chen's Jeep, but you won't be driving it to meet the customer anyway.<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham is sitting in his car in the parking lot of the municipal airport when you arrive. He's also got a young, buff look. This one, though, is Anglo through and through, with curly, golden hair that covers his ears and the back of his neck. He's got a good smile, too, though it leers a little too crookedly when he turns it on you. He's still wearing shades, though he's exchanged his own tinted lenses for regular sunglasses. "You got the stuff?" he asks as he gets out.<br/>
<br/>
You pat the satchel. It contains two masks. Neither has a brain band in it, and only one has an image sealed inside it: another composite, this time of three high school guys you hauled off to the portables for some occult abuse. You don't even know their names, only that they were pretty good looking. Chen's mask you have left in the Jeep.<br/>
<br/>
You pick up a taxi at the terminal, and tell the guy to take you to Proteus Technologies, which is nearby. You have him wait with the meter running. Even if you're there for hours, you have the cash to pay for it.<br/>
<br/>
You were surprised that you got an appointment with Curt Straussler, the billionaire owner of Proteus, on such relatively short notice. The gray-haired receptionist has you waiting only a few minutes in his outer office. You spend the time looking out the window. Proteus has a large campus of sleek, modern buildings slung about a central plaza and parking lot, and the office is tastefully decorated with fine furniture and some good art reproductions. The corner office you're summoned into is dominated by a huge executive desk at one end and a conference table at the other. Curt Straussler is seated behind the former. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I can give you fifteen minutes," he says gruffly.<br/>
<br/>
He's a stocky man, in his sixties or early seventies, with a round head, bald on top; intense, flashing blue eyes; and a white, bristling moustache. His mouth is grim, and it's hard not to imagine him as a tyrant and a bully. He said "fifteen minutes," but you probably have only fifteen seconds to impress him with your sales spiel.<br/>
<br/>
You and Kirkham had talked about what to say. You'd written, honed, cut, polished, reduced, and buffed your pitch endlessly. But it never worked to your satisfaction. It sounded coy when you tried working up to a slow reveal, and it sounded crazy when you launched straight into it. <br/>
<br/>
Finally you decided: Screw the pitch.<br/>
<br/>
From your satchel you take the sealed mask. Without warning, you thrust it at the man's face. He loses at least sixty years of age, and falls face forward onto the desk.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's not an illusion, Mr. Straussler," you tell the boy who's staring bug-eyed at himself in a hand mirror. "If it was only an illusion, or hypnosis, your pants wouldn't have fallen down when you stood up." Vaguely, you hope that your smile doesn't look like a smirk.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
The owner of Proteus Technologies is very white. He studies and rubs his fingers, then gingerly runs them through his thick brown hair. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth.<br/>
<br/>
Then he goes to his office door, holding his pants up with one hand as he opens it. "Lydia," he says in a voice that cracks. He clears this throat. "I mean, Ms. Richards. Er. Did, uh, did Mr. Straussler step outside?" He hurriedly shuts the door after an inaudible reply. He leans against it, shutting his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"So you believe it?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes snap open. They are very alert, with the same flashing intensity that his old eyes showed. He hurries back to his desk, his loafers flopping off his feet. He drops into his chair. "What do you want?" he asks in a low voice.<br/>
<br/>
"To sell you that face," Kirkham says.<br/>
<br/>
"Or another one, if you don't like that one. We'll also sell you a second, uh, item, that you can use so you don't lose your company. I mean, you can't really run Proteus while you're looking like that."<br/>
<br/>
He frowns. "Explain."<br/>
<br/>
So you do, giving a very vague description of a golem, and how he can use it to make a fake version of himself while he gets to inhabit a much younger body.<br/>
<br/>
He nods when you're done. "I like it." He opens a drawer. You think he's taking out a checkbook. Instead, he takes out a small metal tube. There's a flash of light, and you know no more.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Making of a Reluctant Partnership
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>What's the difference is between Gary Chen and David Kirkham? The difference is that Kirkham really would try pulling off this dumb-ass idea about selling young bodies to billionaires. Because that's Kirkham all over, all mouth and swagger. He'd go see this tech billionaire and show him the masks and make him an offer, and then he'd find out real fast how easy it is for a billionaire to fuck him over, because no one -- you're pretty sure -- gets to be a billionaire by making square deals with dipshit high school seniors.<br/>
<br/>
But Gary Chen has both brain and guts. That's how he got to be dealing tens of thousands of dollars of weed every month without even Kirkham guessing what was going on. Gary Chen is too smart to go for Kirkham's idea.<br/>
<br/>
But Gary Chen is also too smart to piss Kirkham off by swatting his idea down completely. That's the thing about swaggering morons like David Kirkham: there's no telling how much they can fuck other people up, even accidentally.<br/>
<br/>
So you play it cool.<br/>
<br/>
"Not a bad idea," you say. "Not that different from the kind of thing I was thinking of. But I wasn't going to go jumping in on it right away."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I don't need to. Why do I need to go out this afternoon to see this tech guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say 'this afternoon'," Kirkham sneers.<br/>
<br/>
"Then why do I gotta tomorrow, or next week, or even next month? Fuck, I got all the time in the world to get on it if I want to. If I don't do it this year I can do it next year or the year after that. I can do it in ten years time. And I can <i>still</i> do it from Westside if I want to. If I want, I can turn myself into some fucking kindergarten snot-baby who's not gonna be a senior for another ten years. Christ, man, I got <i>years</i> to figure out how to use this shit to make a fucking fortune or run the fucking world. So I'm not gonna run out and get my dick sliced off just because I can't wait to cash a check for ten thousand dollars."<br/>
<br/>
Contempt shows in Kirkham's eyes. "You fucking scared to try, <i>Gary.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham never uses your English name except when he's being especially obnoxious. He and you both remember your middle school years, when the jock-bullies like Cameron Huber were calling you "Girlie Chen." But you ignore it now.<br/>
<br/>
"I ain't scared. I'm figuring out how to take over a fucking high school first, and how to get rich off a fucking high school. I'm figuring out tactics and strategies, man, and putting me a team together. Then I'll start taking it a little wider. You already met the first couple on my team. Fucking dumbasses." You spit on the floor. "You and me are gonna fuck Jelena up on account of her telling you about this."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't want me to know?"<br/>
<br/>
"Didn't want you to know right away," you admit with a shrug. "'Cos I knew you'd lose your shit. But it's not that I mind Call telling <i>you.</i> But if he's gonna tell you, who else is he gonna tell? Let's say you and me are partners now. What would you do if Call went and told -- I dunno -- Rich Austin about this?"<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham mutters a long string of bad words, which you take as agreement with your point.<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. But don't get any ideas just because you found out about this. We're not partners, not exactly."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham shows his teeth. "Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos what I can do, it ain't a talent that can be shared, that's why not." You waggle a forefinger at him. "It's all in here, and if I touch you the wrong way -- " You jab at him, and he jumps back. You grin. "Yeah. See, the trouble is that I'll trust you a lot farther than I'll trust the fucketeers and the dipshits, 'cos you're my bro and you're fucking smart, man. But there's gotta be one boss, and -- " You waggle your finger again. "It's gotta be me."<br/>
<br/>
He glowers, but seems to accede. "So what's this fucking brilliant long-range plan you're working on?" he asks. Off in the distance, the bell rings, but you both ignore it.<br/>
<br/>
"No long-range plan. I told you, I'm just figuring things out, and right now I'm just looking for ways to improve my position. Today, for instance, I got plans to make me a new agent."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll like it, it's right up there with your billionaire idea, only safe. Kelsey Blankenship."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham's lip goes up in a puzzled sneer. "What, you're gonna tell that rich skank about the masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I'm gonna turn one of my players into that rich skank. Evans has been doing some work for me somewhere else -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Evans knows about this? What's he been doing for you?"<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
"Fuckin' yo' mama, that's what he's been doing. Shut up, man. But he's done with it, and today I was gonna try turning him into Kelsey, just like I turned Call into Jelena." You grin. "That rich skank is gonna pay out so much coin."<br/>
<br/>
"Like, she's gonna give you her ATM card, her credit cards?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not like that, though I bet I can get her to carry some of my expenses once it's Evans fingering her pussy at night. But she throws reefer parties at her house. Did you know that? God Almighty, that's even what she calls them. Reefer parties." You shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you find out?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind how, I just found it out. I found out I've been selling a bunch of weed to Martin Gardinhire without knowing where it was going, and I found out that's where it was going, to him and Kelsey and those country club fucks." You laugh nastily  "They're gonna start buying a lot more from  me when it's Evans playing with her titties, and I got another guy who's gonna channel some more customers into her group so she'll be buying more on top of the more she's gonna be buying from me. Gonna be party central at her digs come Christmas time."<br/>
<br/>
Despite his reflexive skepticism, Kirkham's interest looks piqued. "How much would you be selling to her?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dunno, depends on how quick we get more partygoers into her place. I'm hoping to start selling ten or twelve ounces a month to her and her friends."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham's eyes are hidden -- as always -- behind his shades, but you see his eyebrows go up and his mouth slacken. "That's about what you already sell around the school, isn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Right. And I got a few other pots going on the stove. Never mind where and how. I'm only telling you about Kelsey because she's up your alley." You cock your head. "Or you could be up hers. Could be your fingers, not Evans, up her alley, I mean." You mime fingering an imaginary pussy. "Could be you driving that BMW, spending her money, going to the country club and talking snot shop with her friends. I ain't wedded to it being Evans."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham stares at you and stares at you, and you return his stare. Then he ducks his head and makes a slow, thoughtful circuit of the portable. It's dim, but you can see his face working as he bites on his lips and sucks in his cheeks. He finishes the circuit, gives you a sidelong look, then makes another slow circuit.<br/>
<br/>
And when he's back again to where he started, he looks up at you. "You got any other possibilities?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, I'm taking it slow. I haven't thought farther than her."<br/>
<br/>
"What about Chelsea Cooper?"<br/>
<br/>
You were afraid of that. "She doesn't do anything for us. She's not rich, and she can't help my operation any."<br/>
<br/>
"What about one of Kelsey's country club friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need any more on that end, not unless Kelsey's puppeteer winds up with ideas where I could seed someone."<br/>
<br/>
"So it's Kelsey, or I wait until you get another idea?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there's nothing wrong with waiting, man. That's why I'm telling you all this, so you'll understand the virtue of patience."<br/>
<br/>
He cusses softly. "And what do you do with Evans if I'm the one handling Kelsey?"<br/>
<br/>
"He goes back to playing himself until we find another spot for him."<br/>
<br/>
"And who's playing him now?"<br/>
<br/>
"A robot. Didn't Call tell you about those?"<br/>
<br/>
"He might've mentioned something, but I wasn't paying a lot of attention. What are they?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's like a fake version of someone, a robot, that takes care of yourshit for you while you're someplace else. I have robots in for Evans and Thomason and Mendoza, and Call and a couple of others."<br/>
<br/>
He gets a shrewd look on his face. "Took you awhile to get the programming right, didn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Now that I think about it, there was something goofy about some of those guys." The shrewd look softens into a thoughtful one. "Been a couple of people gone goofy lately, now that I think about it."<br/>
<br/>
"I had to do some experimenting, but the formula's perfected. Go talk to Thomason, the robot, I mean. You won't find anything 'off' about him."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham grunts. "But speaking of Call, what kind of punishment did you have in mind for him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't thought of one yet."<br/>
<br/>
He raises his chin at you. "If you won't give me Kelsey to play with, how about taking Jelena from him and giving her to me?"</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Making of a New Partner
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>What's the difference is between Gary Chen and David Kirkham? The difference is that Kirkham really would try pulling off this dumb-ass idea about selling young bodies to billionaires. Because that's Kirkham all over, all mouth and swagger. He'd go see this tech billionaire and show him the masks and make him an offer, and then he'd find out real fast how easy it is for a billionaire to fuck him over, because no one -- you're pretty sure -- gets to be a billionaire by making square deals with dipshit high school seniors.<br/>
<br/>
But Gary Chen has both brain and guts. That's how he got to be dealing tens of thousands of dollars of weed every month without even Kirkham guessing what was going on. Gary Chen is too smart to go for Kirkham's idea.<br/>
<br/>
But Gary Chen is also too smart to piss Kirkham off by swatting his idea down completely. That's the thing about swaggering morons like David Kirkham: there's no telling how much they can fuck other people up, even accidentally.<br/>
<br/>
So you play it cool.<br/>
<br/>
"That's not a bad idea," you tell him. "A little bolder than I was thinking. You really think we can fuck with a billionaire?"<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham shrugs. "What's the downside? If these things work the way you and Call say they work -- " His face goes taut, as though he's assailed by a sudden doubt. But with another shrug he dismisses it. "I wanna fucking try it out, though. Who you got I can use when we make the approach?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean someone new? Or someone I already got replaced with a fake? 'Cos if it's someone new then I have to make a copy."<br/>
<br/>
"How about someone at that fucking country club," he says. "Disguise us up as one of them, and we can get in to see that tech guy easy."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. I can think of the perfect dumbass for you." You grin. "Martin Gardinhire."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck." Kirkham's lips curl around the toothpick. "Maybe I don't wanna go in disguise."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you do. In fact, I'll get on the prep work immediately. Meet me back here this afternoon, around five."<br/>
<br/>
"What for? What prep work?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll explain it to you then. But I got to pick up some supplies, and I won't be done doing that until around five." The bell rings. "Come on, we better get to class."<br/>
<br/>
But you don't go to class. After a leisurely walk with Kirkham back to the school building -- during which he swears and mutters against the idea of pretending to be Martin Gardinhire -- you sprint hard for the parking lot, leap into the Jeep, and race back to the elementary school.<br/>
<br/>
The Chenbot, once activated, complains bitterly about not getting to skip the day with you. You kick it out of the basement with orders to return to school and avoid Kirkham, and to put him off with phrases like "We'll talk about it later" if he does try to talk about things, and to be back at the clubhouse as soon as possible after last bell.<br/>
<br/>
You settle down to making another mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Kirkham's in a bad mood -- even for Kirkham -- when you find him again at five o'clock. "So what's this fucking prep work that took you so goddam long," he asks. He's squatting by the corner of the portables and stabbing his leg with the blunt end of a pen. "I got stuck here with Roth and his boy toys."<br/>
<br/>
You leap to the defense of the guy you plan to turn yourself into. "What's wrong with Roth? And he's no fag, not that I've heard."<br/>
<br/>
"Who knows what he does when he gets high." Kirkham stands up. "Or who he does. Guy's got no standards. And you can't fucking tell me Small and Semple aren't pining for his cock. Coupla girls is what they are."<br/>
<br/>
"You're talking like you're jealous. But I got the stuff now, come on, I'll show it to you."<br/>
<br/>
Into one of your regular portables you lead him, and set a sack down on the teacher's desk with a clunk. "Okay, we gotta do two things," you tell your erstwhile would-be co-conspirator. You take out one mask. "Second of all, we gotta get this thing onto the guy you're going to impersonate. But first of all -- " You take out the newly made mask. "We have to put this one on to you."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham visibly stiffens. "What for?"<br/>
<br/>
"To make a robot of you. Didn't Call explain that to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." Kirkham folds his arm and glares at you from behind the shades. "Why do I need a robot?"<br/>
<br/>
"Two reasons. First, you don't want to disappear, right? You still got a mom and a little brother who'll miss you, and school, and all the other shit."<br/>
<br/>
"It'll only be for an afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe, but maybe not. If we're gonna do this thing like you want, using disguises to talk to this billionaire, we're probably not gonna sell it to him in one afternoon. He's gonna want to think about it, and he'll be wanting to call us back. We're gonna have to be in these disguises for a little while, maybe a couple of days at a time. You need a robot to cover for you. And the robot also gets rid of the original."<br/>
<br/>
You can hardly believe it, but Kirkham actually flinches. You don't think you've seen him ever flinch at anything, no matter how heinous. But he flinches now, and repeats your words. "Get rid of?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. You don't see two versions of Jelena Petrovich running around, do you? Just the Joshua Call version."<br/>
<br/>
The light's too dim in the portable to be sure, but you think Kirkham has changed color.<br/>
<br/>
"But when I say 'get rid of', I don't mean like you're worried about. See, your robot is inside the mask -- " You point to the mask you're holding. "But it's like software or something, it needs something to run inside. If you put it onto a person, it'll change that person into you. Like, a perfect copy. They totally forget that they were ever someone else, and they act just like you. So that's where Jelena is. I put her inside a mask of Joshua Call, and that turned her into a Joshua Call robot. It hides her so that Call can walk around being her."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham rolls the toothpick around in his mouth, but doesn't relax. "And this is, like, permanent?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. You can take the mask off anytime, and the person will wake up. I've tested it out. They wake up, but they don't remember anything. They don't remember being the other person, they don't remember anything after you slapped the mask onto them. It just puts them to sleep and hides them at the same time."<br/>
<br/>
Like he did this morning, Kirkham takes a slow walk around the portable. Halfway around the room, he says, "You didn't explain this to the dipshits."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not their business. But you're my <i>paisano,</i> right?" You hold your hand up, inviting him to clasp it.<br/>
<br/>
"Right." He works that toothpick, then advances on you earnestly. "But we swap blood on it."<br/>
<br/>
You jerk a little. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
"You heard me. You take a blood oath seriously, fucker?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. "Sure."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean it, asshole." He puts his hand out to grasp your shirt collar, but catches himself. "You wanted to do that once, right, back in our sophomore year?"<br/>
<br/>
"I remember." You say it grimly. The memory still aches. Chen wanted to cement his friendship with Kirkham with a mingling of blood, and Kirkham slapped him away with a sneer.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'll do it now." He holds your eye, and his face is so close to yours you can smell the cinnamon on his breath. "'Cos this is the most fucking important thing I've ever done."<br/>
<br/>
The moment hangs, and a prickle goes up your spine as the import of what he's saying sinks in. You nod gravely. Still, neither of you move. The breathless air suddenly feels very dry.<br/>
<br/>
Then it's like a thread snaps between you, and you both stir. Kirkham takes out a pocket knife, and you put the mask on the desk. You jump when Kirkham grabs your wrist, and you glare up at him. He returns your glance with a masked one of his own. You force yourself to relax, and open your hand palm upward.<br/>
<br/>
He pulls the knife blade hard across your palm. You grit your teeth to keep from crying out, and your limbs shake. Blood wells up, and you suck in a hard breath as the sharp air stings the wound. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you do it to me," Kirkham says, and hands you the knife. With a sticky hand you grab his wrist, and with the other hand drag the knife tip across Kirkham's palm. He also shakes and makes some hissing noises.<br/>
<br/>
"Now shake," he says.<br/>
<br/>
And you clasp bloody hands together tightly. "You're my blood brother," says Kirkham. "We don't fuck with each other. We fuck up anyone who fucks with one of us. We fuck up anyone who tries coming between us."<br/>
<br/>
"A-fucking-men," you say, for you have no idea what kind of thing you're supposed to say in reply. But it satisfies him, and you hold each other's hand and each other's gaze.<br/>
<br/>
Until Kirkham says, "Okay, now it's getting gay," and releases you. "So what's the next bit?"<br/>
<br/>
"Better lay on the floor, 'cos the masks knock you out when you put them on," you tell him. As he turns and drops to the dirty linoleum, you reach out for the mask with your blood hand. But you catch yourself at the last moment, and pick it up with your clean hand. You grimace at your bloody palm, and wipe it across the giant desk calendar -- now seven years out of date -- that covers most of the teacher's desk.<br/>
<br/>
"Is it gonna hurt?" Kirkham asks as you kneel beside him.<br/>
<br/>
"You won't feel a thing." You drop it onto him.<br/>
<br/>
Your plan, of course, is to turn him into a 'bot by filling that mask with rockbot paste. But this blood oath gives you pause. Will it interact with the magic? Do you dare find out?</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Blood Brothers
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You can't afford to linger over David Kirkham's unconscious body. True, he will be unconscious for fifteen to twenty minutes, but if you're going to carry out the rest of your plan, you can't spend it worrying about --<br/>
<br/>
Fuck it. That "blood oath" is just a bunch of words that guys say to each other. It's not magic, not like the magic of the masks. There's nothing to worry about. You flop out next to Kirkham, grab Chen's face, and rip it from your own.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You're gonna get it, Prescott," Gary Chen says. His voice is a poisonous whisper. He squats on the floor of the portable, his forearms resting on his knees. He inches closer to you. "You are so fucked. You fucked with my brother after taking an oath. You fucked with him and you fucking broke your oath. That means you're double fucked. And when it's time for you to pay the price, I'm gonna -- "<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah yeah.</i> The Chenbot's been going on this way for a couple of minutes now, ever since you dropped the mask onto Kirkham. It started up the moment it opened its eyes -- and yes, that gave you a really queer turn because for a couple of seconds you thought it really was Gary Chen, or maybe even David Kirkham, awake under the mask, and that you really had fucked something up. But it let go of your arm when you told it to, and that proved the thing is just the same dumb old Chenbot. So you let out a nervous laugh and let it keep cussing at you while the two of you swapped clothes.<br/>
<br/>
You're out of the Chen mask now because at almost the same moment you decided to break that "blood oath," you also decided to make Kirkham your vacation spot. His home life isn't nearly as tough as Chen's, and no one fucks with him, so he's got all of Chen's advantages and none of his disadvantages. Plus as him you can hang out close to the Chenbot. <br/>
<br/>
And since you're going to be playing Kirkham for the next little while -- you need to straighten out Call's shit, and a double visit by Chen and Kirkham will be more effective -- you don't need to put any rockbot paste inside his mask, so you just seal it up instead. You're getting the finishing touches into it now.<br/>
<br/>
"You can be quiet now," you tell the Chenbot as you blow the mask dry. "You made your point." It falls silent. "Go watch outside to make sure no one comes in."<br/>
<br/>
The 'bot mutters something but complies, popping a cigarette into its mouth as it shuts the door behind it. You shake your head. You've had your fun teasing the Chenbot, but if you're going to be David Kirkham you are going to have to straighten out its attitude. It can't treat its "blood brother" like an enemy.<br/>
<br/>
You pause for only a moment, regarding the name inside Kirkham's mask, before pushing it into your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's like breaking the surface of a very deep, silent, and black pool of water: breaching the waking world again with the mind of David Kirkham wrapped about yours. You gasp and lurch halfway up, then lay back down again and groan. You rub your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fucking Chen. Fucker.</i> You should have seen the double cross coming. Scorpions gotta sting and so does Chen. Fucking oath-breaker.<br/>
<br/>
The thoughts and resentments are cold -- the corpses of the real thoughts and feelings that David Kirkham would have. His mind clings to yours like wet clay. You sit up and roll your shoulders, and flex and grip a rounded bicep. You wobble a little as you spring to your feet. They are bare -- Kirkham's shoes were too small for Prescott's boat-like flippers -- and you dizzily stagger as you bend over the snatch up the socks and sneakers. You hop onto the teacher's desk and pull them on.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fucker.</i> Now, if <i>you</i> had that book, one of the first thing's you'da done is show it to Chen, 'cos say what you will about that slit-eyed motherfucker, he's smart. You'd've trusted him with it and made him a partner, and the two of you would've gone out and had some smart, profitable fun with the masks. But the asshole had to be the one to find it, and he doesn't share. No, even when he gives you free weed it's just so you'll keep still and not go digging around and find out that he's selling weed by the fucking truckload instead of those shitty little baggies he's been pretending to deal.<br/>
<br/>
You slap your hands together, like you're bitch-slapping the moron.<br/>
<br/>
And you smile grimly. These are all the thoughts David Kirkham would have if he were awake and alive to the treachery of the situation. But he hadn't a clue it was that ass-clown Will Prescott who's been pulling the strings, and that the real Gary Chen is asleep somewhere too.<br/>
<br/>
It's hilarious.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't laugh. You're staring at your palm -- the one you slit open with the knife for that blood oath.<br/>
<br/>
The cut is still there, but the wound is clean. There's no smear of blood, no sticky mess, no oozing, crimson ichor. You peer at it closely, and press it. A little blood starts to flow, and you brush it away with your thumb.<br/>
<br/>
In two huge, loping strides you're at the door, yanking it open. Gary Chen whips around, flicks the butt end of that cigarette away, and sneers at you with glittering contempt in his mica-like eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme see your hand," you mutter at him, and grab for his wrist.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said give me your hand, you fucking wonton!" You grab his wrist, and for a moment there's a struggle as the meaning of your words registers with the Chenbot. Then it relaxes and lets you pull its hand toward you. "Open it up, lemme see the palm."<br/>
<br/>
It's just like yours. A fresh cut, but no blood until you press at it, when some more comes out.<br/>
<br/>
"What's your fucking deal," the 'bot snarls.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," you mutter. A chilly miasma of fear fills your heart, and overflows it, and sends tendrils -- like a fog of dry ice -- spilling down into your gut.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not so scared you don't lose track of what you need to do. You clutch the Chenbot by the side of the head and pull it close, throwing your other arm around its strong shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm your fucking bro, you got that," you murmur to it, and you knead its neck. "We're blood brothers. We took an oath. We mingled blood." You feel its hot breath on your cheek, and feel your own hot breath wafting back off it. "Anyone fucks with you, I will fuck them up. Anyone fucks with me, you will fuck them up. We are fucking blood brothers, and we will never. Never. Fuck with each other. You love me, fucker. You love me like you love yourself."<br/>
<br/>
It feels good -- it feels very good -- to say this and to mean it. Because it feels exactly like you mean it. The thought may have been yours -- something to corral the Chenbot, finally -- but it filtered through David Kirkham's brain and came out his mouth, and in some strange alchemy it came out as something that you meant. Your heart beats hard, your fingers squeeze and caress the Chenbot. You pull it into a hard, manly embrace.<br/>
<br/>
It does the same to you.<br/>
<br/>
You give it one hard squeeze, then separate. "Don't want it turning gay or nothing," you mutter. Nervously, you look it in the eye.<br/>
<br/>
The contempt and loathing is gone. Its glance is still hard and sharp, but it shows admiration and loyalty now. Those ebbing feelings of affection for this blood brother surge again in you. "We're gonna have so much fun fucking people up," you tell it.<br/>
<br/>
It smiles by raising its upper lip, showing white fangs. "Starting with Call, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuckin'-a. Lemme get the stuff." You go back inside the portable. "We'll drop my wheels at my house, then you can drive us to Andrea's. Fuck, how you managed to let her sweet pussy go unmolested all this time -- "<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure you mean those words, but you're not sure you don't. Maybe there was something in that "blood oath" business that's addled you. But your chatter breaks off abruptly as you're scooping up the bag of supplies off the desk.<br/>
<br/>
In your rush to handle the Chenbot you almost forgot all about the weird business with the blood, but it comes back to you now like a slap in the face, for that teacher's desk calendar is clean. That smear you left when you -- as Chen -- wiped the blood off your palm is gone.<br/>
<br/>
Chen has followed you inside. You snap your fingers at him. "Open those shades, will you, we need some light." He pulls up the busted Venetian blinds, letting some late afternoon sunlight spill onto the desk. You squat next to it, studying the surface as the light gleams dully on the old paper. You can make out the track your hand left in the dust. But of the blood you left there is no trace.<br/>
<br/>
You pull a fresh toothpick from your pocket and pop it in your mouth. The cinnamon hit energizes your brain.<br/>
<br/>
"What's the deal?" Chen asks. He also squats and peers at the calendar. <br/>
<br/>
"You remember wiping your hand over that calendar? You left a mess, but it's gone."<br/>
<br/>
Chen runs a fingertip over the calendar, then looks at it, and looks at his wounded palm. "I'm starting to bleed again," he says. "A little."<br/>
<br/>
"So'm I. But not like I shoulda been." You straighten up and roll the toothpick around a little. "I don't like this."</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Locked Doors
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"We need to check out that grimoire, that's what we need to do," you mutter more yourself than to the Chenbot. "Except -- Fuck! That thing ain't been good for nothing 'cept cookin' up masks and crap since -- "<br/>
<br/>
Since you ran into that torn page. You've been too busy with the life of Gary Chen to do anything about that. But as David Kirkham you can have a lot more time.<br/>
<br/>
"What about Call?"<br/>
<br/>
"Call can keep for a couple of hours. We can fuck him up any time. Right now I wanna figure out -- " You grimace and rub the deep cut in your palm.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Chen follows you back to Kirkham's place and idles the Jeep long enough for you to leave a note on the kitchen table about being out all evening. Kirkham lives alone with his mom and little brother -- another student at Westside -- and is often in charge of fixing evening meals. But tonight his mom had to work a late shift at the hospital, and "the brat" (as Kirkham calls his kid brother) is staying with a friend. The note is only in case someone comes back early.<br/>
<br/>
Then you swing into Chen's Jeep and let him drive you out to the elementary school.<br/>
<br/>
You pull at your nose thoughtfully as you look over the elementary school basement with Kirkham's eyes. It was good enough for Prescott and Caleb, and for Chen too. For Kirkham? It's got its possibilities, but you find yourself worrying a little more about the chances of getting caught.<br/>
<br/>
But as with Joshua Call, that's a worry for later. Right now you snatch up the grimoire, hop cross-legged onto a desk, and bend over the book.<br/>
<br/>
Before opening it, you summon the 'bot over. "I wanna run a little test. Think you can squeeze a little blood out onto -- " You snag aa loose sheet of paper that you'd been scribbling some notes on. "Here."<br/>
<br/>
"I've mostly stopped," the Chenbot says. With a grimace he rubs his palm hard on the sheet, and manages to leave a thin trail of red. <br/>
<br/>
You do the same. "Now go sit over there and watch it," you tell him. "Yell if something funny happens."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like anything, dumbass. Mostly, though, in case either of those stains disappear."<br/>
<br/>
Then you turn your attention fully to the book.<br/>
<br/>
It's the same book as you have been using all this time. Taller and wider than most books. Bound in red leather, its sheets stiff and heavy. You close it and study the leather and the golden threads, feeling at it. There doesn't seem to be anything occult about the stuff its made of.<br/>
<br/>
Inside you study those weird, metamorphosing faces. It's strange, but you can't catch them actually changing. They're like those duck-rabbit or old woman-young woman illusions, or the spinning ballerina, where it looks exactly like one thing and it's impossible to make yourself think it looks like anything else, until suddenly it does look like something else and you can't get it to change back. Only these faces flip between both sexes and all ages, and sprout beards, lose their hair, and shift from one race to another.<br/>
<br/>
Page by page you go through it, studying the careful line work of the words and holding them up to the light to see if they disclose anything that would suggest the presence of invisible ink. You're very conscious of the fact you have no idea what you're looking for, and that you have no idea how to set about finding anything even if you did. Mostly you're just hoping something will leap out at you, or that the book will reveal something new, the way that the faces at the front are constantly revealing something new. But the ink inside the book is stubbornly unchanging.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I got something," Chen calls. You look up as he wheels around to thrust the paper at you. "Some of that blood just disappeared." He points.<br/>
<br/>
Sure enough, where there were two streaks, now there is only one. "Was it yours or mine that went?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Pretty sure it was mine. I put mine onto it first. Yours might -- Whoa!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Whoa</i> indeed. As you watch, the second streak evaporates off the page. It doesn't fade, but gives the impression of having dissolved into nothingness. You peer at the sheet very closely, but can see nothing to show that there had ever been any blood there at all.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, let's see now if it's just blood that does that." You suck on a tooth, trying to figure out what to try for. <i>Well, there's spit. Mucous. Tears. Ear wax.</i> You sniff. Come to that, there's also piss, shit, and cum.<br/>
<br/>
You can try that stuff later, if it seems worthwhile. For now, you pull out a booger and stick it onto the paper. You spit on it. Tears, did you say? You pluck a nose hair, and tears pop into your eyes. A fingertip transfers a small drop onto the page, and for good measure you lay the nose hair alongside. "Now watch these things," you tell Chen.<br/>
<br/>
"Do I have to <i>watch?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Keep an eye on them. Jack off, if you want to. You can add some Cantonese cum to the collection if you get anywhere." Chen makes a face, and carefully transfers the paper to another desk.<br/>
<br/>
You return to studying the book.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Two hours later you are stiff all over -- except in your cock, which as flaccid as an overboiled pasta noodle -- and hungry and have gotten nowhere, except in regards to studying what happens to your secretions. You haven't pulled any teeth or plucked out any eyeballs, and you haven't spent yourself in an Kleenex. But it does look as though everything that comes off either your body or Chen's disappears after a few minutes. Blood, tears, sweat, spit, boogers, dandruff, scabs, nail clippings and hair all evaporate. Chen even went in the corner and squeezed out a little ball of shit and pissed into an empty plastic bottle. They disappeared too. "You know what this means," you observe. "Forensics would have a hell of a time pinning us down to any crime scenes."<br/>
<br/>
But the book itself yields up no new secrets or insights.<br/>
<br/>
You try peering at the lettering that shows beneath the torn page, but you can look at it for only a few seconds at a time before the rippling line work nauseates you, so if there's anything to be gained there, you're not going to find it that way. So you turn your glance to the words written on the top of the torn page.<br/>
<br/>
You've looked at them before, and recognized them to be a list of ingredients. But you've not studied them closely, on account of there doesn't seem to be any point in it. Every spell has required a sigil, and the sigil for this spell apparently went missing along with the rest of the page. But now you read through the list carefully.<br/>
<br/>
A feeling of deja vu creeps over you. You've used these ingredients before, in the exact quantities and order that they are listed here. You flip back a few pages. Yes, they are the ingredients for one of those metal bands that copies memories and personality. You flip rapidly back and forth between the two pages. Not only are the ingredients the same, but the ink marks -- hand lettered, not printed -- look identical too.<br/>
<br/>
There is only one extra line on the later spell, and when you run it through an internet translator it brings back a gnomic instruction. "Use me, solve me."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Use me?</i> What is this "me" to be used? The book? You've been using the bloody book for weeks now. The spell? You can't use the spell if most of it is missing. The ingredients for the spell?<br/>
<br/>
That gives you pause. It's the only thing you haven't tried.<br/>
<br/>
You hop to your feet --<br/>
<br/>
And you look around. "Yo, dickface, where'd you get off to?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm back here. Fuck!" A bookcase wobbles, and Chen puts his dirty face out from behind it. To keep him occupied, you'd order him to explore around, to see if there was anything interesting. Aside from the dusty bones of some small animals, nothing much has turned up.<br/>
<br/>
"Just checking. You need to be home soon?"<br/>
<br/>
"I texted my mom, told her I was studying with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Shit, we had homework to do, too. Well, fuck it, we can go one day without. We got any -- ? Yeah, here we are." Inside one of the desks is the makings of another brain band. "Keep exploring."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna need a flashlight."<br/>
<br/>
"You got one out in your glove compartment," you start to say, but Chen is already running up the stairs to the door. You flick on a desk lamp, and start putting the stuff together for a brain band.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It doesn't take very long. The actual crafting of the band is only a few minutes work. The hard part has always been the carving of the runes into the metal, which follows on putting the band inside the sigil. But when you follow the instructions without employing a sigil, the runes go into the metal much faster.<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure if this means that you are doing something right, or something very, very wrong. As insurance, you prepare a second metal band.<br/>
<br/>
But you're still not done when Chen yells your name, followed by a muffled, "I found a door!" <br/>
<br/>
A door? You thrust your tools away, and bang yourself up in a couple places as you squeeze through the furniture. Chen has shifted lots of desks and chairs around, and pulled bookshelves and cabinets away from the wall. You have to call his name a few times before tracking him down a narrow corridor he's made along the back cinderblock wall. He pushes himself farther into a corner, and turns a flashlight onto the wall.<br/>
<br/>
Sure enough, there's a dusty door.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Things That Appear and Disappear
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's almost pitch black here in the back of the elementary school basement, behind all these bookcases, and the door Chen has found is itself darker than the wall it sits in. The flashlight he's pointed at it shows no detail on its flat surface.<br/>
<br/>
You brush your hand over it. It's made of metal, and it's cold. You feel all over it, and find a round knob. It's locked.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. Must be a closet or something," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Why would a basement have a closet?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Why would this dumb school have a basement? But it's locked, and I don't see a way in."<br/>
<br/>
"The hinges are on this side," Chen says. "We could take it off that way."<br/>
<br/>
"We don't got the tools. Or the space or the light. Eh, maybe tomorrow we can check it out. Right now I got something to finish, and you gotta go home."<br/>
<br/>
"We also got Call to fuck up."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't forget, but I think I'm on to something and I wanna try it out. Come on."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It wasn't a good stopping point when Chen interrupted you, but scoop your stuff up anyway, and Chen hauls ass getting you back to your house. You exchange a complicated handshake before jumping out.<br/>
<br/>
David Kirkham lives in a dumpy house on the edge of one of the more run-down neighborhoods, but it's reasonably well kept. There were once a couple of big trees in the front yard, but those got taken down in a windstorm ten years ago, but that's just as well because it's easier to keep the lawn mowed that way. The paint is peeling and the box of flower beds by the front door is just dirt, but there's no trash in it.<br/>
<br/>
And although Kirkham is a bully and an asshole, he works hard at school and around the house to keep things looking as good as can be expected. The guy's got a terrifically stiff neck when it comes to putting up a good front.<br/>
<br/>
The lights are all on in front, but no one answers your call. There are some dirty dishes in the sink. Your mom's car isn't out front, so that means -- <br/>
<br/>
You march into the back and without knocking slam your little brother's door open. It gives you a kind of double deja vu to have a little brother again. But Kirkham's brother, Tad, is older than your brother.<br/>
<br/>
He's sitting at his desk, head phones on, leaning forward tensely with his hand between his legs. The video is hard to make out, but you're pretty sure you know what it is he's watching. Without announcing yourself, you lean against his desk with folded arms.<br/>
<br/>
He glances over at you, does a violent double take, and flies backward. The 'phones come out of the jack, and some female but very unfeminine groaning comes blasting out of the speakers. Tad flaps at the keyboard, trying to shut it off. <br/>
<br/>
You close the top. "Hey, all the lights in the living room and kitchen are on," you say.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes are wide. "Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. So go turn 'em off. If you're not using them."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not -- Uh -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Are you using them?"<br/>
<br/>
He has turned very red, but he is also turning belligerent in a way that he shares with his older brother. "Maybe I'm going to. Uh, move out there -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Like we want you doing it out there. Take it in the bathroom, you miserable little tick. <i>After</i> you turn off the living room lights." You stalk toward the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Where are <i>you</i> going to be?"<br/>
<br/>
"In my bedroom. With a good book."<br/>
<br/>
"I know what kind of -- !" But the rest of his words are lost after you slam his bedroom door on him.<br/>
<br/>
In your own bedroom you make a show of spreading out school books, but you hop onto the bed with the grimoire and tools for making brain bands. After a quarter hour you've finished the lettering on the second one you've made today.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Great.</i> Now you've got <i>two</i> pieces of metal and no idea what to do with them. <br/>
<br/>
You lean back against the headboard of your bed, the grimoire in your lap, feverishly clicking the button of a ballpoint pen as you try to come up with a brainstorm. That one line on the torn page -- "Use me, solve me" --  is so strange, so different from the other lines of directions in the other spells, that you have to wonder if there isn't more to this spell than meets the eye.<br/>
<br/>
And speaking of "meeting the eye", you have to pinch your eyes shut after they drift down toward that blinding maelstrom of ink below the tear in the page.<br/>
<br/>
While you're muttering in irritation and frustration and rubbing your eyes, you hear a thumping and crashing from outside. Fraternal instinct -- the need to save your kid brother from his own stupidity, and the need to beat him savagely for being stupid in the first place -- yank you off the bed. The book falls open, and you drop the metal band onto it. Your bedroom door almost comes off its hinges as you wrench it open. <br/>
<br/>
Around the corner, in the living room, is Tad, looking like he's just pulled his fingers from out of an electrical socket. A floor lamp -- its shade busted -- lies on the floor, with a heavy book next to it. "There was a spider!" Tad yells.<br/>
<br/>
"What spider?"<br/>
<br/>
"On that book!" He points. "I went to pull it down, and there was a spider crawling on top of it!" He shakes his hand like he's still trying to fling it off.<br/>
<br/>
You pick up the book -- a very heavy one from a set of history books that your grandfather left to your mom. "The fuck are you reading <i>The Age of Voltaire</i> for? You don't even know who Voltaire is."<br/>
<br/>
"It's for a school report! And you don't either!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't fucking have to know!"<br/>
<br/>
"But I do! I mean -- "<br/>
<br/>
Something in his manner raises your suspicions, and you open the book. From inside it spill a couple of joints. Tad dives for them, but you block him with a solidly braced forearm to the throat. You pick them up. "Where the fuck did you get these?"<br/>
<br/>
He was pale when you came in, but he's very red now. His eyes water, and he says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"I said, where did you -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just a guy! At school!"<br/>
<br/>
"And you were going to smoke one? Here?"<br/>
<br/>
Tad doesn't answer. But you see the answer in his face.<br/>
<br/>
You grab him, and he howls and bats at you. You twist him around and hurl him onto the sofa, then clamber onto him and feel at his pockets. He kicks and writhes, but a few blows to his kidneys quiet him enough that you can pull the baggie out of his jeans. The two joints he had in there are bent and shredded. You slap him across the back of the head before letting him. "You fucking moron."<br/>
<br/>
He turns on you with a snarl. "You know where that fucking egg roll you hang out with gets his pocket money, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, that's why it's fucking stupid of you to be buying from somebody else. Come here. I said, come here!" You grab him by the shirt and drag him to the floor. He flops and fights with you, but you haul him and head rush him back into your bedroom, throwing him against a wall. He pants heavily and angrily at you, but you shut him up with a snarl and rip the middle drawer out of your dresser. You dump its contents on the floor and flip it over. Taped to its bottom is a zip lock bag containing your most recent tribute from Chen. You thrust it -- drawer and all -- in Tad's face.<br/>
<br/>
Anger turns to stupefaction. His jaw drops. "You -- You -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I what? I use? Sure, a little. Chen gives it to me for free, I go out by the river with a joint and a beer and take the edge off. That's why it's fucking stupid of you to be buying it. You're throwing your money away, you fucking moron. How much are you buying?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not much." His face has gone slack with shock. "Uh, maybe an eighth? A week?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll give you three a month, I'll set it up with Chen to give me some extras, but you fucking lay off the purchases. Jesus, you had me scared." You wipe your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
"Scared of what?"<br/>
<br/>
"That you were trying to deal, or that you were using a lot more. God damn it. What else are you doing that I should know about?"<br/>
<br/>
He turns green. "Nothing."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure?"<br/>
<br/>
"Only what you caught me at, uh, a little while ago."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you buying condoms?"<br/>
<br/>
He gasps. "No!"<br/>
<br/>
"Should you be?"<br/>
<br/>
"David!"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright. Just go clean up that mess you made in the living room. Bring me the rest of your shit from out there, too. Jesus, what are you hiding them <i>there</i> for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because no one looks at those old books. Dur!"<br/>
<br/>
"Just go put things back. You're not getting wasted too, are you? Got the DTs, that's why you're feeling spiders running all over you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you!"<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever." You hurl a pair of socks at the back of his head as he goes out the door, then put the dresser drawer back in order. <i>Christ,</i> you think as you drop onto the bed and rub your eyes. If it weren't such an insult to your mom, you'd wonder if Tad had a different father than you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Than David Kirkham.</i> You sigh. Not even six hours, and already you're thinking of yourself as David Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
You reach for the grimoire and the metal band. But though the book is there, the band is gone.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: And Things That Reappear Only to Disappear Again
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You look all over the bedroom. On the bedspread, under the bed, between the wall and the bed and behind the headboard. You look on and under the desk, and on and under the dresser. You look inside the dresser that you repacked. You look in the corners of the room and even on the windowsill.<br/>
<br/>
You even pick up the book and look underneath it. Nothing.<br/>
<br/>
That metal band you were playing with on the bed is gone.<br/>
<br/>
It's not the loss of the band that bothers you. You made two of them -- the other is sitting on the desk, and in a spasm of anxiety you snatch it up and tuck it carefully into your jeans pocket --  in case of an accident. No, what bothers you is that it sure seems like you've <i>had</i> just such an accident.<br/>
<br/>
You tell yourself that you're imagining things, that it was just carelessness. Obviously you just dropped it someplace and it bounced away. <br/>
<br/>
You fall into the chair at the desk and tug at your lip. You close your eyes and visualize what you were doing when you last had it. You were on the bed, the book in your lap --<br/>
<br/>
You scoot over and feel at the bed where you were sitting. You go out in the hall and into the living room again. Tad has got the lamp back up and is trying to straighten some bad kinks out of the lampshade, and he gives you a querying glance. You ignore him and scan the floor. Nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the bedroom you gingerly get back onto the bed, and lean back the way you'd been sitting, with the book in your lap. You flip its pages, to see if it got stuck behind one of them. Nothing falls out.<br/>
<br/>
You lay your head back and close your eyes. You were in just this position, playing with the band between your fingers, when you heard a crash. You jumped up --<br/>
<br/>
You jump up now, lay the book on the bed and mime tossing the band onto the open book. It should have landed on that open page. <br/>
<br/>
Unless --<br/>
<br/>
The hair on the back of your neck rises. The book is open to the torn page. It couldn't have fallen <i>into</i> the book.<br/>
<br/>
Could it?<br/>
<br/>
With infinite care you brush your fingertips over the exposed page beneath the tear. It's firm to the touch. You close your eyes and repeat the experiment. Except for the bump where the tear is, you can't tell the difference between the two pages: the one above and the one below.<br/>
<br/>
How could a piece of metal fall into or through a solid book?<br/>
<br/>
And yet it seems like that's the only thing it could have done.<br/>
<br/>
You shiver at a goofball thought. <i>That fucked up line work beneath the tear -- maybe </i>that's<i> the sigil.</i> Maybe by dropping that band onto the book you accidentally --<br/>
<br/>
And as you're standing there speculating, all need for speculation ceases. Like a telescopic image coming into focus, the blurry lines of ink resolve into the shape of that metal band, sitting on the torn page. Then they blur again beneath it.<br/>
<br/>
You blink, and touch the band. You pick it up.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, this is all way too freaky,</i> you decide. <i>It's one thing to make a mask that can copy other people's bodies and brains. It's totally something else when one solid thing vanishes inside another.</i><br/>
<br/>
Yeah, you're not making any sense, even to yourself. You just want to put the thing away and not screw with it anymore. The waters are starting to get a little deep here, and your feet aren't touching the bottom of the magical pool anymore. You got this far without getting past that torn page, you can just keep going by letting things lie. You shut the book firmly, set it on top of the dresser, and slap the metal band onto it.<br/>
<br/>
The band vanishes from under your fingers. If you weren't already so freaked out, you'd shriek. You look at the book, you look at your fingers. The band evaporated like a sliver of ice.<br/>
<br/>
And now where did it go now? Back into the book? Will it come back out in the same place, like a coin falling through a trick box? You open the front cover and flip through the book. Past the spell that makes a mask. The one that makes a sealant. The one that makes a brain band. The one that glues the band to a mask. The one that makes a rockbot. The one that turns people into rockbots. The one that makes a rockbot paste. The one that --<br/>
<br/>
You catch yourself in mid turn. You're holding the bottom of the torn page.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not torn anymore. It's whole. You are holding the bottom of a page that wasn't there a moment ago.<br/>
<br/>
You fly back as though stung.<br/>
<br/>
But curiosity gets the better of you. You return to the book, and examine the page that has magically repaired itself. It contains a list of instructions, and the gnomic instruction "Use me, solve me." There's nothing else. <br/>
<br/>
You swallow and turn the page. There's no explanation on the back. This is disappointing. But at least you're into a new part of the book. The next spell is waiting for you, and the lettering that had danced manically before is now dead and readable.<br/>
<br/>
To keep from being disturbed as you study the new spell, you tell Tad you're making an early night of it, and turn off the lights and stuff some clothes against the crack under the door. Then you sit at your desk, turn on the desk lamp, and open the book again.<br/>
<br/>
You're up until almost two, and you would have been up much later except for the damnedest bit of luck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The girl falls insolently against the locker next to yours. "Hey, how's it hanging," Jelena Petrovich asks, and looks down her nose at you.<br/>
<br/>
God, she's sexy. A pedestal-like neck, the mane of dark hair, the lips that she bites provocatively when she catches someone looking at her. Today, despite the cool weather, she's in a sleeveless red jersey and jeans cut off halfway down her thigh. She's wearing boots, too. She looks like she's on the hunt for faces to stomp.<br/>
<br/>
She picked wrong if she thinks she can stomp on you. "Glad you showed up," you mutter. "I wanna talk to you."<br/>
<br/>
"'Bout that shit we talked about yesterday? That was fun." She wipes the side of her mouth with a fingertip.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. I talked to Chen, decided you're not a lying whore."<br/>
<br/>
She grins. "Cool. So, is Chen setting you up?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wanna talk to you first. Fourth period, out at the portables."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." She brushes past you as she goes, scraping her breasts across your torso. "I'm popular, but I got time for you." She plunges back into the crowd.<br/>
<br/>
You text Chen, telling him about the meeting.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Jelena's on time, but you're early, so you get a nice eyeful of her swaggering up. You also notice the jealous looks you're getting from a cluster of juniors out at the corner of the portables, but you turn your back on them to put your arm around her waist and lead her to that one portable that is rapidly turning into your office.<br/>
<br/>
"So's Chen got a face picked out for you?" she asks. "Or is he letting you pick? 'Cos he made us take these girls."<br/>
<br/>
"Something wrong with those girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. 'Cept dumbass Rennerhoff is gonna flunk all his classes if he doesn't start studying."<br/>
<br/>
"What about you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't give a shit about classes, I'm only here to show off." She snickers. "This ain't permanent, you know, and if Jelena has to drop out when she comes back from the dead, the fucking bitch deserves it, plus the reputation I'm giving her. Meanwhile, I'm -- "<br/>
<br/>
Whatever Call was going to say next dies in his throat as you open the portable door. Gary Chen is standing inside with his arms folded.<br/>
<br/>
You push her inside to join him. "Siddown, fucker. Yeah, I'm talking to you," you add when Call turns a dumbstruck face on you. "In that chair."<br/>
<br/>
"What's the -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"He told you to sit down," says Chen. He grabs Call by the arm and hair and shoves her into a seat.<br/>
<br/>
You step behind Call and grab her slim wrists, holding her helpless. "Get the mask off," you tell Chen. "Then we'll explain to him how much fucking trouble he's in."<br/>
<br/>
Call kicks at Chen, but Chen sits in her lap and with a leer puts his hand to Jelena's face. He mutters and pulls, and mutters and pulls, and mutters and pulls. The leer slowly disappears. "Quit fucking around," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not!" he says, and resumes pulling at Jelena's features. You stare at him hard, and he swallows and starts to sweat.<br/>
<br/>
"I can't get it off him," he finally mutters.<br/>
<br/>
You swear at him, release your hold on Call, and shove Chen aside, taking his place in Call's lap. <i>Goddamn it, let a pro do it.</i> "Grab her hands," you yell when Call tries clawing your face. Then: "Maybe you better start screaming, sweetheart," you tell Call as you cup her face in your hands. "You'll want to, soon, on account of everything we're gonna do to you."<br/>
<br/>
She's flushed, and her eyes roll. "What did I do, why are you -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"You need to learn to keep your fucking mouth shut about this stuff, you cunt. You don't tell anyone -- anyone! -- about it." Froth suddenly fills your mouth. "You had one job, to keep your cocksucking hole shut, and you fucked that up. So now we're gonna fuck <i>you</i> up."<br/>
<br/>
You refrained from striking the girl, but once you've got the mask off Call, you and Chen kick and beat him mercilessly all about the portable. He nurses and weeps silently over broken bones at the end.<br/>
<br/>
Then you put the mask back on him. Jelena doesn't show so much as a bruise.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Help From an Unexpected Quarter of the Sky
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You were pretty sure that's the way it would work with the masks. Call has a couple of busted ribs, and his flattened face is black and red with cuts and bruises. But once Jelena's mask is on him, he can stand up and move without showing any hurt at all. A lot of his old, stubborn life flares back into his eyes when he stands, but at least he's docile. "You're still on the team," you tell the girl. "But you're on parole. Next time you need a good kick, we're just gonna take that mask off you and give it to someone else, and you can crawl your way to the hospital. Or maybe we'll do something else to you. 'Cos who's in charge around here?"<br/>
<br/>
Jelena glares between you and Chen. She licks her lips. "You are."<br/>
<br/>
"That's right." You put your arm around Chen's neck, and he reciprocates. "You don't go making any decisions about who needs to hear about these things. 'Cos you never know what they're gonna do when they find out." You get right in her face, and grab her by the jaw. She tries to tear away, and her arms fly up, but she stops at the last moment. ""That's right," you tell her softly, and stroke her hair. "If want to touch you, then I get to touch you. Wherever and whenever I like." You let that horrible thought settle into her. Then you push her away. "Not that I'm gonna." You wipe your palm on your shirt. "You fucking disgust me. Now get the fuck out. And tell those dykes you're hanging out with that the same goes for them!"<br/>
<br/>
Silence descends in the portable after she's gone. You clench your fists and force yourself to relax. It was quite a workout you had on Call, and you've still got the adrenaline going. When the silence becomes too oppressive, you look over at Chen.<br/>
<br/>
He's looking at you with open admiration. "Jesus, Prescott," he says softly. "I didn't know you had it in you."<br/>
<br/>
It surprises and appalls you that the Chenbot still knows who you really are. And the praise would be sweeter if you'd earned it instead of programming him to be your best friend. But you can't resist the pleasant tickle of flattery. You shrug it off, though. "You gotta do what you gotta do. You know that. Fuck, we both know that."<br/>
<br/>
Middle school wasn't pleasant for either of these guys, but you don't dwell on that.<br/>
<br/>
Chen knows what you mean too, and nods. Or maybe he's thinking of something else. "We still moving Evans into Kelsey?"<br/>
<br/>
"At some point. I'll leave it to you, but -- What happened that you couldn't get the mask off Call?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. I thought I was doing it all right, just like I always do. But it wouldn't come off."<br/>
<br/>
You point at your face. "Can you get this one off me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can try."<br/>
<br/>
So you sit down. Chen pulls and pries and mutters and sweats. You guide his hand to the proper spot. You rehearse the words with him. None of it makes a difference. At the end you have to surrender to the fact that Chen -- at least when it's the Chenbot -- can't get a mask off anyone. And that rules out letting the Chenbot handle replacement duties. "Well, just keep Evans stringing along for the next day or two, tell him there's a hitch. You heard any more from Mendoza?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just his contact info, and he says there's a party at Kelsey's this Saturday."<br/>
<br/>
"If we could get in -- " Except it wouldn't be "we", it would only be you, because the Chenbot can't go in under a disguise.<br/>
<br/>
Or could it?<br/>
<br/>
It would be worth a try, but just then the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch.<br/>
<br/>
"So you got work tonight," you muse as you trudge back to the main building. "I'm gonna work some more on that new spell."<br/>
<br/>
"Any idea what it does?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. You know what to do or say if any of the dipshits call or text, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pretty sure I do."<br/>
<br/>
"Good man." You clap him on the shoulder, as David Kirkham would with his best friend and blood brother, Gary Chen.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You let your homework slide one day, and you can't let it slide anymore than that, so directly after school, you go to the school library, kick a chair loose from a table, and spread out your homework. Efficiently and methodically you work out calculus, chemistry, and statistical problems in Kirkham's neat handwriting. It's a remarkable thing, and you feel its oddity even while sitting comfortably inside Kirkham's skull. He's a thug and a reprobate, but he is very good at some very hard classes, especially math, where he's taking both AP Calculus and AP Stats. Beyond the hard math and sciences courses there's his skill on the cello -- he's even studying with a university professor. Only a weightlifting class and a blow off "Asian Alphabets" class keep him from running the table with kickass classes his senior year.<br/>
<br/>
But then, he kicked his way through the AP social studies classes his junior year.<br/>
<br/>
And what's he going to do with it? Go to college, get a degree in mechanical engineering probably, make some serious coin in a serious business working alongside other serious people. As equations stack and evolve neatly at the end of your pencil, you reflect that <i>that</i> is what pisses him off so much about high school and about shitheads like Will Prescott: their utter lack of serious purpose. <br/>
<br/>
That and the fact that the ball-playing team-sport faggots won't acknowledge the place he deserves in the upper echelons of the school pyramid. Really, he ought to be running things -- <br/>
<br/>
And the tip of your mechanical pencil breaks as with mounting fury you press it too hard against the paper. You cuss under your breath, replace the old toothpick with a fresh one, and continue after forcing your attention back to the math.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
By five o'clock, when the school library closes, you're done, and decamp for the old elementary school basement. You ignore the door that Chen found -- easy to do, since it's still hidden from sight behind the disordered bookshelves -- and settle down with the grimoire. Before getting to work, though, you check the text that hit your cell on the drive out. <br/>
<br/>
It's from Chen. <i>cj wants 2 no when youll be roth.</i><br/>
<br/>
Shit. There's that to deal with, too. Why does Caleb want to know? Does it make a difference to him? Your reply: <i>tell him theres a hitch, youll let him know</i>.<br/>
<br/>
<i>ok did that already</i><br/>
<br/>
You unbend enough to send back a smiling face emoticon, then turn the phone off. You've got more than enough to concentrate on.<br/>
<br/>
You would have quailed when you saw that long-hidden spell, but David Kirkham doesn't quail before anything, not even a fucking magical grimoire. No, David Kirkham only gets mad when he meets a frustration. And with his psyche riding shotgun in your head, you weren't about to let a wall of words knock you back on your heels.<br/>
<br/>
That's what confronted you: No list of ingredients, no instructions for putting them together, and no sigil. Just a wall of words. You translated them -- and the book, which previously didn't like it when you copied down what it said, let you in this case -- and only got gibberish.<br/>
<br/>
If you had tackled the problem during the daytime, you probably would have got stuck, and who knows if you'd ever have got past them. But as luck or fate would have it, you were studying the spell at night, at a desk, in front of a window. The bedroom faces out into the back yard, and when you heard a noise you opened the window to look out. A dumb and thoughtless move, and useless, for you saw nothing, not even with the waxing moon blazing down from a clear sky. <br/>
<br/>
You turned back to the book, and to the sheet of paper you'd laid out for taking notes. Your throat tightened: silvery figures were forming on that paper.<br/>
<br/>
You held your breath in for as long as possible, then let it out slowly and inhaled slowly again. It was resting on the book, on the page with the new spell, and like blotting paper absorbing a pattern from beneath -- a pattern that wasn't on the page. You didn't disturb anything until all movement on the page had stopped. You had to bend close to examine it, for the line work was silvery --<br/>
<br/>
Silvery like the moon. You've read books where some kinds of invisible ink respond only to moonlight .<br/>
<br/>
-- and hard to make out. But it formed a disk, and that disk was a recognizable sigil.<br/>
<br/>
Gingerly you picked it up. And whether it was some trick of the light or whether the magical ink actually changed, but the lines darkened until the sigil was as solid as the ones in the book.<br/>
<br/>
You put in your top dresser drawer and went to bed. When you woke up, the paper was still there and, more important, so was the sigil. <br/>
<br/>
You have it with you now.<br/>
<br/>
Again, luck (or something like it) is with you now. You solved the last puzzle by putting a brain band onto a weird scrap of magical paper. You have the other bands you made yesterday, and now, as if guided by some instinct, you set one of them on this new sigil. While your fingertips are still touching it, you feel a characteristic thrill, and the band has acquired a shimmer when you pick it back up again.<br/>
<br/>
A shiver runs through you. <i>Why is it all working out so simply?</i> You can tell without testing it on the grimoire that you've completed the spell.<br/>
<br/>
It's worked out so well, in fact, that you don't want to push the day's luck any further. You press the paper with the sigil between the pages of the grimoire, pocket the band, and hightail it back to your house.<br/>
<br/>
On the drive back you force your concentration onto Caleb's question. Do you add Roth to your collection? Or tell him that Kirkham has become your vacation spot?</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Creepy Girls
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You go round in a circle a couple of times before deciding what to tell Caleb. What finally settles you is the simplicity of leaving Justin Roth out of it. It's enough to have two aliases, after all, and Caleb would wonder why you had to give yourself a third if you told him about both Roth and Kirkham being part of your crew. He'd wonder why you added Kirkham, and that might unravel your other secrets. And if you kept Kirkham a secret from him, that would be another complication.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After you've fixed supper for you and your mother and your brother -- a simple chef's salad; far from being your favorite kind of thing, but there's nothing else in the kitchen -- you plop onto your bed with the grimoire and text Caleb, telling him you have to talk. Then you open up the grimoire and take out the sigil you made last night, and the band that you made this afternoon. Time to figure out what it does.<br/>
<br/>
But when you press it against the book, the page doesn't turn.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Hmm.</i> That means there's one more step to the spell. You study the new band thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
It looks just like the brain bands you've already been making, only you were able to make it much quicker -- the rune work went on before you set it in the sigil, which seems to have sped up the carving process. You vaguely wonder if that's the purpose of this spell: to give you a new and quicker technique for making these bands. Maybe you need to use it on someone first. The obvious candidate is yourself. It would be a waste of material, but the thing was quick and easy to make, and you're more interested in using it as a key to open the next spell in the book.<br/>
<br/>
You're still thinking about this when your phone tweets. It's a text from Andrea Varnsworth: <i>need 2 talk.<br/>
<br/>
Fuck.</i> Must be about Call.<br/>
<br/>
<i>u got my number</i>, you text back.<br/>
<br/>
Your phone rings a minute later. Andrea's voice is very tight. "So what the fuck happened this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you think happened?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. "You know what I'm talking about, right? Because Jelena told me -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, is it 'Jelena' now? Call's got her pussy on that tight?"<br/>
<br/>
"What<i>ever</i>." Thomason is either very angry or very frightened. Maybe both. "I didn't know you were running things with Chen."<br/>
<br/>
"I am. At least, I am now. And that's why we fucked up that whore. Didn't Call explain, or is she too fucked in the head to understand our message?"<br/>
<br/>
Another pause. "He only said that you kicked the shit out of him because he told you what was going on. Which makes no fucking sense at all."<br/>
<br/>
"It makes perfect sense. But I guess I have to explain it to you, and then you can explain it to those three fuckbrains. Get yourself some finger puppets and teach it to 'em Elmo style." You have to get off the bed to pace, because the anger is beginning to stir in you again.<br/>
<br/>
"Chen put those fucks there for only one reason, so they could help you move his product. They're not there to think or to come up with ideas of their own. They're supposed to be exactly as dumb as those dumb cunts they're pretending to be. But then Call got the fucking bright idea to tell <i>me</i> what was going on. Did he ask <i>you</i> if he could or should?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
You're pretty sure that's a lie, but you let it pass. "Then he's even stupider than I thought he could be, because <i>you'd</i> be smart enough to tell him not to, right?" She doesn't answer your question. "But he tells me, and I talk to Chen, and now, yeah, I'm part of things. Me and Chen are running things together, because obviously we're the only two guys with anything resembling brains. And that means <i>both</i> of us understand how stupid Call was. I don't care <i>why</i> that cocksucker did what he did. He opened his mouth, and anytime you open your mouth about this shit you risk fucking us all up. So we had to teach him not to ever do it again." You let those words sink in. "That's what I thought we did. Are you telling me now that he <i>still</i> doesn't understand that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think he understands. But he's really upset."<br/>
<br/>
"Dykes get 'upset'. Guys get pissed. So if he's only 'upset' -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So he's pissed! I'm telling you that!"<br/>
<br/>
"So what's he going to do about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. He doesn't know. But you oughta know what's going on with him."<br/>
<br/>
"That's good, Thomason, that's smart of you. Thanks. You're keeping your head. You keep me informed, and you keep Chen informed. By the way, why'd you text me instead of Chen?"<br/>
<br/>
"I did text him. He told me he was busy at work, I should talk to you."<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. He's got a lot on his plate, so you better talk to me about this stuff. What you need to do is to tell Call to calm down, that he'll be okay as long as he just sticks to following orders, and his only orders are to have fun and keep his mouth shut about this magic shit. Okay? 'Cos that's the only thing that'll get him fucked up. And what me and Chen did this afternoon, that's nothing. You ain't seen a tenth of what Chen's learned to do. Fuck, he's even got <i>me</i> scared of some of this stuff. I mean, think about it. If he can turn you into Andrea Varnsworth and Call into Jelena Pussyface, think what worse he could do. Long distance, too."<br/>
<br/>
"Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"Want me to tell him to demonstrate on your ass?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Alright, I'll tell him. But you know Call, he's not the kind of guy who'll roll over this this."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that a fact? Then I'll tell that to Chen when he gets off work. We'll take care of Call so he doesn't have a chance to make another boneheaded mistake."<br/>
<br/>
"No! Don't do that!" There's no mistaking the fright in her voice. "He won't do anything! I promise, I'll talk to him, get him to see that he has to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think that'll work, Thomason. I think you're right, I think he's gonna go full retard on us and tell someone -- "<br/>
<br/>
"He won't, I swear! Whatever you do to him, you can do to me if he goes retard on you!"<br/>
<br/>
You'd be touched by Thomason's loyalty to his friend if you actually had any respect for Thomason. "I'll hold you to that. Is there anything else?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think so. Are you, uh, also partnering with Chen on the sales thing?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>The sales thing. Jesus.</i> "No, the ganja business is all his. Bother him with stuff about that, he knows what's going on there better than me. Now hang up, because I got another text coming in."<br/>
<br/>
You don't actually, but talking to Thomason has given you indigestion.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You spend the rest of the evening waiting impatiently for a reply from Caleb, and for Kirkham's family to go to bed so you can get out of his mask and use the band on yourself. It's nearing nine o'clock when you realize that it's probably your fault that Caleb hasn't texted back: You sent him a curt <i>gotta talk 2 u</i> from Kirkham's cell. Why <i>wouldn't</i> Caleb ignore a text from Kirkham?<br/>
<br/>
So you send another. <i>hey its Will, in kirkham now, gotta talk 2 u</i>.<br/>
<br/>
And that gets an almost instant response, telling you to come up to the loft. Kirkham's mom doesn't mind him being out late, so you just give her a curt "Gotta run see a guy" as you haul ass through the living room while pulling on a windbreaker.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb has already opened up the side door to the gym, but you make sure to yell loudly for him as you cross the empty basketball court, for you don't want to bust in on him and the Chelseabot. At any rate, they are both fully clothed when you push open the loft door with your foot. Javits jerks his chin in greeting; Chelsea gives you a simpering smile. <br/>
<br/>
Your friend crawls over to the dorm-sized refrigerator. "So what's the deal," he asks. "Having one asshole wasn't enough, so you got yourself another?"<br/>
<br/>
"Something like that. Kirkham was being a problem. It just seemed the easiest way to do things by making him my spare."<br/>
<br/>
"Seems painful to me." He tosses you a beer. "Christ, Will, what is it with you and these psychos?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're one to talk, <i>Seth.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No I'm not, not until I've got <i>myself</i> a second asshole."<br/>
<br/>
Something in the way he says it catches your ear. "What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'm thinking you got two faces now. Why can't I? Gimme a mask I can use on Patterson." He turns to the Chelseabot. "Wouldn't you like to find out what Steve's cock feels like?"<br/>
<br/>
She squirms and pants, "You're enough for me, Seth."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, Caleb, didn't you leave her <i>any</i> of her original personality?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was repulsive. But come on, we're partners, right? Gimme Steve as a second. Fucker brings so much pussy up here." He shakes his head in wonderment.<br/>
<br/>
You put your hands in your pocket, and that's how you discover that you'd absentmindedly brought one of those new brain bands with you. <i>Well, why not?</i> you think. You need to try the thing out anyway. You just need to make a mask to go with it. "I guess I could do that," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome. So tomorrow night -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Do we have to talk about this in front of Chelsea?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks at his girlfriend. "Her?"<br/>
<br/>
"You got another Chelsea up here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever. Hey Chels, go hang out downstairs till I call you."<br/>
<br/>
She gets up and sways past you, that horrible smile still plastered to her face. You shudder. "That thing is creepy," you mutter. <br/>
<br/>
"Not as creepy as what's under it, right? And not as creepy as being Kirkham. Seriously, dude, what's the deal with the new face? What happened to Roth?"</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Hustles with Little Result
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You tear your attention away from Chelsea to answer Caleb's question. "It's just convenient, using Kirkham. You know? 'Cos he's close to Chen, gets in his face and shit."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to be Chen," Caleb reminds you. "So you don't have to be Kirkham."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know." You sigh impatiently. "I could be Patterson, I could -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, that door's closed." Caleb grins. "I took the hint, and now I want that fucker all for myself. Christ, you know he had <i>Kelsey</i> up here the other night?"<br/>
<br/>
That jars something loose in your head. "I thought she was doing it with Hennepin."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess she's doing it with both. Anyway, that's what I want." He stretches his arms, flexing them hard, and grunts. "Can start lettin' you up here, too, once I got -- Hey, maybe we could each get a third. You could be Delacroix, he wouldn't look outta place up here."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm good," you say evasively. "Look, I'll get the shit together tomorrow for your mask by six."<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme the key to the basement, and I'll take care of it."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "That's okay. Tomorrow's the Chenbot's night off. I can mix the shit up tonight, actually, and just have him do the polishing. Easiest on both of us."<br/>
<br/>
That basically ends the conversation, and you wish him a good fucking night after he asks you to send the Chelseabot back up as you leave.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You told Caleb you could make the mask up tonight because you're still thinking about the new brain band. That's the first thing you do when you get to the elementary school basement after leaving Westside: You pull off the mask of Kirkham and put it to your forehead. You're expecting to be knocked out, but you're not prepared for the nausea you feel when you awake. It's as though you've been pulled inside out.<br/>
<br/>
But the brain band is finished, as you confirm when you use it to unlock the page. To your disgust there is no writing on the other side of the page that explains what it does.<br/>
<br/>
And you kind of wish there was an explanation, because apparently this is a different kind of brain band. It now bears your name -- WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT -- but the letters are a fiery red instead of the familiar blue.<br/>
<br/>
You finger it for a very long time, then with a shrug lay it aside. You hadn't pinned a lot of hopes or assumptions on it, so you turn instead to the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ugh.</i> The previous spell consisted solely of a wall of words. This one consists solely of a sigil, and it's the most complex sigil you've seen yet. It looks like several sigils -- at least three -- enclosed within each other. Without much hope you tug at the corner of the page, to see if it will turn loose to give you some instructions, but it doesn't. Even after you've put Kirkham's mask back on and stared at the spell with his eyes and brain, you can't figure out how to approach it.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you've one idea, but it doesn't bear any fruit. After prepping a mask for tomorrow, you go home. You set the grimoire open next to the window and lay a sheet of paper over it. An expectant wait yields no result as no mysterious moon writing appears. But you leave it out overnight, even after you've stayed up until 1:30 carving up a new brain band to go with Patterson's mask. You use the traditional recipe instead of the new one.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Caleb's bit of gossip about Kelsey has reminded you that you need to move Evans into Kelsey's spot, and you're thinking about how to make the switch when you pull into the school parking lot the next morning. You overslept and are late, so you're hustling around the back of the school to first period, when you get an idea after passing the natatorium. You shoot a text to Andrea, asking if she can get Kelsey out alone to her house.<br/>
<br/>
The reply comes near the end of first period. <i>maybe, y?</i><br/>
<br/>
You start to compose a reply, then realize it would just be easier to talk. She has the same lunch as you, so you set up a meeting.<br/>
<br/>
But you conduct it by phone from different parts of the school -- it would look odd for Kirkham and Andrea to be seen together. You hide yourself in a portable; she tells you she's in a corner of the stacks in the library. "I'm moving Evans," you tell her. "Into Kelsey, but I need a place to do it. If you can get Kelsey out to your place, where it's just you and the dykes -- "<br/>
<br/>
She interrupts. "Have you talked to Evans about this?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but I'm pretty sure he can come out whenever."<br/>
<br/>
"What I mean is, is he okay with changing into Kelsey? Because I don't think he's going to like that."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck does 'liking' have to do with it? He does what he's told." You'd assume that's the end of it, but something in her silence makes you think there's something else going on. "Doesn't he? You heard something that would make that a problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just the way he talks about us. About me, the fact that I'm -- " Thomason lowers his voice to near whisper. "That I'm wearing a mask of a girl. I think he'd have a problem with putting one on."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh Jesus." Your contempt for Evans blossoms anew. "Like what kind of fucking problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like the kind of problem some guys have with putting on dresses. But more so. You know?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a fucking costume. Tomorrow's Halloween anyway. I'm not gonna bust his balls about being a girl. Fuck, he hasn't got any balls to bust anyway. Have I been busting <i>your</i> balls about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but you only got into this stuff yesterday. Would <i>you</i> put on a girl's body?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hell, yeah. I know what you get up to in that thing, Thomason, I'd -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So why don't you turn yourself into Kelsey?"<br/>
<br/>
That knocks you back on your heel. "I like keeping my head clear," you stammer. "I mean, I'd like to play with what you got. But Chen and me talked, and he convinced me I don't need to fuck myself up worrying about what clothes to wear or who's sucking off who." The truth of course, is nearly the opposite. You feel like you need to keep inside Chen's head, or Kirkham's, to have the instincts and the stamina to control guys like Thomason. "But is this really gonna be a problem for Evans?"<br/>
<br/>
"It might. You've already got Call unhappy."<br/>
<br/>
"Christ. Okay, let's meet to talk about it. Up here at the school about six. Can you do that? I'll talk to Evans and Mendoza, see if they can make up here too. We'll talk, figure something out."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Talk.</i> You snarl the word to yourself as you hang up. You'll fucking make Evans take whoever you want him to take, that's what you'll do.<br/>
<br/>
But in the back of your mind you know it's better to give him some say. And if he digs in his heels and refuses to take the part of Kelsey, maybe you can juggle the other two around.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Caleb came by your locker early in the day to ask if you could get the mask for Patterson ready by five o'clock -- "We're gonna hang out upstairs after practice" -- so immediately after school you send the Chenbot to get leftovers from his aunt's restaurant while you drive over to the elementary school to put things together. You've got the supplies together and have started buffing the mask when the 'bot shows up. Your turn the job of polishing up the mask over to it while you make yet another mask for use on Kelsey -- or whoever. The 'bot has finished the polishing job by four-thirty, and after attaching the brain band to the mask and gathering up sealant and the rockbot paste that uses Caleb's hair, you set it to polishing up the next mask.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb meets you downstairs at the doors of the gym to take the stuff from you, but you demur from helping him out with Patterson: "I got an errand to run. Besides, you know how to take care of it, don't you?" He gives you a dirty look, but doesn't kick when you leave. You circle back around to the parking lot, then keep going around the back of the school to the portables. <br/>
<br/>
Chris Trantham -- really Tanner Evans -- is already there, and under harsh questioning digs in against taking on the guise of Kelsey Blankenship, offering no reason other than a mulish "I don't want to." Nor does he want to take over for Andrea. He shrugs when Douglas Canfield shows up and you point to his sorry ass as a possible identity. To your relief, Mendoza says he's okay with taking on Kelsey's mask. By the time Andrea shows up, you've got thing set, and you send Thomason and Mendoza home while calling the Evansbot to come up to the school: Evans will go back to being himself until Andrea can set up an ambush for Kelsey.<br/>
<br/>
By six o'clock you're done and home and doing homework. A text comes from the cell of Steve Patterson, confirming that the switch went off without a hitch, and bragging that he'll be spending the evening in the company of Olivia Byrne.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck.</i> You pull off your glasses and rub your eyes. Not for the first time you wonder how it happened that <i>you</i> got the grimoire, but Caleb wound up getting all the ladies.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Hustles with Unexpected Results
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You tear your attention away from Chelsea to answer Caleb's question. "It's just convenient, using Kirkham," you reply. "'Cos he's close to Chen, gets in his face and shit."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to be Chen," Caleb reminds you. "So you don't have to be Kirkham."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know." You sigh impatiently. "I could be Patterson, I could -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, that door's closed." Caleb grins. "I took the hint, and now I want that fucker all for myself. Christ, you know he had <i>Kelsey</i> up here the other night?"<br/>
<br/>
That jars something loose in your head. "I thought she was doing it with Hennepin."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess she's doing it with both. Anyway, that's what I want." He stretches his arms, flexing them hard, and grunts. "Can start lettin' you up here, too, once I got -- Hey, maybe we could each get a third. You could be Delacroix, he wouldn't look outta place up here."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm good," you say evasively. "Look, I'll get the shit together tomorrow for your mask by six."<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme the key to the basement, and I'll take care of it."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "That's okay. Tomorrow's the Chenbot's night off. He can do the polishing."<br/>
<br/>
That basically ends the conversation, and you wish him a good fucking night after he asks you to send the Chelseabot back up as you leave.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Caleb's bit of gossip about Patterson and Kelsey Blankenship has reminded you that you need to get Evans moved out of Chris Trantham and into Kelsey. You text Andrea before going to bed, asking what her relationship with Kelsey is like. That's the only avenue you can see for getting to that rich cunt.<br/>
<br/>
You don't get a reply until the next morning, and it's equivocal: <i>ok. y?</i> You call her once you get to school. "Is there any way you can get her out to your house, alone, or with just you and the dykes? Oh, by the way, did you straighten Call's shit out?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so," she says guardedly. "But you ought to try smoothing things over with him a little."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not gonna smooth over shit. Fucker'll take it as a sign of weakness. If he wants to be on my good side, he's gonna have to come up with something that'll make me happy. But Kelsey, can you get her out to your place?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I'm going to put Evans in for her, so I need her someplace where I can do the switch."<br/>
<br/>
There's a long pause. "Have you talked to Evans about this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck no. Why would I hafta to do that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I don't think he'd like it."<br/>
<br/>
Now it's your turn to fall silent. "The fuck does that have to do with anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess it's got nothing to do with it, man," she says with an aggravated sigh. "But you know, Chen was at least giving us choices. He gave <i>me</i> a choice -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Chen put <i>me</i> in charge of staffing, so if I tell Evans he's going to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I think he's got a real phobia about it," Andrea interrupts. "Hang on, can I call you back? Traffic's getting bad and I shouldn't be talking. When I get to school -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Fine." You slap the phone off. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Where the fuck does Evans get off on deciding where he can or can't be?</i> But then you calm yourself. That's Kirkham talking, and Thomason is right, you were giving them choices originally. And it's bad enough that you've got Call in a pissy mood. You should listen to what Thomason's got to say. He's actually the smartest of the fucketeers, and he's done some good work for you.<br/>
<br/>
So when your cell rings again, you are a lot more pleasant. "So what's got you worried, man? Be fucking blunt about it."<br/>
<br/>
She still sounds guarded, though. "It's things he's said. You know, we do sometimes get together, or meet. Evans gives me shit about being Andrea. I don't mind," she grumbles, "but he says things like, 'No fucking way Chen could get <i>me</i> to put on one of those things'. So I just think he won't want to do it."<br/>
<br/>
"He don't like tits and pussy? What is he, gay?"<br/>
<br/>
Another long pause. You crane your neck to see if you can spot her car. "I think it's the opposite," she says in a hard voice. "You know, like he wants to have a cock and balls so he can shove himself <i>inside</i> a pussy."<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever. Listen, you three get together, you and Evans and Mendoza. Did he tell  you where he is? Dougie Canfield? Right, so get together and talk about who's willing to put on which mask. Find out if Evans is okay with being Kelsey. If he's not, find out if he's okay with being that Canfield fucker, and if Mendoza wouldn't mind being Kelsey. Or, I dunno -- " Kirkham's patience is starting to come apart at the seams. "Maybe you want to be Kelsey, and Mendoza wants to be Andrea, and Evans can be Canfield. You know? Tell Mendoza to think of some candidates for Evans, some dipshits in the junior or sophomore classes, just in case. Just talk over lots of possibilities so I know who's willing to be whoever instead of -- " You run out of breath and patience simultaneously. "You get it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. I think that's a good idea. We'll get it to work."<br/>
<br/>
"You better. But you know that I make the decisions. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
"I know."<br/>
<br/>
You break the connection and put the phone away, then turn at the sound of a car door closing. It's Andrea. She catches your eye briefly, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge you.<br/>
<br/>
You can't resist, though. As she approaches, you blow a lewd kiss at her. "Lookin' fine there, girl."<br/>
<br/>
She tilts her chin imperiously and quietly says, "Go fuck yourself, David" as she glides by.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a normal, boring Thursday at school. Javits leans in at locker after first period to ask in a low voice if you can have the mask ready by five, "'Cos me and Steve'll be hanging out upstairs after practice." You assure him that you can have a mask by then. Then late in the day you get a text from Andrea, telling you that she's set up a meeting with the other two fucketeers. After school you snag the Chenbot and have it follow you out to the elementary school basement. There you make the mask, then give it to the 'bot to polish. You'll be cutting it a little close getting everything done by five, but it'll be doable. To work on homework while the car buffer whines loudly nearby.<br/>
<br/>
By four-forty you're on the road back to school, with the polished mask and everything else you need for the ambush. That includes the grimoire, and you bite your lip as you mull the one awkward spot to come in the afternoon. You're going to have to get the new brain band onto Patterson separately, and then without Caleb noticing you'll have to get it into the book to unlock the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
That is, unless you tell him that you've gotten farther along in the book.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck it,</i> you decide after some momentary doubt. You've already got enough secrets from him. One more, for a little while, can't hurt. You'll just have to finesse it somehow. <br/>
<br/>
At school you loiter by the gym until you see the basketball squad heading out. You count off the members, and you've just decided they've all gone but Javits and Patterson when you get a text from Caleb: <i>where ru?</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>downstairs outside come meet me</i>, you reply.<br/>
<br/>
A minute later the doors open. A frowning Javits puts his head out. Before he can speak, you hand him the new brain band. "Get this on him, then text me when it's clear."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck? Where's the rest of the mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"Better this way," you hiss back. An idea suddenly comes to you. "He'll see a mask coming if you try that on him. You can keep the band hidden until the last minute. Then once he's out we can put the mask on him, then glue them together. This way we don't have to tackle the asshole."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, not a bad plan," he nods, and disappears.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart thumps as you wait, and Caleb gives you plenty of time for your nerves to twist up. For whatever reason, he's taking his sweet time getting the band onto Patterson. You're about to head in and see if he's in trouble when the "all clear" text comes.<br/>
<br/>
You take the stairs three at a time to the loft, and a distressing sight meets your eyes when you burst in: Patterson, unconscious, next to an unconscious Caleb Johansson. It takes you a moment to realize that Caleb has simply taken Seth's mask off in preparation for a switch.<br/>
<br/>
You unpack the gear, and coat the inside of the Javits mask with some of Caleb's rockbot paste for when he puts it on Patterson. Long minutes pass, then the new brain band comes out of Patterson. Quickly you press it into the book, confirm the next spell is unlocked, then shove the book away into your bag. The blank mask goes onto Patterson, and a minute later Caleb sits up with a groan. "Wanna make the switch right away, huh?" you grin at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Fucker told me he's got Olivia Byrne coming up here tonight. Again. Boo-yah!" The exclamation sounds a lot sillier coming from him than from Javits. "So where are we on the copying?"<br/>
<br/>
"Got the band already. Just waiting for the mask."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gets you a beer, and you talk a little more, mostly about the pussy he's anticipating. It's clear he can't wait to don Patterson's identity. "I'll get out of your way as soon as the mask is done," you promise him. You don't want to be up here alone with Steve Patterson, even if it is your best friend underneath.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb hands you the mask when it comes out. You slide a bit of glue across its inner surface and attach the brain band. You're about to seal it shut when you freeze.<br/>
<br/>
STEVEN PERCEVAL PATTERSON, says the band. But the letters are red, not the blue you're used to seeing.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Layers of Creepiness
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You barely hear Caleb's question: you're concentrating on Chelsea Cooper as she walks away.<br/>
<br/>
And you're concentrating on the girl, not on her ass or on her legs or on the way her golden hair cascades around her shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
You don't know Chelsea Cooper, and in your time had as little to do with her as she found possible. So you don't know what she was like originally.<br/>
<br/>
But you can't imagine she was anything like the simpering girl you just saw. It was creepy, and it gives you the chills.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I'm talking to you." Seth Javits's voice breaks in on your attention, but he doesn't break your concentration on the girl. The door closing on her doesn't break it either. "She's pretty fine, ain't she," Caleb says. "It's a good thing I'm not jealous."<br/>
<br/>
You turn on him. "You think I want to do your robot?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"Can that be arranged?"<br/>
<br/>
He turns shrewd. "Maybe. Have to set it up special. Patterson and I have to keep out of each other's way, and he gets more time up here than I do." He raises an eyebrow. "That's another reason I should get Patterson, that way I get total control over -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, we'll do that. I'll make the mask for you, but you gotta polish it up yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme have the key to the basement, and I'll do all the work myself."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "Nah, I'll get it started for you. Besides, things are all upside down out there. Me and Chen -- the Chenbot, I mean -- we've been moving stuff around. Did you know there's another door in there? Anyway, I'll take care of the basics, then bring it up to you to finish."<br/>
<br/>
"You gonna help me take Patterson? He's a big, mean son of a bitch."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll try to fit it in." There's an awkward pause between you. "So, I guess that's it."<br/>
<br/>
"Really? What did you need to see me about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I didn't <i>have</i> to, though I guess it's kind of nice. I just wanted to tell you where I was, what I was doing. So you'd know I'm here and not -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Is this where you're going to be, more or less? Inside David Kirkham?" He looks amused.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. I'll keep you posted on my whereabouts."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, Will," he says, and he sounds more like the old Caleb. "It's not like we're on fucking Facebook and I need a status update from you every time you move."<br/>
<br/>
And with that the conversation peters out. Caleb asks you to send Chelsea back up. You set the unopened beer on a box, and leave.<br/>
<br/>
The staircase is deserted, and not until you're down in the gym do you spot where the Chelseabot is. There's a glow on one of the bleachers. It's gotta be from her phone. You trudge over to her.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Even after she'd gone, you were thinking about her, and how much it bothered you the way she was looking at you. It felt like an act, like she was only pretending to be this docile slave, and she couldn't help overdoing the effect. It gave you the shivers, for it led to a horrible thought: Maybe Gary Chen <i>isn't</i> asleep under that mask, maybe he's only pretending to be asleep, and he's still guiding that body and plotting against you.<br/>
<br/>
That was the suspicion that came to you as she brushed past you, and it renews itself now. Your hand tightens around the new brain band. Because <i>that's</i> how you could figure out if Chen is only playing possum. Get the mask off him, put the band on him, and then get a look at what he's been plotting all the time he's been under that mask.<br/>
<br/>
You're on top of the girl before she looks up. You can't make out her expression, but her tone is friendly. "Are you and Seth all done?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but I need to talk to you a moment." Despite Kirkham's bravado, you suddenly feel very scared. It's like when you're watching a horror movie, and one of the characters goes up to closed door. You know something scary is going to happen, either when the door opens or right after. <br/>
<br/>
You've got that same feeling now, only you're not watching a movie, you're in one. And the monster is Gary Chen.<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea looks at you, then puts her phone down. "Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. Hold still. I gotta do something to your face."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you -- ? Hey!" She struggles, but not hard, as you cover her eyes with one hand and brace the back of her head with the other. You grit your teeth around some magical words, and pull.<br/>
<br/>
It's almost like pulling a plunger out of a toilet, the way the mask comes away in your hand. Chelsea's head gets very heavy, and she lists to the side. Only she's not Chelsea Cooper anymore. You let Chen sink to the side onto the bleacher, and quickly get the new brain band onto him.<br/>
<br/>
It's a long wait, and you pace nervously. You keep expecting Caleb to appear, looking for his girl. If he does, you'll just tell him the truth, or something like it: that Chen had some info in his brain that you needed, so you were using a brain band to get it out. There's nothing very secret about what you're doing, and if he hadn't sent the Chelseabot away, you might have done it upstairs with him there.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, you come real close to dashing upstairs to tell him what you're doing. But you decide that's unnecessary. Besides, it's only guilt that's tempting you, guilt at keeping so many secrets from him.<br/>
<br/>
At any rate, you're still alone when the band reappears, and the Chelseabot says nothing when the mask is back on and she's sat up again. "If Caleb asks where you were," you tell her, "tell him he can text me and I'll explain. Not that it's important."<br/>
<br/>
"Caleb?" she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Oh, that's right. I meant Seth."<br/>
<br/>
"That's a funny mistake to make," she says, and gets up.<br/>
<br/>
You get the shivers again as you watch her dim outline walking toward the stairs to the loft.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You do hear from Caleb on the drive home, but it's green lights all the way and you're parked in front of your house before you can check the text. <i>whats the deal w chelsea?<br/>
<br/>
needed thing from chen's memories,</i> you text back. <i>used brain band on him.<br/>
<br/>
smthing wrong w chenbot?<br/>
<br/>
no, i wanted 2 know what chen was doing while in chelsea.<br/>
<br/>
anything i need 2 know?<br/>
<br/>
dont know, tell u later.</i><br/>
<br/>
You pause, wondering if you should warn Caleb not to let the Chelseabot see those texts. You decide it's probably too late. If anything, she was probably looking over his shoulder while he was tapping them in. Or she was sucking him off while he lay back and -- <br/>
<br/>
<i>Ew. Best not to visualize anything like that.</i><br/>
<br/>
Inside the house, you pause in the living room to say hi to your mom. She's sprawled on the sofa, looking exhausted from her shift at the hospital, and watching a news program. She looks irritated, but it's not on account of the arguing pundits, as you learn when she hits the mute and points at the lamp. "What happened there?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh. The lamp that Tad busted when getting down his stash.</i> "Sorry, I meant to mention that. I knocked it over while getting a book down." <br/>
<br/>
You don't know why you took the blame yourself instead of putting it on your little brother. Just one of Kirkham's reflexes, you guess.<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you manage that?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was one of those heavy books up there, and it slipped out of my hand when I was turning around. I did my best to get the dent out, but -- " You can only shrug helplessly.<br/>
<br/>
Her face slackens back into exhaustion. "Well, we'll put it on the list as something else to get replaced, eventually."<br/>
<br/>
"I can bring my lamp down from my room, switch it out with this one. I don't mind."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't mind either, honey," she says, and she sounds too tired to mind it even if she'd like to. "Just be careful."<br/>
<br/>
A prickle goes up and down your back. <i>In the Prescott house, you'd thrust all blame onto the deserving Robert, and do it as fast as possible.</i> The prickle turns into a burning blush as you feel Kirkham's contempt for your native cowardice. "Fuck you," you murmur at him. "You're not better than me."<br/>
<br/>
Inside the bedroom, you take out the new brain band, giving it a cursory glance before --<br/>
<br/>
You frown at it. There's something wrong.<br/>
<br/>
It's the name. Oh, it's got those same goofy Chinese characters that are inside the Chen mask, the characters that spell out <i>Chen Guangli.</i> But in all the brain bands you've made before, the lettering has been blue.<br/>
<br/>
These characters are a bright red.<br/>
<br/>
So it's not a new-style brain band. Or if it is, it's a different kind of brain band.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, time to check the book.</i> You lay the band onto the spell page, give a few seconds to register, then lift and turn.<br/>
<br/>
The reverse of the page is blank. You flip back to the spell. It's just that wall of text.<br/>
<br/>
You sit back with a grimace. <br/>
<br/>
It's clear now that you're getting into some pretty advanced stuff, the kind of stuff that's beyond the capabilities of a high school student. You turn the previous page -- the one you magically repaired. It was a sheer fluke that you got past that, and now you're wondering if it wasn't a test or a trap -- something to separate the idiots (like you) from the masters.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should take the hint and stop now.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe you should you get Caleb to put it on, to see what it does to him.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: A Total Change of Mind
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You shouldn't experiment on your friends. No, if you're going to keep playing with these items, you're going to have to do the manly thing and take the responsibility yourself. Like you did just now, with the lamp downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
Testing the new brain band will require you to take off Kirkham's mask. (At least, you assume so.) So it seems best to wait until the house is dark and everyone is asleep. That shouldn't be too long, to judge by what you saw in the living room. The trouble would come if Tad got nosy during the night. He doesn't do that -- unlike your own little brother -- but tonight <i>would</i> be the night that he broke a long-standing habit.<br/>
<br/>
You kill the time as best you can on the computer, but you can't concentrate on anything, and you keep making short trips out into the hall to see if things are shutting down. You're pleasantly surprised when you see the lights out under Tad's door, but they remain on in the living room.<br/>
<br/>
And they remain on.<br/>
<br/>
As midnight creeps closer, you start to worry. So you look in. The TV is still going with the sound down low, and Kirkham's mom has her head back on the couch with her mouth wide open, snoring softly. You're tempted to leave her there, but a simulacrum of devotion takes over, and you lean over to gently wake her. She doesn't want to come up out of it. When she does wake, it's with a start and a groan. "It's almost midnight," you tell her. "You fell asleep out here."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." She sighs and yawns. "I should go to bed then."<br/>
<br/>
"Let me help you."<br/>
<br/>
"No, that's -- "<br/>
<br/>
But you insist, and you do most of the work getting her onto her feet. You also support her most of the way down the hall until she gets enough energy to make it on her own. You wish each other good night, and separate into your bedrooms.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Finally,</i> you think when you get the door shut.<br/>
<br/>
Except you're really not relieved. You're rather dreading what comes next, because you don't know what it will be. You prepare by putting the brain band and your cell phone under the pillow: that's where Kirkham keeps the latter at night anyway. Then you take off your clothes and put out the light and crawl between the sheets. You settle in, trying to get comfortable. After all this delay, your nerve almost fails you at the last moment, but with a spasm of resolve you seize your own brow and pull.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake with a start, looking wildly around. It's pitch dark. You scramble about, feeling for the cell phone, and cuss groggily as you pull it from under the pillow.<br/>
<br/>
It's almost exactly five minutes after you put out the lights. <i>Jesus.</i> You were half convinced you'd slept most of the night away.<br/>
<br/>
You lay back down and blink at the dark ceiling. You touch your face -- the long thin whiskers on your chin and lip -- and you hair. It feels just the way you remember it feeling, but you shiver and sink down under the covers some more. It's a kind of horrifying thrill: You're in David Kirkham's bedroom, in his bed -- and you're naked, too! You shiver again, thinking of the magic that has brought you to such an unlikely spot.<br/>
<br/>
Then you pull the new brain band from under the pillow. You look at the Chinese characters on the band. Their glow looks more sinister than usual. Probably that's because they are red and not blue. And the significance of that is?<br/>
<br/>
Only one way to find out.<br/>
<br/>
With a deep breath that's almost a gulp, you lay the band onto your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
A hole opens in the center of your forehead, and the universe rushes into it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You come halfway out of the bed with a stifled yelp, grabbing at air. Your heart batters at your ribs, and you pull in deep breath after deep breath. You are trembling all over.<br/>
<br/>
Nausea washes over you, and you fall forward with a groan, covering your face with your hands, fighting the urge to throw up. Something is aching inside your brain. It's a foreign presence, a parasite. You spasm once, then again, and fall over onto your side.<br/>
<br/>
It's Prescott. That's who's inside your head. Hatred like a blowtorch blasts your brain, but it can't burn him out. He only retreats, like a shadow springing away from bright light.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, that's all he is, a shadow, like that shadow mind of Chelsea that you carried around with you after putting her mask on. It was creepy having her draped around you, but it was useful too. When you were with her family or friends, running things in the cafeteria or on the gym floor, you could wrap her around yourself, like a little kid wrapping himself in a sheet to pretend he was a ghost. Then she covered you completely, and you could prattle and sneer and preen and simper just like the real girl while still peeping out through the eyeholes. Sometimes it was fun. <br/>
<br/>
Oh hell, it was almost always fun.<br/>
<br/>
But now Chelsea's gone and it's Prescott in here with you, and that's a lot less fun. If he was outside you could beat the shit out of him, but there's no getting ahold of him here.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Here.</i> You blink.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i><br/>
<br/>
Gingerly, with deep loathing because you know what you're going to find, you put your fingertips to your face. It's Prescott's face. That nausea, which had swiftly ebbed, just as swiftly rolls back in again.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, God damn it.</i> Prescott's memories, after fleeing your onslaught, rush back in. Instantly, hideously, you see it all from his perspective. He made a new toy and he tried it out and --<br/>
<br/>
You flop onto your back, your eyes straining as you try to see the solution in the dark.<br/>
<br/>
Somehow the new brain band pulled you out of your own body and put you into his.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Christ!</i> He pulled off a reverse possession! Instead of possessing someone else's body, he got himself possessed by you! Or it was a real body swap.<br/>
<br/>
You laugh out loud, once. You don't know whether to be horrified or ecstatic. <br/>
<br/>
Horrified, because you're trapped in a body that makes you want to vomit.<br/>
<br/>
Or ecstatic, because in Prescott's body and with his memories and his toys, you're running the show!<br/>
<br/>
You inhale and exhale deeply, and now when you run Prescott's flabby hands over your chest it's with a mix of loathing and malicious glee. <i>The fucker outsmarted himself!</i><br/>
<br/>
Being in his body brings other problems than the obvious one -- that it's a sickening place to be. You can't show his face in public, since there's someone else -- Gordon Black of all people! -- parading around in it. But a mask can hide it.<br/>
<br/>
Trouble is, the only mask at hand is the one he made of Kirkham. <i>Christ, there's another reason to punch your new body in the face.</i> But come the morning, at any rate, you're going to have to put the mask back on and go to school as Kirkham. <br/>
<br/>
Once you're there, though, you can get your old face back by taking it off Kirkham, and then you and he can -- <br/>
<br/>
Now dread washes over you. Yes, you and he can be partners, right, like he and the fake you were working as partners. Can't you? Except, how can you explain to him that you're really Gary Chen, when you've got Prescott's body?<br/>
<br/>
And what happened to your old body? The last thing that Prescott saw was Chelsea Cooper walking away to be with Seth Javits. Who was guiding the thing? No one, because it was just one of these robots he's been making? Or is Prescott inside your old body the way you're inside his? Was it an actual body swap?<br/>
<br/>
No, that couldn't be what happened. Because Prescott was himself all the way back to Kirkham's. The possession didn't happen until a little while ago, when he slapped that new band onto himself. <br/>
<br/>
You drape your arm over your forehead, and reflect that there are advantages to being inside Prescott, but there are disadvantages, too. The main disadvantage being that you are just as ignorant about these things as he was.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You can't sleep for all the problems and questions to think through, but you can't think through them either because you are so ill and tired from fear and frustration. It's closer to morning than to midnight when you finally give up and try to catch a little sleep. And then it turns out to be easy to get to sleep. All you have to do is put Kirkham's mask back on.<br/>
<br/>
The alarm wakes you at around six forty-five, and you're out of bed and wondering why you went to sleep nude before you remember clearly who you are and how you got to be here. You surprise yourself by feeling no embarrassment at being in Kirkham's naked body, but that's largely because you two got used to being stripped down in athletic changing rooms. You shower, dry yourself and your hair, look yourself over in the mirror, and with a guilty resentment reflect that Kirkham shouldn't -- and doesn't -- have nearly as much trouble as you do at getting laid. Then you get dressed, fix breakfast for yourself and Tad while sparing him only as many words as you can get away with, and see him out the door to catch a ride with his best friend, Aidan Baumgarten, who lives just half a block down the street. Then you get in Kirkham's car and take a much more circuitous route to the same school as you do some thinking.<br/>
<br/>
You've got a couple of choices. One is to get the mask off your best friend and try to explain things to him. Maybe he'll understand. Another is to keep muddling through, as Prescott had been muddling through. Maybe you can get the Chelsea mask off your old body to see what's up. A third possibility is to see if there's any expert help out there to draw on.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: That Unexpected Object of Desire
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Westside High doesn't look any different as you approach it. It's the same blank wall of the gym facing the student parking lot, and the same athletic fields off to the right. You don't feel any different about it either. As far as you're concerned it's the same dumb concentration camp it's been since you entered it as a freshman, with the same dumb mix of kids. The dumb brainiacs and the dumb party dudes and party girls, the dumb jocks and the dumb troublemakers. Girls who are prissy and girls who are easy and girls who haven't decided which one they want to be. <br/>
<br/>
Only the toothpick rolling around in your mouth feels different. That's Kirkham's toothpick, and you're walking into the school under the face of your best friend. You have no choice, not after the way Prescott fucked him over.<br/>
<br/>
You have to give that little douchebag some credit, though. He's done a smart job of expanding your trade network, and has seeded masks in all the right places. It was your brain that was helping him, of course, same as it was your nerve that gave him the courage to swap in some more morons and to put the Eastman trade into the hands of that robot. The same nerve that led him to kick the shit out of Josh Call when that fuckwit told Kirkham what was going on, and the same nerve that handled your best friend when he tried horning in.<br/>
<br/>
And it was the same nerve that let him drop the boom onto you by trapping you under that mask of Chelsea. You should have seen it coming. You should have known that if he had the guts to run your business he'd have the guts to handle you. But he played it cool and didn't let you see how good he was doing. He just took everything over, and when he finally got tired of your shit he got rid of you too.<br/>
<br/>
But you got the last laugh, didn't you?<br/>
<br/>
And you'll definitely have the last laugh once you figure out how to get back into your body. Then you and Kirkham will really start running things.<br/>
<br/>
But you'll have to wait to tell your friend what's going on. Telling him now, when you're still trapped in Prescott's body, would carry too many risks. It would be really easy for him not to believe you.<br/>
<br/>
That's the final plan, though. But to get there you'll need help. You'll need to find someone who can at the very least interpret sigils and tell you what you're getting into. You're not going to make Prescott's mistake and dive further into the book without understanding what you're getting into.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Kirkham's schedule isn't lighter than yours, but it's less intensely demanding. It opens with a study hall, which gives you a chance to catch up on your sleep before going in to AP Calculus. After that you get the muscles warmed and stretched and tested in a weightlifting class in the gym, and then you let them cool off in Chemistry II. Lunch brings another respite before sixth period AP Statistics. <br/>
<br/>
That's the class that Kirkham and Chen share. You're nervous while waiting for him to show up. You're not sure what it's going to be like to sit in a desk next to yourself. Kirkham's memories are one thing, but to experience it yourself?<br/>
<br/>
You're irritably clicking your mechanical pencil when he comes in the door. It gives you a start.<br/>
<br/>
The first thing you notice about Chen Guangli is his nervous, thrusting energy. He doesn't walk into the classroom, he sizzles in. His eyes flash about, taking in the room. The pack is off his shoulders before he's halfway to his chair, and he swings it easily onto the back of his desk. He slips into his seat and turns to give you a gleaming, slant-eyed smile.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes are curved like scimitars, and his upper lip curls when he smiles, showing his teeth. Strands of dark hair stick out from under his gray ski cap; they are curved and pointed like Oriental knives. He's in a heavy camo jacket, and the cuffs of his cargo trousers are stuffed into the tops of heavy boots. Everything about him screams "Don't tread on me."<br/>
<br/>
He's almost impossibly sexy.<br/>
<br/>
"So what do you hear?" he asks in a low hiss.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug, for you can't get your tongue and throat to work. You're deeply conscious of the fact that your cock is springing up hard.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, everything's okay with me too." He slaps a jacket pocket. "Heavy trade today."<br/>
<br/>
"Is it?" You can form those words only because they don't require any effort. You're horrified by how excited you are to be sitting next to this guy.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm fucking stoked, man. Where was this business last year when I really needed it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was sitting in a used bookstore."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing." You lean forward to hide your erection, but that just squeezes it harder, and you pinch your eyes shut. "We should hang out this afternoon, I got some research to do."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, I got time before work. What kind of research?"<br/>
<br/>
"That book. We need to find someone who can read it."<br/>
<br/>
"We do? I thought we <i>were</i> reading it."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, really read it, not just Google translate it. I almost had a disaster last night."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing. It worked out, it worked out in a fucking awesome way, but we can't take any more risks."<br/>
<br/>
"So how do we -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
But class starts. You can barely pay attention, for your eyes keep straying over to Gary Chen. And it's like your dick is straining at him too, like a dowsing rod.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're relieved to head into Chamber Orchestra after that. That's actually Kirkham's favorite class of the day -- a chance to play some challenging music with people who are up for it. <br/>
<br/>
But mostly you're glad for the chance to figure out what the <i>hell</i> was going on with you in Statistics.<br/>
<br/>
You are pretty fucking sure that Kirkham isn't gay. He doesn't look at gay porn or ogle passing guys. His tastes seem pretty normal, inclining toward girls with big bosoms and firm asses. You wrack his memories and can't come up with occasions in which Kirkham felt anything but a brotherly affection for Gary Chen.<br/>
<br/>
You'd love to pin it onto the Prescott personality you're lugging around. But a quick glance in there finds only a healthy fear and loathing of "Gary Chen," and certainly nothing like a tongue-tied lust for him. Besides, you've got Prescott's personality completely cowed, and not once in any of your classes have you felt an impression or a fleeting emotion whose alien nature could be connected to your erstwhile tormentor.<br/>
<br/>
So that only leaves one explanation: you have a jonesing for yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You force the issue aside during Orchestra, and relax to the strains of Mozart as you practice one of his string quartets with the other advanced students. Sometimes Kirkham wishes he was closer to the other guys in there, so that he could relax and joke around with them. But ever since he beat up Andrew Harding -- the viola player -- in the tenth grade, no one in the class says more to Kirkham than they have to. But that gives you time to get into the music and to let your troubles drift away on the melodies.<br/>
<br/>
But your last class, the blow-off "Asian Alphabets" language class, brings you back to the problem of your reaction to the doppelganger. You decide finally not to be bothered by it. Surely it doesn't mean anything, that you were physically attracted to yourself. It was a matter of the look, surely. You take a great deal of care in dressing yourself and projecting an image, and it's an image you calculated not only to be intimidating but to look good while looking intimidating. You've scoped yourself out in the mirror plenty of times. How much more exciting should it be to see a reflection you've made sexy to your satisfaction when it's alive and not mirroring your own movements?<br/>
<br/>
Only at the end of class do you remember what happened to Prescott when he put on Jamie Rennerhoff's mask and went to the Warehouse. And if you got alone with your robotic doppelganger, what would happen then?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The memory of that sufficiently alarms you that you cancel your after-school meeting and flee to the Keyserling college library instead. There you spend a couple of hours browsing the internet with your phone, and using leads picked up there to try finding books on magic and its different school and techniques. Armed with this info you hunt down what books there are in the library. There are a lot of them in the school catalog -- a lot more than you'd hoped to find -- but most of them have been checked out. You get a lead on a couple of professors who might be able to help -- the ones in medieval studies are the most likely to know something useful -- but by the time you've moved on to them it's too late to go find any, and you go home for supper and homework and another desultory glance through the grimoire. The next spell settles it for you: it's nothing but sigils enclosed in sigils, with no regular words at all to translate. You're not going to tangle with <i>that.</i><br/>
<br/>
You go back online to check out when and where you might meet up with those university professors, and cuss to find that although they have hours set aside to meet with students, they are all during the weekday hours when you'll be in class.<br/>
<br/>
All except one guy, a professor who includes in his specialties "non-Romance languages." The sigils surely count as a "non-Romance" language, and his office hours begin at four o'clock. But the rest of them? Ten o'clock, eleven-fifteen, one-fifteen. They don't have hours on Saturdays or Sundays, either.<br/>
<br/>
So, there it is. You can skip class tomorrow, or you can meet this Dr. Terry Lipscomb after class tomorrow and hope that he can give you a lead.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Does Anyone Here Know How to Play This Game?
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Friday the Thirty-First.</i><br/>
<br/>
It doesn't sound as scary as "Friday the Thirteenth," despite "31" being a transposition of "13." But it's Friday, October the Thirty-First. And it being Halloween makes it even scarier.<br/>
<br/>
Because that means all the dipshits at school will be dressing up. And that's probably why, at the last minute, you jerk the wheel to the right instead of to the left and drive out to the university instead of to school. You can afford to skip a day.<br/>
<br/>
Hell, you might even get one of the professors to write you a note saying that you were up at the college talking about taking some classes. That might get the school administration -- if they even cared -- to expunge the absence from your record.<br/>
<br/>
If they even keep records of such things. Sometimes you wonder if anyone really pays attention.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your first lead is a Dr. William Steed, who is the sole scholar in Keyserling's Medieval Studies Program. It's good that you headed up to the college early instead of stopping for coffee and a donut someplace, because it takes you forever to find a parking lot that doesn't require a permit. It does leave you enough time, though, to walk over to the student union, where you buy a small black coffee at the Dunn Brewin' inside the food court.<br/>
<br/>
Then it's over to the History building, where Steed has his office. It's an ugly old building from the 1970s: a cube that's four stories tall and is as wide and squat as it is tall. The lower three floors are entirely windowless, being covered in stone panels engraved with things that look like hieroglyphs. Why someone would erect such a building you don't understand; and the only people to work in it, you're sure, are people who have incurred the university president's displeasure.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe Steed is one of them. He's on the third floor, squatting in an office that's a little bigger than a janitorial supply closet. And he is literally squatting, for he's on the floor scooping up papers that have apparently toppled off a tall stack of folders at the corner of his desk. It also surprises you -- though why should it? -- that he is African American.<br/>
<br/>
You knock, and he turns wide, almost wild eyes up at you. "Dr. Steed?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" His voice is a rich baritone. You bet he drives the ladies wild with it.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have a minute to talk?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. That's what office hours are for. Be with you in a minute." He resumes pulling the papers together, glances through them with a sigh, and looks around for a place to put them. Every surface in the office is covered with books or folders. With a helpless gesture, he points to a chair in front of his desk, which is similarly stacked with papers. "You can move that onto floor," he says. "Just be careful, okay?"<br/>
<br/>
The title on the top sheet catches your eye, though it doesn't mean anything to you: "The Newt and the Sparrow: Metaphors of Medievalism and Modernism in Confrontation." "I'm editing a book," Dr. Steed says. With a wry smile, he adds, "Though 'randomly shuffling' might be a better way to describe it. Are you one of my students?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I'm in high school."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Are you interested in history?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh -- " You don't know if honesty will get you credit or not.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, never mind. You're not selling band candy, are you?" He waves a large hand with long, graceful fingers, and you can't help noticing the flutter -- like the different sides of an aspen leaf -- of the dark of his hand against the light of his palm.<br/>
<br/>
"No. It's about an old book I found in the used book store."<br/>
<br/>
"They're usually old if they're in a used book store," he observes as you lean forward to open your back pack.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, this one was in the special collections area." You pull out the grimoire. "Most of it's in Latin, but some of it uses some other kind of alphabet or something." You hesitate before handing it over to him. "I guess I want to know if anyone can read it, or if it's just decoration." You lay the book in his outstretched hands.<br/>
<br/>
But he doesn't set it on the desk. Instead, he peers at it, and tickles the cover with his fingertips. "It doesn't appear to be a medieval work," he says. "A modern reproduction, likely. Has it got a name?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure. It's in Latin, and I don't see anything that look like a title, like, uh -- " You glance down at that other manuscript. "The Newt and the Sparrow," etc., doesn't seem like much of a title either.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, they were pretty long-winded back then," says Dr. Steed. "They believed that you should know exactly what you were getting when you picked up one of their books." With that, he opens the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
He pauses on the first page, the one with the metamorphosing faces. He stares at them with an unchanging expression. You keep your own face neutral. Dr. Steed doesn't look up at you, but he does let out a quiet "Whew," and turns to the next page. "Handwritten," he says. "If it's a reproduction, it's a very good reproduction, done up to look like an early modern manuscript. Where did you find this?" Now he does look at you, piercingly.<br/>
<br/>
"At Arnholm's, in the special collections. It was two hundred dollars."<br/>
<br/>
"Then it's certainly a reproduction. I can't imagine Ted Arnholm letting something original go for a price that low."<br/>
<br/>
You'd feel disappointment, but your interest in the book isn't monetary. "The stuff I'm talking about -- " <br/>
<br/>
You lean forward to turn the page, but Dr. Steed blocks you. "Tch tch tch, let me do it my way, if you want my opinion. Your book would have been called the <i>Libra Personae,</i> I can tell you that much, though the actual title is much longer and descriptive. He rests his chin in his cupped hand. "It's a work in neo-Aristotelian natural philosophy, if it's describing itself accurately. Alchemical and astrological in particular." He chuckles. "You might have found yourself an authentic grimoire. Or a reproduction of one."<br/>
<br/>
You pretend to be surprised. "Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. More likely a parody. The late nineteenth century was thick with pretended antiques." He turns a page. "It might be worth a monograph if we knew who the author was." He turns another page.<br/>
<br/>
"Can you tell me what <i>that</i> is." You point at a sigil.<br/>
<br/>
Dr. Steed studies it closely. Then he reads the rest of the page. "Yes, this is definitely pretending to be a grimoire. That thing is supposed to be part of the magic. You'll summon a demon or something if you use it right." He traces the edges of the sigil with a fingertip, and his lips work. Then he shakes his head. "No, this isn't an alphabet, or if it is, it's not one that I recognize." He raises his head to study the bookshelf behind you. He grunts. "No, I don't have anything that would -- No, sorry." He smiles sadly at you. "If this were the Ecole Nationale I could tell you exactly who to talk to. But at Keyserling?" He shrugs, and sits back in his chair.<br/>
<br/>
So you thank him and go on your way.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's the same story with Dr. Lisa Potowski in the History of Science program, and with Dr. Samuel Chidwick in the Philosophy Department. You're down to that linguistics professor whose office hours begin after Westside's classes are over, but Dr. Chidwick catches you just as you're leaving. "I'll tell you who you should talk to," he says. "Aubrey Blackwell, over in the Anthropology Department. He's interested in alchemy and stuff like that." You thank him and head across campus.<br/>
<br/>
Dr. Blackwell's office door is closed, but the departmental secretary tells you he's in a meeting with the chairman and will be out in a little while. You slump in the hall in front of his door so he'll have to pass you on his way back.<br/>
<br/>
It was always going to be a long shot finding someone locally who can read and understand the sigils, or even point you in the right direction, so you try not to feel despair as you're down to your last two possibilities. But you're not inclined to waste time on hopes that won't bear out, so you've already got the book out in your lap when a bulky figure looms over you.<br/>
<br/>
He's a tall man, with a fat, apple-like belly sticking out inside a black pullover sweater that's encased in a tweed jacket. His face is pasty and a few lank hairs cover a bald scalp. A badly trimmed goatee and moustache disfigure his mouth. "I beg your pardon," he says with patent insincerity as he tries to step around you. You scramble to your feet.<br/>
<br/>
"Dr. Blackwell? If you've got a minute I -- "<br/>
<br/>
You stop, for he's clearly not listening to you. His eyes are fastened on the book in your hand, and a bit of green is showing in his cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet yours. "Ah," he croaks. "You are here to see me?"<br/>
<br/>
You shiver all over. "Yeah. It's about this book."<br/>
<br/>
"Then please come in." He jams a key at the lock, but misses it completely because he can't keep from glancing down at the book you're holding. He pokes at it a few more times with the key, and finally gets the door open. He draws a labored breath, and turns on the light.<br/>
<br/>
You did not come to this meeting unarmed, and you did not go looking for someone who would read and explain the spells to you. You went looking for a brain to copy, the way that Prescott and Johansson copied Mr. Leavey's brain when they were trying understand the Latin. So last night you made up a new brain band. One of the classics, not the new kind.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Another Brain for Your Collection
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're pretty sure you've found your guy, just from the way Dr. Blackwell was looking at the book. It was the look of man shocked and excited by something he recognizes. And since the grimoire is not obviously an antique -- Dr. Steed immediately thought it looked like a reproduction -- then this Blackwell character must be excited by the book itself.<br/>
<br/>
So you don't wait for Blackwell to turn around or even to get across his office. You reach up behind him and put the brain band to his forehead. He instantly folds up and falls to the floor. Thank God he didn't fall backward against you. The man must weigh at least two hundred and sixty pounds.<br/>
<br/>
You close his office door and lock it, and roll the toothpick around speculatively in your mouth as you wait for the job to finish. You hope you didn't misjudge the man, and your immediate excitement quickly wanes as you wait for the brain band to reappear. But a feeling of anticipation returns as you ponder where and when to test the new band out. There's no rush to get inside the professor's mind; the grimoire can wait, even if Blackwell's brain can help you out. But you want to settle the question of whether he even <i>can</i> help you out, so you decide to find yourself a private spot here on campus so you can get the brain band on as quick as you can.<br/>
<br/>
Minutes pass. There's a stealthy sound outside, as of someone approaching the door. It's locked, so you don't worry about being found like this, but you tense anyway. The person, if they did pause at Blackwell's door, moves off. You perch on the edge of the desk and will the brain band to finish and to finish quickly.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't obey you, but it eventually reappears. You check it, and there's Blackwell's name in the familiar, spooky blue lettering. You sneak out, closing the door softly behind you.<br/>
<br/>
A fast trot downstairs and across a small parking lot brings you to the college library. You run inside and take the stairs to the uppermost floor, then into the back where there is a set of restrooms. You lock yourself in the furthest stall of the men's room, wedge yourself between the wall and the toilet, and pull Kirkham's face off.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've fallen over and are staring into the toilet when you wake, and that gets you alert again real fast, because there are brown streaks at the bottom of the bowl. You rub your eyes, and dig Blackwell's brain band out of your pocket. Without pausing, you put it to your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
You don't lose consciousness, not fully, but you sink into a deep lethargy, for it feels like the man has brought his fat body with him and is squeezing the whole thing into your brain. It makes you glad that the masks knock you out when you put them on, because it's no fun to have the actual memories thrusting themselves inside of you. It's like your own brain is being stretched and pulled apart -- uncoiled and untwisted like a Slinkie -- so that the new ones can fit inside. The actual experience is like remembering a forgotten dream, only far bigger and more intense, like a whole lifetime coming inside that dream. Incidents and impressions crowd in and cohere, feeling both novel and instantly familiar, knitting together into a remembered life of Aubrey Blackwell. You cover your head in your arms and shut your eyes and gasp as the inner portrait of this man comes into focus.<br/>
<br/>
And then all of him is there and he's settled in and watching you malignantly from the back of your skull, waiting to be interrogated.<br/>
<br/>
You turn your face toward the toilet again, in case you have to vomit.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You definitely found your man. You found more than your man. You found the grimoire's previous owner.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>Libra personae</i> is not a famous book, except in certain very exotic circles, where it is an object of fascination and intense desire. Professor Aubrey Blackwell -- he does not have an actual doctorate, and earned his position at Keyserling through the sheer force of his learning -- definitely moves in those circles. It would be far less accurate to refer to him as an anthropology professor who dabbles in the occult than a black magician who supports himself by teaching anthropology.<br/>
<br/>
Earlier that summer, the professor heard rumors of an odd book found among the effects of a dead woman in upstate New York. He got himself up to the offices where her effects were being collected for distribution, and managed to abstract the <i>Libra</i> from them. Never mind the precise means he used, for they were no more complicated than switching labels on packages. But by early August he had the <i>Libra</i> at his house and had begun to go through it.<br/>
<br/>
But he had not gotten as deeply inside it as Prescott had before a clumsy work-study student accidentally sent it off to Arholm's Used Books. The professor had raced to the bookstore as soon as he learned of the error, but found that the book had already been sold, and that it could not be further traced.<br/>
<br/>
He had become resigned to its loss, until just a few minutes ago, when a very young college freshman had shown up at his office, holding the <i>Libra</i> and desiring an appointment ...<br/>
<br/>
You get shakily to your feet, and Kirkham's mask clatters onto the tile floor. You know exactly what Blackwell intended to do to you once he had you inside his office, and you know that he knows what you look like. Well, what David Kirkham looks like.<br/>
<br/>
And you know perfectly well how implacable the professor is, and what he would do to you if he caught you.<br/>
<br/>
You could hide. You could let David Kirkham go missing and put yourself under a different face, maybe back under your own. But Kirkham is your friend, and after what that cocksucker Prescott did to him, you're not going to do worse by erasing his existence.<br/>
<br/>
No, you have to strike at Blackwell first. <br/>
<br/>
And if you pull off that strike, you'll collect more dividends than you ever dreamed of collecting when you set out for the university this morning.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Blackwell doesn't know Will Prescott's face, so you're safe enough returning to your car just by packing Kirkham's mask into your backpack. You don't run -- you don't want to draw attention to yourself -- and you don't take the subsequent drive recklessly. But you need to get out to Blackwell's house before he can get home, and you can't be sure he's not on his way there now.<br/>
<br/>
And of course, you know where you need to go and what you need to do when you get there, because you've got the professor himself inside your head to help you out.<br/>
<br/>
He lives in a two-story stone villa on the western edge of town, close to the river. It sits out mostly by itself -- the nearest house is a quarter mile away -- on a low rise behind a whitewashed stone wall. The professor's car is not in its accustomed spot out front, and nor is it in the back, which is where you park. There's no time to scout further; you'll just have to chance the house being really and not just apparently empty.<br/>
<br/>
There's a culvert dug into the hillside behind the villa's grounds. Its entrance is shut up behind a metal gate that shrieks on its hinges as you open it, but carries no further alarm. Inside that culvert is a tunnel that serves as a secret back door to the house. The tunnel grows pitch dark as you feel your way cautiously forward. You trip onto your destination -- a set of brick stairs that lead up to a very ordinary looking door. Like the gate, it is unlocked, and leads you into a very suburban laundry room.<br/>
<br/>
The professor only appears to be careless about keeping his property secure. He has a kind of guard dog prowling the place, but you know what to expect and are not going to let it faze you if it starts acting up. Quickly you make your way to the pantry in the kitchen, where behind some carefully placed boxes of mac-and-cheese and Saltine crackers are jars of pastes and ointments labeled with Hebrew characters. You take out one of these jars, pull some rubber gloves from a drawer, and go to the front door. A quick peek outside shows the coast is clear.<br/>
<br/>
With gloved hands you coat the outside handle of the front door with the slimy ointment from the jar. Back in the kitchen you replace the jar and carefully peel off the gloves, tucking them deep inside the trash. Then you go upstairs to the spare bedroom in the front of the house where you can watch from behind closed curtains for the professor's arrival.<br/>
<br/>
It turns out you didn't have to hurry quite so much, for it's forty minutes before the professor's car pulls up outside the front gate. During that time you ignore the patter of footsteps in the hall and above the ceiling, the insistent scratching against the wall, and the shadowy limbs that appear outside the windows. It's an effective display, and you have to steel yourself against them in order to concentrate on the business of watching and waiting and figuring out what comes next. The professor's a great help to you there too, and his memories of the things he has done help firm up your intention to deal with him exactly as he deserves and exactly in a way that will make you safe from him.<br/>
<br/>
But you go on alert as he comes into his front yard. You can't make out his expression from behind the thin curtain across the window, but his tread is very determined. From downstairs you hear a rattle of the knob --<br/>
<br/>
And then silence.<br/>
<br/>
So much for Professor Blackwell. The question now is, do you make his house your new base of operations?</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Prep Work for New Digs
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Whether or not you make Blackwell's villa your base, you have the professor himself to take care of. There's no rush, but you can't help taking the stairs three at a bound on your way down to the foyer. The front door is open, and you can't help snickering at the sight of the professor sprawled outside on the stoop. It's almost like a running gag: Every time he gets close to you, you knock him cold.<br/>
<br/>
You avoid touching the booby-trapped door handle as you step over the unconscious man and run around to the side of the house where the old mausoleum is. The door resists being opened, but you shove it back and let fresh air into the dim and musty interior. There's an empty stone bier inside, just waiting for Blackwell, but you'll need help moving him onto it, so you send a text to your 'bot, telling him where to find you. Then from the kitchen pantry you get a less concentrated aerosol of the same knock-out ointment and spray it over Blackwell's face. That will keep him out for hours.<br/>
<br/>
Inside the library --<br/>
<br/>
And though Blackwell's memories have prepared you for it, you still pause just inside the threshold. It's a very large and impressive space, and is the main reason for moving your operations here. The ceiling floats two stories above, and from the floor to the ceiling on three sides it is covered in bookshelves: a wheeled ladder on a railing is necessary to get the books that are high up. Three desks occupy the wide space in the center of the room, and tall windows and a French door in the fourth wall let in the afternoon sunlight. <br/>
<br/>
But despite the high ceiling and clear glass, an air of gloom and oppression settles on the room. Some if it is due to the discordant ticking of two grandfather clocks in one corner. Then too there are the alcoves from inside which stare balefully the stuffed corpses of impossible creatures. One of these -- a small orangutan-like monkey with a single, Cyclops-like eye in its forehead and razor-like teeth in its grinning mouth -- is out of its alcove and sitting on a table. You put it back in its spot while muttering a spell that Aubrey Blackwell knows but that Gary Chen doesn't. With that, those uncanny noises should cease to disturb you.<br/>
<br/>
From another alcove you take down a stuffed two-headed dog and wedge it under your armpit. Then you twist a candlestick stuck incongruously in one of the walls. A door disguised as a bookcase unlatches with a click and swings open. <i>Ah, the classics!</i><br/>
<br/>
Inside is a narrow, hidden basement lit from a single window. A metal spiral staircase leads down to a concrete floor. This hidden dungeon has held a number of prisoners over the years -- you grimace to think of the last prisoner, and her ghastly fate -- but now only holds the supplies that Blackwell had accumulated when he still had the <i>Libra.</i> These include most of the ingredients you will need for finishing off the professor; the one ingredient you lack can be got next to one of the tombstones next to the mausoleum.<br/>
<br/>
Then, once you've got the stuff set out in the library, you sit down to write a letter. With Blackwell's brain band you can, after a little warm up practice, imitate his handwriting perfectly, and on some of his stationary you compose the following:<br/>
<br/>
<i>My dear doppelganger,<br/>
<br/>
This letter will find you after I have already departed. I have not time now to explain where I have gone nor to issue instructions in person. You know what you must do, and what will happen to you if I return to find you have been derelict or rebellious. I will contact you when I can, but I can as yet not anticipate my return date. Remember that you know not the time or day that may be!<br/>
<br/>
This letter comes to you from the hand of a young man I have just engaged. He has my complete trust, and you may trust those for whom he vouches. Again, I have not time to explain, but you will notice that he is in possession of the Libra personae, and it is due to that book that he and I have experienced a perfect meeting of the minds. You are to give him every aid that he asks for.<br/>
<br/>
In addition, and I hesitate to trouble you with it, but there it is: The roost under Sister Theresa's whatnot has another tear in the elevating/latching lever. You ought understand.</i><br/>
<br/>
You sign it with a flourish, tuck it in an envelope, and seal it with wax.<br/>
<br/>
You go to put Kirkham's mask back on, but stop just in time. Blackwell's ghost reminds you that you are already wearing one brain band, and that it is bad idea to introduce another -- as is contained in Kirkham's mask -- above it.<br/>
<br/>
You cuss. That means that you're going to have to show Prescott's fucking face to the world when you are using Blackwell's memories.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's another hour before you Jeep slides to a hard stop next to Blackwell's car. Your 'bot at the gate before you're out the door. "Christ, what the hell is this place," he exclaims, then does a double take at you. He grins. "What the fuck happened to your face?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, that's what happened. I need your help moving this asshole."<br/>
<br/>
Your 'bot takes off his sunglasses and whistles down at the professor, who you've laid out a little more neatly on the porch. "What happened here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking point is what happens next. Help me pick him up."<br/>
<br/>
He blanches, but complies, grasping Blackwell by his wrists while you take the feet. Your 'bot, despite his strength, can't get Blackwell off the ground, and the professor's fat ass drags across the dirt across as you haul him to the mausoleum.<br/>
<br/>
Three bodies collide at the door to the crypt before you squeeze inside. Chen tries to flatly refuse moving Blackwell onto the bier, but he can't argue with his master, and together you manage to roll the whale-like prof up and onto the stone slab. "What now?" Chen asks. "Lock him in?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nope, I'll be right back." The struggle to move Blackwell has winded Prescott's scrawny frame, but snapping and twanging nerves give you the energy to run back inside for the ingredients. In the mausoleum you sprinkle Blackwell with dirt and incendiary chemicals. "Okay, now I need to take your face off a minute."<br/>
<br/>
The end result -- after you've added some of David Kirkham's hair to the mess, and lit it on fire -- is a stone-like statue, much like the one you made when Prescott performed the same spell on your grandfather. <br/>
<br/>
The difference is that this 'bot -- "golem" would be the word Blackwell would use -- won't be under your control. It will be under David Kirkham's control. That's only an academic point, since Kirkham is now back under the Chenbot mask and so isn't around to give orders. But making him the master of the new golem builds in a failsafe in case this new golem proves troublesome. <br/>
<br/>
And why didn't you use Prescott's hair, so you could control the golem as you control the others?<br/>
<br/>
Because Aubrey Blackwell's brain told you that would be a bad idea.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I must say I am surprised, very surprised," says Aubrey Blackwell when you and he and Chen are standing in the library a little later. Blackwell himself, while he had the <i>Libra,</i> had made a mask of himself, and you retrieved that mask from the hidden basement and set it on the new golem in order to revive a copy of the professor. Its memories will be almost a week out of date, but it can muddle through. <br/>
<br/>
Right now the trouble is that it is being argumentative.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, it's all there in the letter," you say, pointing to the note the golem is holding. "At least, I assume it is. He told me to give it to you, that it would explain everything."<br/>
<br/>
"It certainly does not," snaps the Blackwell-bot. He looks between you and the letter, with a side glance at Chen. "It is most suspicious."<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell's replacement makes no allusion to the gnomic closing lines of the letter, and since you are not supposed to know what the letter says, you don't allude to them either. But it bugs the shit out of you that the 'bot is ignoring their obvious meaning and trying to disbelieve what the letter says.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know how to contact, uh, Professor Blackwell," you say. "But if he calls me, do you want me to have him call you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Certainly," says the golem, but it also seems a little discomfited by the idea.<br/>
<br/>
"I will. Meantime, you get to be the professor, but you also have to do what the real professor says. Don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
The golem makes a face, but allows that that's true. <br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I'm supposed to work here after school, going through the books and making notes for the professor. You got a spare key?"<br/>
<br/>
"Somewhere. But there are certain things you need to know if you're going to be here without my supervision." A nasty look comes onto its face.<br/>
<br/>
"Professor Blackwell already explained them to me. You mean the <i>gwarcheidwad,</i> right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Among other things." Now the golem screws its face up into a look of sour disappointment. "I'll get you the key. By the way, what is your name, young man?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. You'll be working here under Prescott's face, but you don't want to use Prescott's name in case the golem gets nosy. "You can call me 'David Kirkham'."<br/>
<br/>
Chen chortles up the back of his nose, and you shoot him a hot glare. "Well, Mr. Kirkham," says the Blackwell-bot, "I will get you the key. Will you be starting this afternoon?" </span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Even Black Magicians Can Have Management Problems
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Before you can answer Blackwell's question, Chen nudges you in the side and mutters in your ear. "Your friend Johansson wants to know when he's gonna get that thing you promised him."<br/>
<br/>
<i>The mask to use on Patterson.</i> "God <i>damn</i> it. I should fucking shove him -- " You stifle yourself as the Blackwell-bot raises an eyebrow. "I can fix it up here, I guess. I got the shit, but I need you to get the stuff out of the elementary school and bring it over. You got time to do that before you go to work?" Chen nods. "Good. Go do that. I'll text my mom, tell her I'm spending the night at your place."<br/>
<br/>
"Your mom?" asks Chen with a grin. "Whose mom is that, Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
You'd forgotten whose face you're showing, and you show your double the bird. "Kirkham's mom, then, if you wanna be fucking technical. Tell her I'm staying at your place -- "<br/>
<br/>
"You can't stay at my place, Prescott, there's no -- "<br/>
<br/>
"It's just a fucking story for her, I'll be staying here. Christ."<br/>
<br/>
The Blackwell-bot frowns. "I don't think that's a good idea, er, Mr. Prescott. The <i>gwarcheidwad</i> -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, I know all about it. I'll be fine. Look -- " You jerk your chin at the monster's reliquary. "I even put it back in its alcove when I came in. That's how come we don't have it howling around our ears right now."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah. Well then." The golem grimaces bitterly. "I will fetch you that spare house key." He glowers, then pads from the room.<br/>
<br/>
You pull Chen out the front door. "Jesus, man," he hisses as you trot down the front walk, and glances back at the villa. "I know it's fucking Halloween, but did you hafta pick out the perfect house to spend it in?"<br/>
<br/>
You know what he means. The house -- especially its library -- is thick with occult forebodings. "Get used to it, man. This is our new place."<br/>
<br/>
"This?" You're surprised and a little disappointed at the way he squeaks when he says it. "The fuck is wrong with your house? Or mine? Or that fucking basement? We were having a lot of fun there."<br/>
<br/>
You open the Jeep door for him and push him inside. "You don't remember trying to kill me out there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure I do! Like I said, we had some good times."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we're going to do it here. Dude, bro, honored sibling." You lean in the window to put your face close to his, for you still feel the electric thrill of being close to yourself. "That is a real haunted house, and that is a real warlock who lived there. He's got a magical library of the blackest shit, and we are going to use it to <i>pound the fuck</i> out of anyone who gets in our way."<br/>
<br/>
The grin that splits your face is so wide and gleeful you think the top of your head might fall off. Chen stares at you, then grins back. "Whoa. I like the way that sounds."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure as fucking better. Now go bring our shit out here. And text Johansson, tell him you'll have his mask ready tomorrow morning."<br/>
<br/>
Your other face falls. "If we're gonna pound the fuck outta people, can't we start with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's on the list, but I gotta figure out what we're gonna do and when. Until then, we gotta keep him happy and stupid."<br/>
<br/>
"At least he's already stupid," says Chen. He slips on his sunglasses and starts the Jeep.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Blackwell-bot is waiting for you in the foyer, and hands you a key like he's handing over a cheap tip to a server who's badly disappointed him. You've been dealing with the thing for less than an hour, and even with the professor's own personality knocking around inside your head you can hardly stand the company of his replacement. If you hadn't been in such a goddam hurry at the university, maybe you could have gotten used to the idea of making a pet of the professor before actually doing it.<br/>
<br/>
But you didn't have time at the university. If instinct hadn't led you to spring yourself at Blackwell, it'd be you as the petrified 'bot under a mask.<br/>
<br/>
And that just gives you more reason to loathe the golem. "How long will you be in residence," it asks you. It's tone is odiously polite, and it doesn't bother to hide its sneer.<br/>
<br/>
"As long as it takes." You try to force yourself past, but the golem blocks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Doing what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Cataloging the library, doing research -- "<br/>
<br/>
"The library is already cataloged." Suspicion deepens on the golem's brow. "I did it myself."<br/>
<br/>
"Your boss has a whole new set of cross-references that have to be put in. He got the <i>Libra</i> back, and that's going to upend the entire organization. Plus there's research to be done, and <i>you're</i> not set up for that kind of work." You poke it in the chest. "I am."<br/>
<br/>
You can see the snarl inside the golem's beard, but it steps aside with bad grace. "I <i>do</i> wish that my original -- " The word grinds inside its throat. "My original had had the foresight to put his wishes and information into the, ah, system. It would have only taken a few minutes with a mask." It glowers at you.<br/>
<br/>
"He was out of town by that point. That's how come he had to send a letter."<br/>
<br/>
"I wonder why not a text message."<br/>
<br/>
"Those are easy to fake. Was it his handwriting on the letter? That tells you it was him."<br/>
<br/>
"I can imitate his handwriting," says the golem. "And much else. It proves nothing." Its look becomes very shrewd.<br/>
<br/>
You wonder if the thing has discerned how you could have played the trick by using a brain band of the professor. Blackwell himself did not hazard that experiment, but it's an obvious one, and you're sure the golem is capable of seeing the possibility, if it only thinks long enough about things. You still want the house for your base, but you before you do that you may need to find a way to tame the golem. <br/>
<br/>
For now, though, you just shrug at the thing and continue down the hall.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not done with you: "Has a similar set of instructions been left for Miss Vredenburg?" it calls at your back.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. You'll have to ask her. Or maybe she didn't get them yet."<br/>
<br/>
"And why would my original send my instructions through you, but give that girl her instructions directly?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you say, losing patience. "Maybe your original likes her better than you. I know I would. Or maybe -- " You wheel on the golem. "Maybe, asshole, it's because I had to slap a fucking mask onto a golem in order to revive you. Lucy Vredenburg was already in circulation."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes." That nasty smile reappears. "And where <i>did</i> that golem come from, hmm? Miss Lucy's mask is riding around on the only one that my original made. Whence the <i>substantia</i> upon which my present <i>imago</i> rides?"<br/>
<br/>
That's the 'bot's fancy way of asking where the fuck Blackwell got another golem so he could put his doppelganger back to work. <br/>
<br/>
"Beats the fuck out of me. I got a note saying I'd find one inside the mausoleum, and fuck me if I didn't find one there. I'm really starting to wish I hadn't."<br/>
<br/>
"There would not have been time for my original to cast another." The 'bot speaks with a note of triumph. "My own memories are as recent as last Saturday night, and in that time -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I said I don't know! Jesus! Maybe it's in the <i>Libra.</i> I'll let you know if it is, because <i>Christ</i> it sounds like you won't leave it alone until you find out!"<br/>
<br/>
"The squeaky wheel gets the grease, or so the old adage has it," replies the golem.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It lets you alone after you get back into the library, and you're grateful to it this far: It's reminded you in a timely way that there's yet another fake running around town. Lucy Vredenburg -- that would be Cindy Vredenburg's older sister -- fell prey to Blackwell while he had the book, and he replaced her with a duplicate. And since he hadn't mastered the book as far as being able to put golem paste into a mask, he had had to eliminate the real girl using more old-fashioned methods. Methods that didn't leave much physical evidence behind. But that's another "assistant" that you'll have to neutralize.<br/>
<br/>
You can write a note to her later. For the next while, you've got research you want to organize.<br/>
<br/>
If it weren't for the copy of Blackwell's brain you're carrying around, you would have no idea where to start in his library. And even with his brain to guide you, you're not completely sure where to start. <br/>
<br/>
Despite the "advantages" Blackwell had seized while he had the <i>Libra Personae</i>, the man had actually been more interested in it for its research value. The sigils --<br/>
<br/>
And yes, Blackwell knows how to read and use and create sigils like those in the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
-- in the book are reputed to be masteries of their kind, constructed almost four hundred years ago by one of the greatest practitioners of the art. Blackwell wanted the book for the masks, and for the knowledge of how to make them, but more than that he wanted to study how the sigils themselves were constructed. You yourself feel the tug of his curiosity.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not only of academic interest to you, as it is to Blackwell. You are desperate to know how that metal band that Prescott made managed to suck your soul out of your body, and how you might get yourself back into your body. To do that, you'll have to study the sigil that made that brain band.<br/>
<br/>
And that's not all. Until you can get back into your own body, you're not only trapped inside Prescott's body, you're stuck using Kirkham's mask to go around in public, because you don't dare use that bot-making paste again. In fact, Blackwell's brain tells you it's incredible that Prescott didn't kill himself a long time ago while using it.<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: A Vigil with Sigils
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You have solid reasons for boning up on the spell that makes the rockbot paste. David Kirkham's mask does not have any rockbot paste inside it, which means that the only person who can safely wear it is you. That leaves you stuck wearing it in public, which isn't bad, but it limits your ability to move around and manage your enterprises. Sure, the 'bot that Prescott made of you is smart and aggressive and knows what to do, but you wouldn't be Gary Chen if you didn't want to manage things directly.<br/>
<br/>
So it's a problem that you can't make any more rockbot paste because of certain risks that Prescott didn't know about. You don't dare make any more until you understand those risks better.<br/>
<br/>
But your talk with the Blackwell-bot has given you a more pressing goal: understanding the spell that pulled you out of your body and put you into Prescott's.<br/>
<br/>
Because if you can figure out how that spell worked, then maybe you could show it to the golem and -- thanks to the brain band you're wearing -- maybe you could convince it that you are the real Aubrey Blackwell who got himself swapped into the body of this high school boy. The golem wouldn't be forced to obey you -- it has to obey the body of Aubrey Blackwell, not his soul -- but maybe it would be less of an asshole to you.<br/>
<br/>
And showing it that spell would be perfectly safe. Golems can't perform magic. You know that now, thanks to Blackwell's memories. That fact, incidentally, explains why the Chenbot couldn't get the mask off Joshua Call back in the portables on Wednesday.<br/>
<br/>
That's neither here nor there, though. You lean back against a table, study the bookshelves, and try to remember where certain books would be that contain certain necessary information ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Sigils for Dummies.</i> That, you wryly reflect, is the kind of reference book you could really use.<br/>
<br/>
"There are sigils and there are <i>sigils,</i>" Blackwell might explain to you in one of his pompous lectures. (You're going to be used to his presence inside your brain long before you're used to the fact that he's even a presence in your life.) "Any fool can make a magic symbol, and many fools do. But the real art and craft of sigil-making is something known only to the smallest number of cognoscenti, of whom, ahem, I may include myself as the most humble and ignorant of members.<br/>
<br/>
"One may find sigils mentioned in the cheap paperback books on occult metaphysics that clog bookstore shelves. Perusing these books is like reading about tigers, a thing much different from hunting or touching them. In the crude fumbling of Aleister Crowley or Jack Parsons one may see attempts to recreate at its foundation an edifice long since erected by finer and more learned hands. In the, ah, putatively lost works of Hermes Trismegistus and Simon Magus the science was explained without technical examples, and certain alchemical works whose real meaning is obscure to the supposed experts in the field will actually employ sigils without explaining what they are.<br/>
<br/>
"But that peculiar ability to craft a living sigil, and to understand wherein its life resides, and the evolutions that will yield higher specimens of the form -- these are secrets jealously guarded and put down only with many ellipses. Only George Abney was known to have attempted an encyclopedic accounting of the sigils and of their kinds, and that manuscript -- But bless me, why should I describe it when I have it here at hand?" <br/>
<br/>
You pull out the old book -- written in a spidery hand on parchment and closed up between cheap boards of thick paper. "Yes, poor George Abney. At least his manuscript escaped even if he did not." You shudder slightly to remember the price Blackwell paid to get this book, one of the rarest treasures in the world. "And yet there are very few who would recognize its value or worth." You flip to the desired page in Abney's encyclopedia, and compare the figure there with the figure on your paper. "And yet I may do better than him, by putting his foundational work together with the <i>Libra.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
The latter certainly is a masterful work of art. Of course, you're looking at it with Blackwell's eyes when you say that. To you yourself, the sigils it contains just look like someone mixed Chinese and Hebrew characters in a rock tumbler and dumped them out onto the page. And yet, bit by bit you are beginning to discern the meanings of each sigil, and to see the new meanings they acquire when they are put next to each other, and the larger meanings created when they are fully assembled into a finished set.<br/>
<br/>
Your double has come and gone, leaving the last of Prescott's supplies inside the mausoleum, but it's not yet seven o'clock when you rear back from your work with the blood draining from your face. "Fuck," you mutter to yourself. "It's not the soul. It's <i>anima!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>need to see chelsea.</i> Your thumbs tremble as you tap the text to Johansson. <i>tonite. loft or library or somwhere. IMPORTANT!!!</i><br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later your cell rings. It's Javits, and he sounds worried. "What's wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like I said in the fucking text, I need to see Chelsea. I need to get under her mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Will? Is that you?"<br/>
<br/>
His question knocks you back. It takes you a second to remember that Johansson will think you're really Prescott, and that he's also hearing Prescott's whiny voice since you're not wearing a mask. "Yeah, I had to switch out for a little while. Chen's at work you know. The Chenbot. Come on, don't fuck around, I need -- "<br/>
<br/>
"What's it about? Is it about what happened the other night when you took her face off?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I needed to check on something. Everything's okay, I think, but I need to double-check."<br/>
<br/>
"What is it? What have you been doing?"<br/>
<br/>
You almost throw the cell through the French doors, but you keep your temper. Neither Seth Javits nor Caleb Johansson would be impressed by any fit that Will Prescott could pitch. "I needed to get a copy of Chen's brain," you say, throttling the impatience in your voice. "I needed to know what he's been up to while he was still running Chelsea. But I lost that brain band I made the other night, and I need to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, Will! You can't just leave those things lying around!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not lying around, you fuck! Sorry, I didn't mean it that way." <i>What would Prescott say, how would Prescott act?</i> "Come on, Caleb, I think it's at Kirkham's house, and I can't go back there. It's, like, scary over there, you know that."<br/>
<br/>
He snorts, but says he'll meet you at Hochstetter Park in twenty minutes.<br/>
<br/>
That'll work for you, though it's now almost eleven, and you risk cutting it close getting back to the professor's house in time for a midnight curfew. Into your pocket you slip the band you'd made after figuring out what the sigil does, and race out the front door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your heart's pounding and your stomach heaving on the drive out to Hochstetter Park. A couple of times you think you're going to have to pull over to throw up.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Anima.</i> That's what's in the metal band that Prescott put onto his forehead. A copy of the <i>anima</i> of Gary Chen. A spasm in your arm jerks the wheel and the Jeep rocks.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, you're not totally sure that's what's going on. Even with Blackwell's brain it was slow work deciphering the sigil. You didn't finish, not before shoving yourself back from the table when the symbol for <i>anima</i> came into focus. And when another thirty minutes of translation work showed that the advanced sigil was using a "copy" technique that Blackwell had noticed in the basic sigil, then you had to face the ghastly possibility that you completely misread what's been going on over the last few days.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Anima</i> is not a person's soul. It's just their mind, memories, personality. It's all the stuff that you thought was being copied into those "brain bands." But those basic bands were only copying <i>mentalia,</i> the shadow that <i>anima</i> leaves inside the physical body. That's why you can wear someone's <i>mentalia,</i> like Aubrey Blackwell's or David Kirkham's, and control it. It's just a reflection of the real thing.<br/>
<br/>
But to put someone's <i>anima</i> onto yourself is to let their living mind into yours, and it comes with its own kind of body and a hammer blow of force. With <i>anima,</i> every thought and experience that poured into a person comes into focus and creates a sense of identity -- the conviction that all those things happened to <i>me</i>, and that <i>I</i> am that person they happened to.<br/>
<br/>
When you put someone's <i>anima</i> into yourself, you don't put their soul in you. But you might as well have.<br/>
<br/>
Because having their <i>anima</i> will convince you that you <i>are</i> that person.<br/>
<br/>
In other words, you're not really Gary Chen. You're really Will Prescott, and you've only magically convinced yourself that you're Gary Chen.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Will the Real Gary Chen Please Stand Up?
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You race the car engine as you wait at a red light. "Come on, turn green," you mutter, and glance around to see if you can safely jack rabbit across the intersection. It is, after all, after eleven o'clock.<br/>
<br/>
But you stay where you are, even though there's hardly any traffic about. Because it may be "Turn green" coming out of your mouth, but it sounds more like <i>Stay red</i> in your head. <br/>
<br/>
You really don't want to get to Hochstetter Park to see what's waiting for you there.<br/>
<br/>
It will be Caleb Johansson (disguised as Seth Javits) and Chelsea Cooper (a faked-up 'bot). And when you get out there you will take the mask off Chelsea and underneath will be -- <br/>
<br/>
Your throat tightens. Will it be yourself? Or will it be Gary Chen?<br/>
<br/>
Because the horrible truth may be that those <i>are not the same people.</i><br/>
<br/>
For the last few days you've been convinced that you are really Gary Chen, that that fuck-faced little shit Will Prescott sucked your soul out of your body and accidentally inserted it into his in a way that let you take control. But in studying the sigil for that spell you've discovered a much more hideous possibility: that you are and always have been Will Prescott, and that the most recent spell has only struck you with a much more powerful copy of Gary Chen's brain, one so powerful that it has overridden your perso --<br/>
<br/>
Your lips peel back in a ghastly rictus. <i>No, it's not possible.</i> You can't even say it to yourself. You can't say, <i>I am really Will Prescott and I've only fooled myself into thinking I'm Gary Chen.</i> That way lies madness.<br/>
<br/>
Because you feel it with all the force of memory and experience -- the guts and sinews of eighteen years of life and habit. <i>I am Gary Chen.</i><br/>
<br/>
And almost nothing would horrify Gary Chen more than finding out that he's really Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
You rub your forehead with your fingertips. You clench the wheel and twitch; a spasm almost jerks your leg off the brake. <i>Will this fucking light never turn?</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh. It has. You just didn't notice. You punch the accelerator, and the tires scream against the asphalt.<br/>
<br/>
What'll happen if you take off that metal band, the one that copies Gary Chen's <i>anima</i>? Nothing, really, if your worst fears are correct. You'd just lose that illusion of being Chen. Prescott would probably like that, Prescott would probably yell with relief.<br/>
<br/>
Well, fuck him. Because you're Gary Chen, and you're in control, and you're not going to give it up. It would be like killing yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Except you're not Gary Chen. You're almost certain that you're not, which is why you are so filled with horror. Gary Chen -- the guy you think you are -- is still under that mask of Chelsea.<br/>
<br/>
And if you let him out, which one of you would be Gary Chen?<br/>
<br/>
You know the answer to that question too. It would be him. You're probably just a deluded doppelganger of him. Your guts pitch about like a small boat in a heavy sea.<br/>
<br/>
There is some chance that you're wrong. That's why you made the new <i>anima</i> band and are taking it out to Hochstetter Park. If the new band only copies <i>anima,</i> then it will make a second <i>anima</i> copy of him. That would confirm what's going on. But if it doesn't copy him, if something else happens, then you can maybe let out a sigh of relief, because you will have misread the sigil.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Johansson, thank God, arrives only a few minutes later than you, so you have time to calm yourself and to remind yourself that you're supposed to be "Will Prescott" around him; but he's not so late that you get irritated and worked up all over again. It's dark, but you can recognize the almost ghostly image of Chelsea Cooper in the passenger side of Javits's truck.<br/>
<br/>
You run over to her window, but Javits hops up out of the driver's side. "Hey man," he says. "You look, uh -- Ah, fuck it, I don't what you look like."<br/>
<br/>
"That's great. Can you tell Chelsea to roll down her window? I need to get the mask off her."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what's this about?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's about me having a curfew, you fuh -- I have a curfew, Caleb, I can't really dick around."<br/>
<br/>
"Tch tch tch," he says. "<i>We</i> don't have a curfew," he boasts. "It's Friday night, you know. Alright," he adds in a grumble when you don't reply, and ducks back into the cab of the car. Chelsea's window goes down, and the girl with a blank and puzzled expression looks out at you. You grab her face.<br/>
<br/>
She shrieks and grabs your wrists. But a word from Javits is enough to get her to release you. "You probably don't want to see this," you tell Johansson before pulling at her face. "It's, uh, Chen under there, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know. I guess I'll go chuck rocks at the winos until you're done. Don't take forever, man, and I better not find your cock anywhere near her -- " He snaps his fingers and grins. "Oh wait, I forgot. It'll be Gary Chen you're molesting if -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Just take off if you're gonna take off." You've got the mask off by now, and Gary Chen's face -- your face -- gleams in the harsh glow of a street lamp.<br/>
<br/>
You put the <i>anima</i> band to his forehead and turn away, feeling sick when it vanishes into him.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe it will come back out, having copied nothing, because there's nothing to copy. You crouch by the side of the car, craving a cigarette. But Prescott doesn't smoke, and you're in Kirkham's clothes still anyway, and he doesn't smoke either. You pull at the grass and glare into the darkness and hate everything that has happened since you got mixed up with Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
Correction: Since you went into that damn used bookstore and walked out with the --<br/>
<br/>
Again, you can't finish the thought. It just doesn't ring true.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you done yet?" Seth Javits's voice rings out of the darkness.<br/>
<br/>
You check. "No!"<br/>
<br/>
The angry bees in your stomach -- they're not nearly as gentle as butterflies -- buzz harder. You bang your fist on your knee. One way or another, you want it to be over. One way or another you want to settle the issue. One way or another -- <br/>
<br/>
You can't take it anymore, and get up and lean against the door so you can see the band when it finally falls out of the guy's forehead. From somewhere in the dark you hear a knocking sound, and glance over. Dimly you can make out Seth Javits. He's chucking rocks at the trees. You turn back to the guy wearing Chelsea's clothes. It makes you sick, to see yourself dressed up like that, and to know that it's not really you, but that it's person you wish you were.<br/>
<br/>
And just as a particularly hard <i>crack</i> sounds behind you, the band appears and falls into the wearer's lap. You pick it up.<br/>
<br/>
In Chinese characters, the name <i>Chen Guangli</i> burns redly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You didn't even stop to talk to Johansson, you just slapped the mask back onto Chen's face and legged it back to the Jeep with a shouted "Got it, tell you about it later when I know something!" You get back to Blackwell's with maybe four minutes to spare, and lock yourself in one of the spare bedrooms just before the clocks downstairs start to chime midnight.<br/>
<br/>
When the last chime fails, something downstairs falls with a sound like shattering glass.<br/>
<br/>
You crouch in the middle of the room, staring hard at the door. You're sure the protective spells on the door frame will hold. But if they don't --<br/>
<br/>
From down the hall faintly comes a scraping noise, as of long, hard claws dragging across the woodwork. You can almost see where they touch the walls as they approach your door. The floor outside groans and pops, as of something immensely heavy settling outside it. The knob rattles, and from the crack at the bottom you think you can hear breathing. Something raps sharply at the door.<br/>
<br/>
You hold your breath.<br/>
<br/>
Nothing more happens, and the thing moves away.<br/>
<br/>
It's active all night, though, and even though you've the mind and stamina of Gary Chen -- manfully you have to face up to the dreadful fact that you're only imitating him, despite the unshakeable certainty that you <i>are</i> him -- you pass a very sleepless night.<br/>
<br/>
Only when you jump awake at the sound of a giant anvil being dropped on the ceiling -- at least, that's what it sounds like -- and look over at the clock to see that it's three in the morning do you realize that things could be a lot worse. You fall back onto the mattress and force your eyes back together.<br/>
<br/>
But the <i>gwarcheidwad</i> wouldn't be what it was if it didn't make a lot of noise on Halloween night.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Yes. Halloween. You've cause to marvel over the rapid shift that your fortunes took over the past twenty-four hours as you look blearily out the bedroom window into the pale pre-dawn. Twenty-four hours ago you were "Gary Chen," for all intents and purposes, but you were trapped inside Will Prescott's body and pretending to be your blood brother David Kirkham. That was bad enough. Now you know you're really Will Prescott and that you've only got a really powerful version of Gary Chen's mind lodged in your head. You've also got a copy of Professor Aubrey Blackwell's mind in there with you. And you just spent the night in Blackwell's house.<br/>
<br/>
Jesus.<br/>
<br/>
As the fingernail of the sun slips over the eastern horizon, you turn to the bedroom door. With the advent of dawn, it will be safe to leave the bedroom. You have a mask to put on, and --<br/>
<br/>
From downstairs comes a terrific crash. Voices shout.<br/>
<br/>
It sounds like a police raid.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: A Fast Retreat
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're too shocked and surprised by the noises outside to do anything but stare dumbly at the bedroom door. It can't be the <i>gwarcheidwad</i> -- that occult monster that guards Blackwell's house -- making the noise, even though that's what it sounds like. That creature can only walk the grounds between midnight and dawn, and it is at its weakest in the early hours of the day. But the noises outside -- It's the sound of heavy, booted feet kicking in doors and overturning furniture.<br/>
<br/>
You back up against the window and stare hard at the door as the footsteps sound closer, coming up the stairs. They pass your door. A voice shouts hoarsely, and from the hall comes a resounding blow and the cracking and splintering of wood. Someone bellows -- the Blackwell 'bot.<br/>
<br/>
Whatever is going on, you want to be dressed for it. You're in Kirkham's t-shirt and socks, but you quickly pull on his trousers. They are a bad fit for you, but they're better than nothing.<br/>
<br/>
But though dressed to meet someone, you're not prepared to meet them, not based on the noises you're hearing. Blackwell's voice abruptly cuts out, and something heavy thumps on the floor. More footsteps sound. A voice says something, and then another voice says something else. You brace backwards against the window as fast footsteps run down the hall. Doors bang open.<br/>
<br/>
You lift the window behind you and throw a leg over it, grasp the sill in both hands, and drop a dozen feet. The ground jars your feet and ankles hard, but you roll away and are up and across the grounds to the wall in just a few seconds. You vault the outer barrier and drop into a crouch behind it. With your knees practically bumping into your chin, you hunch and run to the back of the house where you put Kirkham's car.<br/>
<br/>
There's no time to find out what's going on. You make the car and turn the motor over and take off away from Blackwell's house without doing any kind of recon to see who was making noise inside it. Only after you're away do you make a long loop around so as to approach it again from another angle, as though you're just a guy driving around town who happens to be passing.<br/>
<br/>
You expected squad cars out front, but there's only a white truck, one that looks a lot like Prescott's. That gives you momentary pause, until you see that it's got a different license plate. Also, a bumper sticker that says "I Brake for Meteors." You drive past, and continue up Orlando Road until you hit McDonalds, where you hang out with the early morning old folks while nursing a small coffee and thinking intently about things.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The first problem is that you have no good idea about what is going on back at Blackwell's house. You still have a copy of Blackwell's memories lodged in your brain, but although they can suggest some possibilities -- black magicians always have enemies and rivals -- you can't decisively connect any names to the events of the morning. All you can say for sure is that today would be the perfect day for someone to stage a raid on his villa. On Halloween the charms and protections he has woven about it are at their most potent. But in the early hours of the following morning -- All Hallows Day -- those protections practically vanish, and will only regain most of their strength with the coming of night. That suggests that whoever is staging that raid knows the house and knows Blackwell and has carefully planned this morning's events, timing the attack for the only day of the year when those protections can be breached. You doubt those charms will still be in place when the afternoon comes, though.<br/>
<br/>
Without knowing who has invaded the house, you don't know when or how you can return to it. That wouldn't be a problem except that you left both the grimoire and David Kirkham's mask in the house. Kirkham can spend the day, and probably the night, out of his family's sight, but at some point he will have to reappear. Worse, you'll be walking around with Will Prescott's face while there's another Prescott -- the erstwhile Gordon Black -- in circulation. You've got other masks you could hide under, but that would just release people like Andrea Varnsworth or Adam Karter that you don't want back in circu -- <br/>
<br/>
<i>Lucy,</i> you gasp to yourself, and you must have said it out loud, for one of the old guys at the next table shoots you a glance.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Lucy Vredenburg.</i> That's where you can hide for the next day. And it's a good spot to scope things out from.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Hey Cindy," you casually greet her, and nod like she's a good friend that you just happened to run into. "I'm waiting for your sister."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." Your classmate -- the cheerleader who was going with Seth Javits before a couple of people had their faces switched -- looks puzzled but not contemptuous when she sees you leaning in at her front door. Cindy's a cunt, but she's not a cunt to the degree that Chelsea Cooper is, and she sometimes hangs out with girls who hang out with Prescott, so that even though Cindy has never smiled at Prescott she is at least used to his presence and doesn't automatically react with disgust. "How do you know Lucy?" she bluntly asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't really," you admit, because that's what Lucy will tell her when she asks. "I'm dropping off a message from her boss."<br/>
<br/>
"Lucy hasn't got a boss."<br/>
<br/>
"Some university professor." You hold up the envelope containing the note that you quickly scrawled in Blackwell's hand after making a quick stop at the drugstore for writing supplies. "I'm doing work for him too, so he asked me to pass it along."<br/>
<br/>
A look of incredulity passes over Cindy's face, but she hasn't time to question you further before her older sister, Lucy, appears behind her, having been summoned by Mrs. Vredenburg. She shows no trace of recognition when she looks at you. Not that she should. Lucy Vredenburg, in none of her manifestations, has ever had anything to do with Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I have a letter for you, from Professor Blackwell," you tell her, and hand over the envelope. "He told me to wait for your answer."<br/>
<br/>
Lucy looks even more puzzled than Cindy, and opens the envelope slowly. She catches her sister looking over her shoulder, and nudges her back rudely with an elbow. Cindy rolls her eyes and departs. You also take a few steps back and wait as Lucy leans against the doorway to read the note.<br/>
<br/>
There wasn't time to seal the envelope, or to give it any of the rigmarole that you used to bluff the Blackwell-bot. You're counting on Lucy being obedient to the person who supposedly sent it, and force yourself not to tense as you wait.<br/>
<br/>
She reads the note a couple of times, and looks at you with questions in her eyes. She hesitates over them, but doesn't ask them. "Let me get my purse," she says and ducks back into the house. You let out a breath.<br/>
<br/>
At your suggestion you drive out separately to Gary Chen's place -- with her following in her SUV -- and you order the Chenbot to look after Kirkham's car until you get back. Then you hop into the SUV that Lucy is driving, and give her directions to the elementary school in Acheson. "What's going on?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Beats me," you lie. "He only gave me the note and said to either bring you back there or to come back myself if you didn't come."<br/>
<br/>
"How long have you been working for the professor?"<br/>
<br/>
"Since yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a sidelong look. "You don't look like the kind of person he'd employ."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe that's why he hired me."<br/>
<br/>
She regards the school and the basement with obvious distaste when you get there, and gives you a dubious look after you've got the lock off and invited her in with "Ladies first." But she passes through.<br/>
<br/>
That's just what you wanted. You step quickly behind her, grasp her about the torso, and grab at her face.<br/>
<br/>
She elbows you in the gut. All the air goes out of you.<br/>
<br/>
But though you weren't prepared, that blow didn't interrupt anything, and her motion stops as suddenly as it had started. When you straighten up again, wheezing hard, Lucy has vanished. There's only a pillar of rock there, albeit one with crude legs and arms and even a lump for a head. It is wearing Lucy Vredenburg's clothes.<br/>
<br/>
It is, of course, the golem that Professor Blackwell made when he still had the grimoire earlier in the year. He had made a couple of masks, and a golem, and he had trapped Lucy Vredenburg and replaced her with a doppelganger. He even went out as her, hanging the mask of himself on the golem to keep his place warm while he had fun pretending to be a popular but snooty, leggy, blonde college cheerleader. It was lucky that you caught him in his own from at the college, and lucky that he has this hiding place for you to use. You only have to put her mask on and stash the golem next to the one Prescott made.<br/>
<br/>
And you're very tingly all over as you think of who you're going to get to be.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There is some work to be done first. You have to get the golem down the steps without breaking it. Then you have to get it undressed. You have to get Blackwell's <i>mentalia</i> band out of yourself without accidentally pulling the Chen <i>anima</i> out, for you are still deeply averse to "killing" yourself by reverting to Prescott's personality. That last stumps you for a bit, for the same magic phrase releases both bands from the wearer. At last, Blackwell's mind suggests concentrating on the band you want to release, and that works. It feels good to get his mind out from yours.<br/>
<br/>
But now you're ready for Lucy's mask. You can't resist glancing at the dusty mirror in the corner, and anticipating what you'll see when you wake.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Surprise Interrogation
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're too shocked and surprised by the noises outside to do anything but stare dumbly at the bedroom door. It can't be the <i>gwarcheidwad</i> -- the occult monster that guards Blackwell's house -- making the noise, even though that's what it sounds like. That creature can only walk the grounds between midnight and dawn, and it is at its weakest in the early hours of the day. But the noises outside -- It's the sound of heavy, booted feet kicking in doors and overturning furniture.<br/>
<br/>
You back up against the window and stare hard at the door as the footsteps sound closer, coming up the stairs. They pass your door. A voice shouts hoarsely, and from the hall comes a resounding blow and the cracking and splintering of wood. Someone bellows -- the Blackwell 'bot.<br/>
<br/>
Whatever is going on, you want to be dressed for it. You're in Kirkham's t-shirt and socks, but you quickly pull on his trousers. They are a bad fit for you, but they're better than nothing.<br/>
<br/>
But though dressed to meet someone, you're not prepared to go out to meet them, not based on the noises you're hearing. Blackwell's voice abruptly cuts out, and something heavy thumps on the floor. More footsteps sound. A voice says something, and then another voice says something else. You brace backwards against the window as fast footsteps run down the hall. Doors bang open.<br/>
<br/>
You lift the window behind you, but still you don't go out it.<br/>
<br/>
Then the door to your room flies open, banging hard off the wall behind.<br/>
<br/>
In the doorway stands a kid about your age. Your age, but he's quite a bit bigger, with rounded shoulders and powerful arms. His blonde hair shines like gold in the early morning light.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes widen, and he grins. "Yo Frank," he shouts. "Blackwell's got a catamite!"<br/>
<br/>
He moves so fast you've hardly time to blink before he's in your face, and then something like a bag goes over your head and you know no more.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When the world comes back, it's with all the brutality of a TV being switched on. You gasp and blink as cold air and pale sunlight hits your face. Something drops in your lap. It's a small, silver-colored sack. You blink at it dumbly. <br/>
<br/>
"It's called a nightcap, asshole," says a cheery voice. You look up. That same blonde kid is looming over you, wearing the same manic grin as when he assaulted you. "And it's called a nightcap 'cos it goes over your head and makes you go beddy-bye for a bit. Makes it a lot easier dealing with people when they don't want to be dealt with." He drops onto his haunches. "Now that I've answered a question you didn't ask, care to answer a question I haven't asked? It'll be an obvious question, so you shouldn't have any trouble giving me the answer."<br/>
<br/>
But your head is spinning too hard for you to even come up with questions of your own. You're sitting on something cold and hard, propped up against something equally cold and hard, and from the look and feel of things, you're outside. You glance around. <br/>
<br/>
It's the bed of a pickup truck, you're outside sitting in the bed of a goddamn pickup truck.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, and your arms are tied behind your back.<br/>
<br/>
Your captor shifts on his feet, but his smile doesn't fade. "Is it really that hard? Here, we'll start with an easy one. How many fingers am I holding up?"<br/>
<br/>
This is too much for you to take. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
"How many fingers am I holding up?"<br/>
<br/>
"What the fuck do I care?"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't care, but I do. It's just to make sure that your head and eyes are working. How many fingers am I holding up?"<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve," you exclaim impatiently, and struggle with your bonds. "Now what the fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll go with the hypothesis that you employ a non-standard counting system when it comes to fingers," says the kid. "Now, what's your name, and why are you wearing David Kirkham's clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops, but you quickly recover. "Fuck you."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you think I'm blowing smoke up your ass," says the kid. "Maybe you're thinking, How does he know I'm not David Kirkham, and why does he think these aren't my clothes? Well, for a start, those things you're wearing don't really fit you all that well, which might only indicate that you're really bad at dressing yourself, except that -- " He shows you something he's been holding. It's a wallet. "This was in your pocket." He opens it. "Sure, you might be David Kirkham, on account of you've got a couple of club IDs in his name, along with a bunch of coupons and even some cash." He takes each of these items out, one by one, and tosses them carelessly away. "But you also got his driver's license, and no matter how I try -- " He squinches up his face to peer at the license and then at you. "I can't get the face here to go with the face there." He throws the license over one shoulder, and the wallet over the other. "So come on, cupcake, I know it's early and you ain't had your coffee yet. But who are you, and why are you wearing David Kirkham's clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
"And I said, Fuck you." There's nothing else you can tell him. You've got Prescott's face and Chen's brain, but the bodies associated with those names are still in circulation elsewhere.<br/>
<br/>
Your captor doesn't cease looking merry. "Ooh, tough guy. Or just likes to act tough. Cool. Now I get to act tough." He cracks his knuckles one by one.<br/>
<br/>
But your nerves are like flint. You don't care how much or how badly he hits you. In fact, since it'd be Prescott's body getting the blows, you'd kind of enjoy it.<br/>
<br/>
The kid finishes cracking and pulling at his fingers. "I think I'll start at eleven with you," he says. "That way you know I'm not fucking around." He sits on one of your ankles, and you grimace. He grabs your other ankle, and with a wink at you pulls your sock off. "Now, if this spot doesn't work for you, just let me know." His grin sharpens, and he traces a fingertip down the sole of your foot.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck!</i> You didn't realize Prescott was so ticklish down there.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He's got a grip of iron, and no matter how hard you kick and squirm you can't break free of him. You shout and curse and bang your head against the cab of the truck, but your tormentor only laughs and keeps asking you for your name. "Come on," he says, "even captured spies are allowed to give their name, rank and serial number."<br/>
<br/>
Relief, when it comes, appears from an unexpected place. Another voice sounds near you. Where the blonde kid has a rich tenor, this one is a gruff baritone. "Joe, what are you doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Interrogating."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you getting anywhere?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but the journey's always half the fun." He winks at you. "Isn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, when you run out of questions of your own, ask him about this." A heavy item drops into the bed of the truck by your captor's feet. He stops torturing you long enough to pick it up and open it, though he keeps a hard grip on your bare foot.<br/>
<br/>
"Whew," he says after reading the first page. "The <i>Libra Personae,</i>" he says softly. "I definitely want to ask you about this. We totally gave up on finding this -- " He looks up at you sharply. "How long have you been taking off your shoes inside one of Professor Blackwell's bedrooms?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what you're talking about!"<br/>
<br/>
"No?" He casts the book aside and resumes tickling you.<br/>
<br/>
Tears finally burst from your eyes: that brief respite makes it all the worse when he starts torturing you again. But now you've got an idea on how to get out of this. "I don't know my name, okay? That's why I can't tell you!"<br/>
<br/>
"How can you not know your name?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know, that's why it's so -- ! Look, I think it's Will Prescott, but there's already a kid at school called that, and he looks just like me! But I also think my name is Gary Chen, except -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Except what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Except, do I look Chinese?"<br/>
<br/>
The kid shrugs. "When the <i>Libra</i> is involved, anybody can look like anything, no matter their name. Where does David Kirkham fit into this mystery of yours?"<br/>
<br/>
"Beats the fuck out of me! I woke up this morning in that bedroom, and I don't know how I got there. Only I looked in the mirror -- " You'd be proud of all this improvising if you weren't terrified that it'll get you into even worse trouble eventually. "And it wasn't my face, it was that Prescott kid's face. And I was wearing Kirkham's clothes, and I don't know why 'cos Kirkham's a friend of mine, but Prescott isn't, and -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you're getting hysterical, but you're actually starting to make a little sense, believe it or not." He stops tickling you, and even gives the sole of your foot a good scratch, as though to rub away even the memory of the torture. "We'll take it back inside," he continues, and grasps your elbow to help you up. "It'll be more comfortable and you can talk about it from the beginning."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Talk about it from the beginning.</i> What a dreadful threat. You have no idea what you'll say when the questions begin again.<br/>
<br/>
The kid helps you out of the truck, which is parked just outside Blackwell's. "Frank'll get us some breakfast," he says. "Won't you?" he shouts.<br/>
<br/>
"Won't I what?" comes a shouted reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Go get us some breakfast. I ain't touching the shit Blackwell's got in his kitchen."<br/>
<br/>
Then you're inside. You're taken into the library, and the kid pulls the bonds off you -- silver ropes. You hadn't noticed how numb your arms were, but they quickly come back to life. "I'll get you some water, though," says the kid. "Don't run off."<br/>
<br/>
You rub yourself all over to get the circulation going. That's when you find the <i>anima</i> band in your pocket.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Another You, So to Speak
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a really dangerous idea you're playing with -- slapping the <i>anima</i> band onto the kid who took you prisoner. The band contains a copy of Gary Chen's <i>anima,</i> and if you put it on the kid then he'll be convinced that he's Gary Chen, the way you're convinced of it. Can the world stand to contain two assholes who think they're Gary Chen? You don't even want to let the real Gary Chen out.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Too late. It's like your hand has a mind of its own.</i> "I brought you some water," says the kid as he comes back in. "And this box of cookies was still sealed up. Made by Keebler elves, but if they're bad for you its for solid nutri -- "<br/>
<br/>
As he bends over the table, you strike like snake, slapping the band to his forehead. He reels back in surprise.<br/>
<br/>
For one, two, five, seven seconds you hold your breath as the kid stares at you with wide, bright blue eyes. His mouth slackens, and his brow furrows slightly. You can see thoughts -- of what kind you're not sure -- rapidly coming together and coming apart again behind his gaze.<br/>
<br/>
Then with something like an Apache war cry, he grabs you by the collar and throws you to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes blaze and his color reddens as he sits on you, and he smashes you across the face with a blow that jars a couple of teeth loose. "You have ten seconds to explain what you just did to me, Prescott, before I fuck you up so hard -- "<br/>
<br/>
"It's alright, man!" you shout. "I'm on your side! I had to do it because this guy you're in, he was trying to fuck things up for us!"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't know the half of how he could fuck things up," the kid says, and his chest heaves. He pulls you up by your collar. "So explain it before it totally lose my shit and kick in your guts so hard your spleen'll stick to the ceiling!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's complicated! But I know it's you, man! Chen Guangli! I know it's you! Look in the book!"<br/>
<br/>
"The <i>Libra!</i>" he snarls, and drops you so he can grab the book off the table. He sits on you, though, pinning you to the floor while he flips through the grimoire. "Which fucking spell? Hurry. Frank'll be back in a few minutes and I need to know what's going on before -- "<br/>
<br/>
"The eighth spell or something, I think. There's no explanation for what it does -- "<br/>
<br/>
"A sigil'll be enough for me. Which one?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's on a loose sheet of paper, stuck into the book. Lemme see it and I'll tell you -- Yeah, that's it," you tell him when he flashes the sheet at you. "What I did, see -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Shtt!" He pinches your lips shut with his fingers and glares at the sheet, turning his head this way and that as he studies it intently. It looks like he's trying to drill holes in the paper with his eyes. His eyebrows work, and his lips move. A couple of times he swallows.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh Christ," he says after a few moments. "<i>Anima.</i> It duplicates <i>anima.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Matsh what I wuzh zhaying," you mumble. He releases your lips. "Prescott trapped you under that mask he made of Chelsea. He made up a kind of goop that puts people to sleep, and he knocked you out with it. Then he made an <i>anima</i> band."<br/>
<br/>
"Why are you talking about yourself in the third fucking person? I hate that, and it's not like I don't already hate you enough."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm getting to that! Prescott made an <i>anima</i> band, but he didn't know what it did. So he tested it out on -- " You swallow. "On Chen. He took the mask off Chen and he put the <i>anima</i> band on him, so that -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So that it copied my <i>anima,</i>" the kid says impatiently. Then he freezes. "My <i>anima</i>," he repeats in a voice soft with horror.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, he copied Chen's <i>anima.</i>Then he put it on himself. So you see what happened, right?" Your tone turns pleading, which you hate. "I've got Chen's <i>anima</i> in me. So I think I'm Chen Guangli, just like you do!"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," the kid sneers.<br/>
<br/>
"I can't help it, I do! Well, some other things happened after that, and after I figured out what the <i>anima</i> bands were, I went back and made another <i>anima</i> copy of Chen. I had it with me when, uh, what's this kid's name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, that's his name as far as you're concerned."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he busted in. I got the band onto him, and that's where we are now."<br/>
<br/>
The kid stares at you, then straightens up and stares at the wall behind you. He puts his hand to his forehead, then covers your forehead with his other hand. "Shit," he says when he drops both hands. "I'm not who I think I am."<br/>
<br/>
"No, and I'm not either. But you can't stop thinking of yourself that way. I've tried. You're thinking you're Chen Guangli."<br/>
<br/>
"And neither of us is really -- " He makes a face. "The real guy is still -- Where -- ?" He swallows. "Where is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stuck under that mask of Chelsea. He's asleep. He has no idea what's happening."<br/>
<br/>
The kid groans. "What a fucking mess. Oh, God damn it, Prescott, if you had any idea -- " He looks around. "What are you doing in Aubrey Blackwell's house?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a long story. But who's this guy and -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's a long story too." He gets off you, though he doesn't help you up. "He's got a partner, God damn it, and it's gonna be fucking awkward when he gets back." He glances quickly about the room, as though the answer to the problem might be found written on the spines of the books. "We need to get alone, just the two of us, until we can compare notes better. Can you look like you're about to shit yourself? Oh, look who I'm asking, you always look like you're -- "<br/>
<br/>
That's enough, and you get in his face. "I know who you think you're talking to, asshole, but I'm not gonna let you -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I think you will," he says, and punches you in the chest so hard it almost feels like something has broken. "But leave the talking to me when Frank comes back. And sit down." He shoves you into a chair.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's another five minutes before the front door opens, and in that time your alter ego has you quickly relate Prescott's history with the <i>Libra</i> from the beginning. You tell about his -- you still have to think of Prescott as "him" and not "me" -- finding the book at Arnholm's, of his and Caleb's early experiments, and how one really stupid conversation led first to the body swap with Gordon Black, then one with Dane Matthias, and finally one with Gary Chen. That's as far as you get when a tall, dark-haired youth appears in the doorway of the library. His gaze is very watchful as he looks between you and the blonde one. "I got you coffee and an Egg McMuffin," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"And a third one for yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I got a second one for myself."<br/>
<br/>
"So the third one's for me?"<br/>
<br/>
"The first one's for you and the second's for me. What are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm talking about how I want two of them. Prescott here gets the fourth."<br/>
<br/>
"I only got two, Joe."<br/>
<br/>
"Then that gives me the excuse I need." He hauls you up by your shirt collar. "I'm taking him out to breakfast, since we both need more than what you brought."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that wise?" says the one called Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"He's harmless, Frank, I've already established that much. And it'll go friendlier over a Formica countertop with junk food between us." He pulls you to the doorway.<br/>
<br/>
"You just want donuts," Frank grumbles as you press past him.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I want to interrogate him in a friendlier environment. <i>And</i> I want donuts." A moment later you're at the door and outside. "Cocksucking asswipe," your alter ego mutters to himself. "Sanctimonious prick." Then he adds a few more phrases in a language you don't recognize.<br/>
<br/>
"So this kid's name is Joe?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but you might as well call me that." He makes a face. "If I'm gonna call you 'Prescott' 'cos that's your face, you can call me 'Joe'." He says it glumly. "Alright, pick it up where you stopped."<br/>
<br/>
So you continue the history as he drives you back into town to the nearest donut shop, and after you're seated there. And since you are for all practical purposes talking to yourself you share everything that Prescott was doing while under the mask of Gary Chen. "He was doing a pretty good job," you observe. "Better than I thought he could do."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back. He had, well, our brain, while he was doing it." His whole manner during your talk has been pinched and irritable, and he now gives you a look of ill-disguised loathing. "I oughta tear that band off your forehead, put it on someone more deserving. Put it on Kirkham or -- I dunno." He sips his coffee, and his expression turns hooded.<br/>
<br/>
A chill runs through you. "If you take it off me, I go back to thinking I'm Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Like I give a shit. I'm on the loose now, cocksucker, and you're not doing anything about it. If I make you my bitch -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Look, we're on the same team, motherfucker." You return his hot glare with one of your own. "I can't help it if I'm stuck in the body of this piece of shit -- "<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>are</i> that piece of shit, you're just deluded enough to think -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So are you!" You realize you're shouting, and though the shop is empty except for the help in the back, you lower your voice. "Think of it as the perfect revenge, that's all." You punch yourself in the chest. "We've been wanting to put this cocksucker in his place ever since he blindsided us. Well, he's fucked now, well and truly. He even <i>thinks</i> he's us!"<br/>
<br/>
A gleam comes into Joe's eye, and a smirk to his lips. But you're not sure if he's laughing with you or at you.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Just Enough Back Story to Motivate Your Ass
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>This kid called "Joe" -- who you've infected with the brain of Gary Chen, the same way you've infected Will Prescott's body with Chen's brain -- gives you a long and penetrating look. "I need you to make another <i>anima</i> band," he says when you warily ask what he's thinking.<br/>
<br/>
"What for?"<br/>
<br/>
"My partner. That fuckwit back at the professor's house. We can't leave him running loose."<br/>
<br/>
"Who is he? Who are <i>you?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"You know who I am, you fuck. Let's keep it at that." His face is very hard. <br/>
<br/>
You feel your own face muscles tighten. "Then fuck you, if you're gonna be like that. You can make a fucking <i>anima</i> band on your own. Why should I suck you off?"<br/>
<br/>
Fire briefly flares in his eyes, then dies back. It doesn't go away entirely, though, and you can still see it behind his smile when he shows you his teeth. "You need this thing too, asshole," he says. "But let's pretend you're doing it for me as a favor. Do it for me, and you can name your price."<br/>
<br/>
You'd double-cross this asshole in a second; and since he's basically you, you know he'll double-cross you too, so this "name your price" line is just bullshit. <br/>
<br/>
But you don't dare show weakness in front of him. "Pay me first," you retort. "Then maybe I'll help."<br/>
<br/>
"So what's your price?"<br/>
<br/>
"You tell me what the fuck is going on here. Who the fuck these guys are" -- you jab a finger at his chest -- "and why you need to plant another copy of 'us' into that guy back at the professor's. That's who you want it for, right? That one who brought back the food?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe fixes you with a long, intense stare. His smile isn't pretty when he shows it to you again.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you wanna know who these assholes are? Watch this." He snaps a finger, then holds out his palm.<br/>
<br/>
You blink and do a double take. There's an open flame dancing there.<br/>
<br/>
It's four inches tall, and it dances lightly in the draught. There is no wick or fuel that you can see, and when you put out a finger he lets you touch it. But it's hot, and you quickly pull your hand away. "How the fuck are you doing that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Magic," he says. "Real, fucking magic. Don't tell me you don't believe in it."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck, you expect me to shit myself over some parlor trick after what I've seen? What I've done?"<br/>
<br/>
His smile is cold and thin. "It's not a parlor trick and it's not book magic, not like what Prescott found or what that dumbass professor plays around with. This is Harry Potter, magic-in-the-blood stuff. As in, this kid here and that asshole we left back at Blackwell's, are natural-born warlocks. If I wanted to fuck you up, I could, easily, and the other one could fuck you up even worse."<br/>
<br/>
You've no reason to believe him, but it's easiest to go along with him. "Okay, so what?"<br/>
<br/>
"So like I say, the other guy could fuck you up worse, fuck me up too, if he finds out I'm running another operating system now." He douses the flame. "I can't take that risk, and you can't either. So we can't leave him running loose."<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, but who are these guys?"<br/>
<br/>
"They call themselves Frank and Joe." He snorts. "Like a the dumb fucks they are, they named themselves after the Hardy Boys. They're a couple of juvenile do-gooders, go around stomping on fuckers like Professor Aubrey Blackwell, and like you. In fact, they came to town trying to find that magic book you picked up, even enrolled at Eastman. That's how dumb they are, they hit the wrong school. Anyway, they gave up after a while, but not until after they'd latched onto Blackwell, and they decided to take him out as long as they were here." He snorts. "Your fucking bad luck that they had to wait until the morning after Halloween before they could get past his defenses, and Jesus, why the fuck am I telling you all this?" He punches himself in the side of the head, and says a string of harsh words in a language you don't understand. <br/>
<br/>
"Anyway," he continues, "as long as I'm in this fucker's head, there's no fucking way I can go back home, back to this guy's home, I mean. They'll spot me hiding out in his head. So I gotta get undercover, and get undercover before any of his friends come looking for me. I could try to ditch Frank, but it'd be better if he came along too. Safer. Besides, he could be useful." He flashes you a brief glare. "More useful than you." <br/>
<br/>
He settles back again. "And that's all you need to know. So, payment granted. Now you're gonna go make me that <i>anima</i> band, right?" A dangerous light comes into his eye.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "And after you get it onto this other fuck, what're you gonna do? Bust outta town?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," he says. You don't believe him, and from the smirk on his face it looks like he doesn't care that you don't believe him.<br/>
<br/>
You doubt you've got much choice but to agree.<br/>
<br/>
But that doesn't mean you have to go along with him to the end.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, you're already getting an idea. "You say you wanna hide. You want me to make a couple of masks for you while I'm at it?"<br/>
<br/>
He freezes, and you can practically read his thoughts: <i>What's the planned double-cross?</i> "We can talk about that later," he says. "You just need to get that band made while keep Frank distracted."<br/>
<br/>
"I need the sigil."<br/>
<br/>
"Wait here and I'll go get it."<br/>
<br/>
He rises, but he only takes two steps before whirling on you. "It's that loose sheet of paper you showed me, right?" His eyes narrow when you nod. "Did you rip it out of the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, it was -- " In a halting way you describe how it seemed to form under the moonlight when you laid a blank sheet of paper on the spell. Joe's eyes harden as you talk.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh," he says when you're done. "That's interesting." He gives you an appraising look. "Don't go anywhere until I get back. Because I <i>will</i> find you if you run off."<br/>
<br/>
You tamp down a desire to flip him off, and just lift your lip to show him a tooth. His eyes glitter in reply.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Look, I just need to see Chelsea one more time," you tell Johansson. "Chen, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"You need to get me a mask for Patterson," he snarls back. "That's what you promised me. And why do I need to meet you back at the old clubhouse?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because that's where I am, and I'm stuck here for the duration," you yell into the cell phone. That Joe guy had dropped you off here after picking you back up from the donut shop. "Don't ask me why, it's complicated."<br/>
<br/>
"If you're out there, you can make me a mask, can't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Bring me the supplies," you tell him, and kick angrily at an old, broken desk. It's cold -- foully cold -- in the basement, and you can barely keep yourself warm by pacing the concrete floor. "No, tell you what, do it this way. You bring Chelsea out here, drop her off, and then you go buy some supplies. I'll be done with Chelsea by the time you get back."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you need her for?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, I need to copy -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, why does she have to stay there with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be a jealous prick, Johansson. She's under your control, I can't do anything with her."<br/>
<br/>
"You'll wanna try," he grumbles, but agrees to your plan.<br/>
<br/>
Once you're done with him, you call that Joe guy at the number he gave you -- you need him to bring over the <i>Libra</i> so you can shut up Johansson with a new mask. But he refuses your request: "You just call me when you get that <i>anima</i> band made. After that, we'll talk. I got a character to maintain out here, and bringing you the <i>Libra</i> ain't part of it. I had to talk real fast to explain why I even let you go."<br/>
<br/>
So you have to make some fast talk yourself when Johansson -- in the guise of Seth Javits -- shows up later with Chelsea on his arm. He's incredulous at the excuse you give him. "A gang of Chen clones?" he gasps. "Why the fuck do we want a gang of that fucker running around?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because he's got a full life," you bridle. "We split things up -- Look, just go get the shit on this list so I can make you that mask for Patterson." You give him a scrap of paper that has as much written on it as you can remember for making masks.<br/>
<br/>
When he's gone, you get the Chelsea mask off the guy who's underneath it, and put the newly made <i>anima</i> band on him. You have ten minutes to contemplate him, and how sexy he is, even squeezed into the Chelsea's clothes -- which is a fucking embarrassing look for him. When you've got it out, you replace the Chelsea mask and call Joe. This time you tell him of the trouble you're in with Johansson. "Once I got the band on Frank, I'll get you the <i>Libra,</i>" he says. "I'm on my way now."<br/>
<br/>
It's like an airport terminal or something for the next little bit. Joe comes and goes, and then Johansson comes back. You pretend to have forgotten a key ingredient and send him away again, taking Chelsea with him.<br/>
<br/>
Then Joe shows up again. You eye him warily as he comes down the stairs. He's got a book under his arm, but you don't like the smile on his face. "Just stay right there," you tell him. "Drop the book there and get out."<br/>
<br/>
"You really think you can stop me?" he chortles. "Fuck, not even Frank could stop me when I went at him."<br/>
<br/>
He vanishes.<br/>
<br/>
You just have time to register the blur where he'd been standing before the world goes dark.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Worst Test of Your Life
path:
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<div><div> <span>The light returns just as abruptly as it had vanished. You blink and shake your head, then glower at the grinning blonde guy. "Got ya again, asshole," Joe says, and tosses the silver bag over his shoulder. <br/>
<br/>
You look around. You're sitting in a living room you've never seen before. It's a dingy room lit only by a small window covered with some Venetian blinds. There's a sour smell in the air, and the sofa you're sitting on is soft in the way that old pieces of furniture with saggy springs get soft.<br/>
<br/>
You shift, and find that your hands are bound in those same silver ropes. Your arms are completely numb, and feel like they weigh a couple of tons when you try to lift them. "Okay, you made your fucking point," you growl. "And thanks for getting me away from Johansson. What now?"<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Now we -- "<br/>
<br/>
He breaks off and looks over as a new figure comes in. It's the dark-haired kid you'd glimpsed earlier. He's taller than the blonde kid, and though his muscles aren't obviously bigger, something in the way he prowls into the room makes him seem a lot bigger. You flinch at the sight of the bulging biceps, and can't bring yourself to look him in his dark eyes.<br/>
<br/>
He stares down at you. "Do I get to twist his fucking head off now," he says in a baritone rumble.<br/>
<br/>
"Not yet," says Joe. "I told you, it depends on what I find out about him. Give it here," he snaps, and from the other one he takes a large sketchpad and a pencil. "Now take the dingus off him."<br/>
<br/>
You rear back as the dark-haired one -- Frank, Joe had called him -- leans over you with a cold and merciless expression on his face. He pauses, though, when Joe says, "Hold it."<br/>
<br/>
The blonde kid now leans in to leer at you. His expression is a lot merrier than the other's, but it is just as lacking in pity. "We're gonna take that <i>anima</i> band off you, Prescott," he says softly. "The thing that makes you think you're Gary Chen."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck," you gasp, and try to backpedal.<br/>
<br/>
"We're gonna take it off you, and then I'm gonna ask you some questions. You don't want to lie to me. It wouldn't do you any good, and it might do you a lot of bad. You know who you're dealing with, so you -- Wait, you don't, really, do you. Hit him, bro."<br/>
<br/>
Frank doesn't have to be told twice. His fist smashes into your gut.<br/>
<br/>
In the agony that ensues -- it's like a wave of hot, acidic blood has engulfed you -- you don't even feel the <i>anima</i> band come off your forehead. You do feel the departure of Gary Chen's mind, however. And with it goes all the false courage you had borrowed from him. When you open your eyes again, the faces of the other two are like the faces of hungry, sadistic animals. And when Frank seizes your hair by its roots and pulls your head up, you burst into tears.<br/>
<br/>
Joe only laughs, then asks you your name.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
As awful as it was to be hit by Frank, you'd let him hit you a dozen more times if it let you escape the five hours that ensued. The one called Joe -- an Eastman student possessed by the awful mind and will and personality of Gary Chen -- interrogated you hard, and when you failed to give him a quick enough answer, he'd smash you hard across the face. Most of the afternoon, Frank stood behind him, arms folded, with a cold scowl on his face.<br/>
<br/>
That was bad enough, but the questions were worse. They made no sense. Three times Joe probed you, starting each new session with the same biographical questions: Where were you born, and when; where were your parents and brother born, and when; and where have you spent your life? After that the questions would diverge, though into parallel channels having to do with your school life, your hobbies, your likes and dislikes; and then they would diverge further into strange and nonsensical questions that seem to have no purpose but to baffle and anger you: Which do you prefer, strawberries or the number five? Would you rather have a sixth finger on each hand, or a third eye? What would be a good name for the first city established on Pluto?<br/>
<br/>
As you answer these questions, he sketches and doodles on that pad. Three times he completes some kind of sketch, glares at it, tears it from his pad and crumples it up, and starts over again with you. His temper becomes shorter and nastier as he proceeds. Frank leaves once to run an errand, and on his return disappears into another room.<br/>
<br/>
There is only one thing to be said in favor of this stupid and exhausting routine: It keeps you from dwelling on the horrible position you have trapped yourself in. What were you thinking, playing around with dangerous magic without instructions? Obviously, you weren't thinking. But you've been well and truly repaid for your folly. You shudder and fight down the vomit when you remember the loathsome feeling of having Gary Chen's soul crawl and swarm over yours, and the way he moved your limbs and thought your thoughts. He was inside you, being you, making you do and think things and thoughts that weren't yours. And the worst part of it was that he hated being inside you even worse than you hated having him there.<br/>
<br/>
And now he's inside these other two guys, guys who apparently have magical powers without needing to use books or spells. The glittering malice in Joe's eyes is unmistakable, and Frank looks like he can barely keep himself from stomping you into a puddle of blood and shit. With Chen's personality in control of them, and without anything like the faux brotherhood that came from having his personality inside you, there will be nothing to save you from them.<br/>
<br/>
The end, when it comes, will be long and painful, you are sure.<br/>
<br/>
Only Joe's slaps keep you from passing out from fear and despair.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The third time Joe rips a sheet off that pad, he doesn't start the questions up again. Instead, he yells for the other: "Frank!"<br/>
<br/>
A dark silhouette appears in the entryway. "Don't call me that, fucker."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck am I supposed to call you, then?" Joe retorts. "If you don't like that name, go put on Kirkham's mask. Here, I'll get his clothes for you." He tears at your jeans, and you are powerless to stop him.<br/>
<br/>
"What's the verdict?" Frank asks as he advances. You draw a deep breath to keep the vomit of panic down.<br/>
<br/>
"The bad news is you can't kill him. Or, I guess you could," says Joe as he finishes pulling Kirkham's pants and underwear off you. "But he's more useful alive."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yep. Sulva and Kenandandra."<br/>
<br/>
Frank turns cold, murderous eyes on you. "Can't be," he says. "A dribbling little cum-pump like him?"<br/>
<br/>
"It makes sense when you add the probabilities up. God knows I'd cut my own balls off before betting on him being -- " Joe draws a ragged breath. "But that's what the charts say." He shrugs. "Of course, if you want to kill him anyway -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Could we?" You hate the hopeful tone in his voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. But it's better to, um -- " Joe picks up the <i>anima</i> band from an end table and waggles it in the air.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit. Fuck. I'd kill myself if I got stuck inside that -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I would too," says Joe. "I'm sure he almost did. But I don't think he will, not if we put it back on him and explain the situation."<br/>
<br/>
A hard, slow hiss saws in and out over Frank's teeth. "He's your pet, then." He hocks up a loogie, and splats it all over your face. "And I guess I got him to thank for being here -- " He raises a fist, and gives his arm and bicep a glance-over, and a ray of admiration flickers briefly on his face. "But I'll leave it you to look at him. Keep him away from me." He snatches up the underwear and jeans from the floor and leaves the room with them.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't mind Frank," Joe says when he's gone. "You gotta understand that he's -- Oh, hell." He laughs nastily. "Let me put this back on you, and you'll understand totally why he feels that way about you." With a numbing blow slams the <i>anima</i> band back onto your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It sinks into you and opens up and Gary Chen flows out into every crack and crevice in your body, filling and numbing you with his poisonous contempt. "Oh, fuck," you sigh. "Here we are again."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, here we are again," Joe says. "I'm gonna take those ropes off you now. Don't get any ideas, because I can punch you in the balls so fast you won't even see me making a fist."<br/>
<br/>
"Just tell me what the fuck all that was about," you retort as he undoes the ropes. Feeling instantly returns to your arms, and you wince as you rub them. They're so uselessly skinny.<br/>
<br/>
"It was a test, and you passed. Well, Prescott passed. You'd probably be happier if he flunked. I don't know how I feel." He cocks his head. "But you'll have your uses."<br/>
<br/>
"So explain it to me." You sit up, and that bile that Prescott had been pushing down comes roaring up. You choke on it, swallow it down again, and make a face.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the short version is that Prescott is magic too, the same way these two fuckers are." Joe points to himself and back over his shoulder. "It was one shot in billion," he continues as you stare at him, "but Prescott's shit body is a lottery winner."</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Story Behind the Test
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>As you sit up, Joe pushes you back down and puts a strong knee into your chest. "Okay, first of all, you need to remember who you are and where you are."<br/>
<br/>
"And where's that?" you snarl back at him. "Remember who and where <i>you</i> are, cocksucker."<br/>
<br/>
"I know exactly who and where I am," he retorts, and doesn't bother to hide the gloat in his voice. "That's what makes me awesome. You, on the other hand, are stuck in that shit Prescott. Frank and I, on the other hand -- "<br/>
<br/>
He sniggers, and he presses that knee down harder on you as he leans over you, putting his face near yours. <br/>
<br/>
"So here's the situation," he says. "For ten years, these two cocksuckers have been training to use their mutant powers. We ain't hardly showed you what they can do, but they got ten years of training behind them. Remember that, because you got shit inside you, Prescott. Yeah, you got Chen Guangli inside you," he snorts, "same as me and Frank. But it's stuck inside Prescott, and Prescott's just a snot-nosed little shit. So maybe you got something special going on with that carcass, but you don't know what it is or how to use it. You're starting with shit, man, and you'll learn shit and do shit if you cop an attitude with me. You heard what Frank said? How'd he'd rather twist your head off? There's only one thing between you and him, and that's me. And don't count on <i>me</i> being on your side, either." <br/>
<br/>
He gets off you, and his lip curves so hard with contempt it looks like it hurts. "I told you earlier I should tear that thing off you and put it on someone else. I might yet, just so I don't have to look at you."<br/>
<br/>
"So go ahead and do it," you snarl back. "I don't like being here. Put me in someone so I'll -- "<br/>
<br/>
Joe reaches for your forehead. But instead of letting him grab you, you grab his wrist. You lock eyes.<br/>
<br/>
Very long moments pass, and you have plenty of time to feel the sweat popping out all over your body -- your bare legs and hips and crotch, and the torso still wrapped in Kirkham's shirt. It's a horrifying thought, the idea of being ripped out of a body, even out of Prescott's. You couldn't bring yourself to do it earlier, and now you're stopping Joe from doing it. You stare back at him without blinking, and strain to keep his arm immobile. Your face feels very cold and pale.<br/>
<br/>
His grin is a pale and loathsome thing. "Yeah, I figured you'd fight me," he says softly. "That's the nature of the thing. Anyway, all other things being equal, I'd rather leave it on you, because like I say, you'll be useful in the long run." He pulls back. "But you didn't stop me from pulling it off you. I can get that thing off you any time I want. So just remember, I am totally the boss of you, and you will totally do what I say. You'll want to anyway," he continues, and you can barely hear him over the roar of blood in your ears. "That's the way you'll learn."<br/>
<br/>
"Learn what?" Your breath comes in painful gasps.<br/>
<br/>
"How to use your own mutant powers. <i>Prescott's</i>, I mean. That's another reason you don't want me pulling that thing off you. In the long run, you'll be better off with that body than inside another. And we can hide you so we don't have to be constantly reminded of what a little shit you actually are." He glances over his shoulder with a frown. "The fuck is keeping my brother?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's he doing with Kirkham's mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"Going home as him. Someone has to keep his place warm, and I need to talk to you here." He stabs at you with a finger. "Stay. I'll be back with some clothes." He looks you up and down speculatively, then with a muttered "Fuck" leaves the room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He'd gone for awhile, which leaves you plenty of time to think in a painfully useless way about what he said about Prescott having "mutant" powers. When he returns, a shirtless Kirkham is with him. The latter snaps his fingers at you, and you take off the shirt and toss it to him. Joe and the replacement for David Kirkham exchange some muttered words, then the latter goes out the front door.<br/>
<br/>
Joe tosses you some athletic shorts and a t-shirt, both very large and sloppy on Prescott's scarecrow frame. Then he sits down as you pull them on, and with a lot more patience than he'd shown earlier in the day he explains things to you.<br/>
<br/>
It's a long story, but you pick up on it pretty quickly. It's all mixed up with astrology and the planets, he says. Each of the planets -- which include the Sun and the Moon as well as the rest of them, from Mercury through Pluto -- are capable of conferring spooky supernatural powers upon human beings. For whatever reason, though, only a few dozen people ever get them, and they always get a unique combination from being born under a conjunction of two of them. This Joe character, for instance, gets his mutant magic powers from the Sun and from Mercury; the Frank guy gets his from Mars and Saturn; and Prescott for whatever bizarre reason gets some powers from Pluto and the Moon.<br/>
<br/>
"It must be the Moon that explains why no one ever found him," Joe muses. "There aren't any 'Moon' members in the club, and the Moon is associated with eclipses. So Prescott was invisible, blacked out."<br/>
<br/>
That "club"? It's called the <i>Stellae Errantes,</i> and he snorts over it. "Buncha fucking do-gooders," he says. "There's all kinds of cool things out there. Vampires, and witches, and warlocks. Monsters. Demons. Great shit like that, and these ass-clowns are always trying to stamp 'em out. There's a couple of dozen guys in that club, and Joe and Frank have been studying for ten years so they could join it." He laughs. "Their first mission, they mess up so bad." He thumps his chest. "Now <i>we're</i> in charge of them. Fuck, we're gonna have some fun with the <i>Libra</i> once we get to a safe space."<br/>
<br/>
That's the real trick, apparently. The Chen-possessed Frank and Joe can't return to their colleagues without the change being spotted, so they are going to have to go into hiding. "Some masks will help," he says. "But we can't count on them for sure. They're supposed to head back home sometime this coming week. We'll probably do that, lay a false trail, stage a disappearance, then come back here. You can have some masks ready for us by then."<br/>
<br/>
"Then what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Then we'll start training you. With your 'eclipse' ability, we might be able to hide out in the shadows until we figure out what we're going to do."<br/>
<br/>
"What was all that stuff with the sketch pad about?"<br/>
<br/>
"That was just me figuring out if you were legit or not. Yeah." He peers at you keenly. "I guess I'm glad I tried that. Now that I think about it, it really is best that you stick it out inside Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"On account of all those fakes you made. Christ. Ten of them. That's what put me onto you. Didn't you -- ?" He breaks off, and his eyes widen. "Oh, Jesus, what a waste of fucking time this has been. Didn't the professor's shadow mind tell you what was going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shadow mind?" you ask, but you're asking it of Joe's retreating back, for he's leaped up and run from the room. He's back a moment later, though, with a silver band in his hand. He hands it to you, and you see it's the brain-band you made of Professor Aubrey Blackwell. You hadn't noticed it had gone missing from your own head.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I took that off you right after I put the nightcap on you," he says. "If you put it back on, you'd probably be better able to follow this shit I'm explaining to you."<br/>
<br/>
"I think I'm following okay. I didn't like having it in me, anyway." You drop the band onto the end table, as though it's a spider.<br/>
<br/>
Joe snickers. "Have it your way. But didn't you wonder how come you managed to make so many fakes?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I did," you reply. "I was concentrating on other things, though."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. Well, so was I, but this fucker has a good brain and can think about lots of things simultaneously, so that was one of the things I thought about. Also, the way you got the <i>anima</i> to imprint itself under moonlight onto a blank sheet of paper. Prescott's got some pretty powerful <i>essentia</i> if he can make that many golems, and the moonlight was pretty suggestive of Sulva. That's these fucks' name for the Moon, by the way. So I told Frank, after I got him straightened out, that I wanted to test you out. Even then I didn't really think you'd turn out to be a <i>Stellae,</i> and I ran the test three different times, just to make sure I wasn't getting a false positive. Jesus." He shakes his head. "Although it's kind of obvious in retrospect." He doesn't amplify on that last remark.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So what's the plan?" you ask when you've been over things a couple of times with him, just to make sure you understand what's up. You're feeling a lot more patient with him, and he seems more patient with you, too. <br/>
<br/>
"Frank's taken over for Kirkham, at least until tomorrow," Joe says. "We need to pack up the shit we took out of Blackwell's, and then we need to make a quick trip out of town in a couple of days before doubling back here."<br/>
<br/>
"I've got Johansson riding my ass," you tell him. "What should I do about that?" You have to explain the situation to Joe before he can say anything useful.<br/>
<br/>
And even then he's not sure what to say or do about Prescott's old friend. "I should go talk to Frank about it," he says.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: A Little Snooping of Your Own
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<div><div> <span>You make to follow Joe out the door, but he turns and shoves you back. "You stay here. Remember what I told you about Frank not liking your face."<br/>
<br/>
"He better get used to it, 'cos I'm not going anywhere!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't like it a lot either, don't forget. But stay here. There's some cash in the kitchen drawer," he adds. "Order in a pizza if you want. We're not gonna be hurting for cash once we get started."<br/>
<br/>
You storm back into the living room after he's gone. There's got to be some way of dealing with these assholes.<br/>
<br/>
Except you didn't get where you are by losing your temper needlessly. (On the other hand, losing your temper when it's useful has done you a lot of good.) It sounds like you'd be in a worse place if you hadn't slapped that <i>anima</i> band onto this "Joe" person, and these magic mutant powers they're bragging about could be useful to you. If they can teach some of them to you, you'll be in great shape.<br/>
<br/>
The trouble is that they think you're useless. And because they know -- as well as you do -- that you're really Prescott, they hate you as much as you hate ... well, <i>you.</i><br/>
<br/>
The thing to do, then, is to stay on their good side -- without being a total pussy -- until you can figure out a way of getting on top of them.<br/>
<br/>
So you leave the cash where Joe said it was. Instead, you ransack the place for clues about who they are.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You don't find much. Some school books and papers and a computer with a password you can't get around. Their names are Frank and Joe Durras, and they go to Eastman High. Based on the scores of the papers you find, Frank was apparently the smart one; Joe's scores, on the other hand, are unbelievably bad. <br/>
<br/>
There are two bedrooms, only one of which looks like it's been used, which suggests one of two things. Either one of them is tidy in a super-anal way, or the "brother" thing is just an act and they're actually gay lovers. Both possibilities leave you snickering.<br/>
<br/>
You find a few more books in the bedrooms, including some of the sort that Blackwell had in his library, but Joe took his brain-band with him so there's not much use in trying to read them.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, and speaking of Blackwell -- you find his petrified corpse in the garage, still dressed. The mask is nowhere to be found. Apparently while they were taking care of you, they took the mask off the golem and ditched it someplace.<br/>
<br/>
You do find one useful book, though. It's called <i>Shadows of the Planets,</i> and it turns out to be a fairly non-technical history of this <i>Stellae Errantes</i> organization and how it works. You take it into the living room and start reading it.<br/>
<br/>
It tells you, in some more detail, what Joe had told you. According to the book, every human being is to some degree or another bound up with the planets -- the Sun, Mercury, Venus, the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto -- each of which has a specific and individual set of virtues. These virtues contribute, to a greater or lesser degree, to the personality, dispositions and talents of the people that they are entangled with. (The actual entanglement, so near as you can tell, has to do with the <i>essentia</i> of each person being "alchemically oriented" to one or more planets.) When certain conjunctions occur, this either has the effect of orienting some newborn's <i>essentia</i> to two of the planets, or if someone is already so oriented, of casting a beneficent glow upon them. This means that there is always at least, and at most, one person in the world who gets the maximum benefits from being born under that conjunction.<br/>
<br/>
With forty-five possible conjunctions, there are thus only forty-five people in the world with such magical mutant powers. Each conjunction bestows a unique set of powers upon the person born under it, and these powers tend to change and shift in each generation of holder. Eagerly, you turn to the sections that describe the planets that Joe said belong to Prescott -- and thus to you.<br/>
<br/>
The Moon, or "Sulva" as the book has it: "Associated with restless, undirected energies. Adepts tend to be wanderers and daydreamers. They disappear for long stretches of time, drifting they themselves know not where, or retreating into inner spaces so deep that they vanish from sight without leaving home. They are also sometimes mirrors, creating solitude for themselves by reflecting back what others wish to see, thus creating a protective shell around themselves. Personalities associated with Sulva tend to be introverted, quiet, dreamy, footloose. Their prodigies will be associated with silences and vacuums: invisibility, stealth, disguise."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Restless, dreamy, footloose?</i> Yeah, you'd call that a super-charitable description of Prescott. Cocksucker needs a good slap. But the "stealth and disguise" bit sounds promising. <br/>
<br/>
Of Pluto, or "Kenandandra" the book says: "Associated with industry and organization. Adepts are able to craft or disassemble spells, sigils or magical items with great ease and skill. They also have a tremendous worth ethic, and will pursue a problem as a Malacandran will pursue an enemy. They are also great organizers. Personalities tend to be somewhat metallic and rigid, in the way that engineers often are, and they sometimes exhibit obsessive-compulsive or neurotic tendencies."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck.</i> That sounds like something good, and you're pretty god damn sure Prescott hasn't got it. You wonder if Joe did the horoscope right.<br/>
<br/>
But in the back of your mind there drifts a thought: A "great organizer"? Prescott whipped your business into smart shape when he had control of it. But you savagely kick the thought around until it dies. It was <i>your brain,</i> you tell yourself, that got all that done. <i>Not his.</i><br/>
<br/>
Well, if Joe is right about Prescott's talent, maybe some of this training will bring it out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
While you are reading this book, Joe calls you, asking for some info about the masks you've been scattering about: Who is wearing what masks, and where are they?<br/>
<br/>
It takes you awhile to remember and communicate it all, and you snarl back when he snaps at you. But bit by bit you get it all listed for him.<br/>
<br/>
You have six people working for you: George Mendoza, Joe Thomason, Tanner Evans, Joshua Call, Jeff Spencer, and Jamie Rennerhoff. Associated with each is a golem, and these golems collectively are hiding the original persons of Douglas Canfield, Andrea Varnsworth, Craig Wyatt, Jelena Petrovich, Sienna Goldman, and Fatima Zahedi. In addition, you have a mask of Adam Karter sitting on Adam Karter, of Grandpa Chen sitting on Grandpa Chen, and of Gary Chen sitting on David Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What about Johansson? What masks and golems has he got?</i> Joe asks you.<br/>
<br/>
He's wearing a mask of Seth Javits. Javits is wearing a mask of Johansson.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Does that mask of Johansson have any of that golem paste inside it?</i><br/>
<br/>
You have to think about that question. Then you remember some comment Caleb said not too long ago -- he made some paste and used it to put that mask under his control. He's also got some of that paste inside the mask of Chelsea Cooper, which is sitting on ... sigh ... Gary Chen's face. And his <i>essentia</i> is inside a spare golem that's hidden in the basement.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, Joe asks about what other masks are on the loose.<br/>
<br/>
There's a mask of Dane Matthias sitting on Chelsea Cooper's face. It hasn't got a brain-band in it, though. Same as the mask of Gordon Black that's sitting on Matthias's face, and the mask of Will Prescott that's sitting on Black.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Any others?</i><br/>
<br/>
No. Wait, there's a mask of Martin Gardinhire sitting around somewhere.<br/>
<br/>
Joe hangs up without answering any of your questions, and you go back to reading. An hour later he calls back, and tells you that they've got three ideas, and they can't agree on which one to go for, and they want you to be the tie-breaker. You listen to the proposals, talk them through, consult your gut, and render a decision. Joe hangs up, and tells you that he'll be back home soon to help you get set up for another move.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Because that's what the consultation was about: You need a new hiding place.<br/>
<br/>
That's because the "Frank" member of your three-body brain will be taking permanent control of David Kirkham. You resent the plan, but the two of them insist: Frank is the natural to act as an enforcer for your gang, and since he is being managed by the same Chen-intelligence that is running all three of these bodies, he will know exactly what to do.<br/>
<br/>
That leaves you and Joe needed a hiding place. He definitely needs a long-term hiding place, and with Kirkham's mask riding around on Frank's face, so do you. He was quite blunt about the fate of whoever the two of you replace -- they will be turned into golems, the same as your grandpa, and hidden away. These will, more or less, be your new permanent faces. And they will have to be faces that put you and Joe close together -- living with each other, so he can help you train without it looking weird.<br/>
<br/>
One possibility, he explained, was for you to return to being Will Prescott, while Joe took the part of Caleb Johansson -- or you could take the part of Johansson while Joe found another personality to play. Johansson's mom would be turned into another golem, so that your group would have complete control of a small house to hide out in.<br/>
<br/>
Another possibility was to replace two guys who were either dropouts or on the verge of dropping out, and renting a place as roommates. Here, the best choice would be Matt Reston, the bass player you've got running the weed supply into the Warehouse. Once you -- or Joe -- was in for Reston, you'd figure out another person who could room with him, and replace that person.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, you could find a pair of siblings to replace. The obvious choice here would be the Garner girls, Eva and Jessica.<br/>
<br/>
After talking it over, you settled on --</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Report on the New Gang
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You chose the last option -- the "Garner Gambit" -- for a couple of reasons. One was that Joe did not sound real enthusiastic about it, and you liked the idea of needling him.<br/>
<br/>
But at bottom it was just the most appealing of the ideas. Turning yourself and this dumb partner into Reston and a friend of his would put you and him too close to each other. You remember that shitty hotel room where Reston was holed up, and the idea of sharing it -- and maybe even a bed -- with someone else with a sausage between his legs was just odious. You'd probably kill each other after a day or two. And though there'd be space and separation if you used Johansson and Prescott and disguises, that was a <i>really</i> unappealing suggestion. You don't want to see Prescott's face in the mirror every time you go to shave, and Johansson was dancing on your last nerve the last time you saw him.<br/>
<br/>
So that left the Garners as the only good option. As sisters, they naturally will see each other at home after school, but they won't be hanging out with each other all the time.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, you have some fond memories of playing Chelsea Cooper, and you think you could have some fun with the body of another cheerleader.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's almost eight o'clock, and you have long since broken down and had that pizza delivered, before Joe returns. He doesn't look happy, and he flushes when you ask him if something is wrong.<br/>
<br/>
"No, everything's all set up. Goddamned finally. You really fucked things up at school, you know that?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?" you retort. "I got the business going great, I got -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I don't mean the business, I mean all those fucking masks you had scattered all over the fucking -- " He draws a deep breath, and calms down. "I keep telling myself I have to remember who you think are, which team we're all playing for," he says after making an ugly face at you. "We all think we're Chen, and you can't help who you look like. Well, I guess you can, after we've changed." He has a backpack on his shoulder, and he slings it onto the floor. "You wanna change here, or up at the school?"<br/>
<br/>
"Change?" you ask, puzzled.<br/>
<br/>
Then it hits you. They must have already taken care of the Garner girls.<br/>
<br/>
Automatically, almost, you draw back from the backpack. "Is that them in there?" you squeal. "Eva and Jessica?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't scream. Who else would it be?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus! How'd you get them so fast?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe rolls his eyes. "You think it's hard? All we had to do was get that mask of Javits off Johansson -- "<br/>
<br/>
"You did what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut. The fuck. Up. Or at least settle on one question and stick to it," he snaps, then crouches to unzip the backpack. "Which one do you want? Jessica or Eva? They're interchangeable."<br/>
<br/>
"Jessica," you blurt out. "She's, I dunno, more pert," you explain when he cocks an eyebrow at you. You mime grabbing some breasts.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't remember studying her tits that closely, but I won't argue." He mutters something else. You don't ask him to repeat it, because you think you catch the word <i>Prescott</i> in there. <br/>
<br/>
"So we called up Johansson," he continues as he spills masks and clothes all over the floor. "He was a fucking prick about it, too, but he met us over at that fucking basement. Frank grabbed him and I pulled the mask off him, and then we used those ropes and that bag to quiet him down. It was after that we called you, got that report so we'd know what we needed to handle." He glances inside a mask, sets it aside, then tosses you the other one. "So, Frank's gonna be taking over the shit you set up -- " he continues.<br/>
<br/>
"You mentioned that."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I mean all those other masks you scattered around. Johansson and Javits and Chelsea --  Mm." He grabs his crotch. "The others. We're using that golem paste to keep 'em all in line."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean you're going to turn all of them into golems?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, it's the only way to straighten things out safely. Gonna make 'em into slaves for Frank's. We already put his golem paste inside that mask of Javits that Johansson was wearing. We also made a new mask of Johansson, put Frank's paste inside it, and got it back in circulation by slapping it on the real fuckface. So -- " He ticks off two fingers. "Javits and Johansson are both slaves now. Then I used Javits's voice to get Eva and Jessica to come out, and we got masks of them and turned them into golems too. The kind like you did granddad, those statue things. We hid 'em behind all that junk in the basement. I don't think we'll need them, but they'll be useful to have around."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you doing about Chelsea?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, her and Matthias and Black were the tricky ones to deal with. We made up some new masks and bands -- which took fucking long enough, we shoulda brought you out to help but Frank doesn't want to look at you -- then went around and got each of them one at a time. But what we did was, we copied the real people into the masks and bands, but then we switched them around, so as to keep the goofy stuff more or less the way it is now. I dunno, we might undo it later, but for now we're keeping things as close to the way they look as possible. So, like, we copied Chelsea brain but put it into Matthias's mask, then coated it with Frank's paste and put it on Matthias. So, he's under his own mask, and he's a 'bot that Frank controls, but he's got Chelsea's brain and is going to keep doing the kind of shit she was doing under his mask. Except we can boss him around if we have to. Did the same thing with Black's mask -- put it on Black, but with Matthias's brain band, and put Gordon's brain band in that mask of Prescott." Joe snorts. "Speaking of which, you wanna change now? So we don't have to keep looking at you like that?"<br/>
<br/>
"What did you do with, uh, Chen?"<br/>
<br/>
"The real guy? Same thing. Made a new mask of Chelsea, and a second brain band of the real Chelsea while we had her, slathered Frank's paste in it -- " He grimaces. "And he'll be able to jam himself up her anytime he wants 'cos she's his slave. And then we put it onto Chen. <br/>
<br/>
"So, those are the details," he concludes. "If you can't keep 'em straight, just understand that Frank's got a golem gang of his own now." He ticks off his fingers: "Prescott, Black, Matthias, Chelsea, Johansson, and Javits. We can use Javits and Chelsea, I guess. The others are pretty useless, unless Frank puts himself into one of them and runs it himself."<br/>
<br/>
"Are we gonna make any more golems?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah." Joe picks through the clothes, separating them into two piles, and pushes one pile toward you. "We're supposed to get a mask onto Marc when we get back to the Garners', so Frank has a place to hang out if he needs to conference with us. Anybody else, it'll be a case of whether they're useful or not."<br/>
<br/>
"I've been trying to get Kelsey Blankenship. She's got money, and she's a big buyer for her weekly ganja parties."<br/>
<br/>
Joe mulls this. "That's a good idea. Moneywise, the real score woulda been back at Eastman, but he's too obvious and we wanna stay out of that school, 'cept for Karter. But we'll take Kelsey's parents, too, so we get total control of the house and money." <br/>
<br/>
"You know, Kelsey's throwing her weekly weed party tonight, and the Garners should be at it. If you got another mask -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, man, I wore myself out making all the other ones, just to clean up your fucking mess!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you've got to change anyway. Joe stays in the living room, while you take Jessica's things into a musty bathroom. The t-shirt and shorts you're wearing will be big enough to hold Jessica's smaller frame, so you don't disrobe before laying in the bathtub and putting her mask on. A little thrill goes through you just before settling the mask in place.<br/>
<br/>
You can't tell right-side up from upside-down when you wake, and grab onto something cold and hard as your head spins. You sit up sharply. You're in a bathtub. <i>The fuck?</i><br/>
<br/>
Twin streams of memories come rushing back. One of going into the bathroom with a mask of Jessica Garner after talking with Joe, and that after spoiling a good Saturday in a strange house, and that after being hijacked by two magic users whose personalities are now dominated by yours -- that of Gary Chen. The other stream brings memories of having a sack shoved over your head after driving out with your sister Eva to meet Seth at some dumpy old elementary school because he wanted to talk about Cindy, and that after an afternoon of shopping where you picked up the clothes that you were wearing, and which are now -- <i>oh God</i> -- scattered on the filthy floor of something that smells like a gas station restroom. With finicky care you crawl out of the tub.<br/>
<br/>
From outside, somewhere, you hear a feminine voice barking something that sounds like a curse word. You open the bathroom door and go hunting.<br/>
<br/>
Eva, wearing a guy's clothes, is standing in the living room. She's glaring at a cell phone. "It's Kelsey," she says, "wanting to know if we're coming or not. I vote 'no'," she continues, "unless you think we can fake our way through."<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Completing the Disguise
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What's wrong?" you ask the guy who looks like Eva Garner. "You having a hard time getting the memories?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks at you peevishly, an expression that one set of your memories tells you is all wrong for Eva's face. "You saying you're not?"<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head, and don't resist the dimple that you feel forming in your cheeks. "No, I've got al of Jessica all up here." You touch the side of your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Bullshit."<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry, fucker. That's something the other guys noticed, but I forgot to tell you. All the other guys, Thomason and them, it takes them to get it in character. At first I thought it was just 'cos they're dumb but after you told me about Prescott -- Well, with him, I guess, it all comes instantly. It was that way even before he, uh, got that <i>anima</i> thing onto himself."<br/>
<br/>
"I still call bullshit." Joe cocks her head, and her eyes narrow. "Although maybe -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe what?"<br/>
<br/>
Her nostrils flare. "Well, maybe it's not bullshit. Sulva's a mirror, so maybe the fucker just picks up disguises more easily than other people do. But, God!" She suddenly clutches her head, and her hair falls into her face. "This is driving me nuts!"<br/>
<br/>
Before you can react, she grabs her breasts. They are large and firm and round, and she slowly massages them through the t-shirt she's still wearing. "I don't wanna go anywhere," she moans. "I just wanna stay in and play with these."<br/>
<br/>
"Kelsey will be pissy with us if we skip her party," you warn her. "Oh, fuck, she'll be pissy with us no matter what." You shudder a little at the memory of the little slights and put-down and sighs and eye-rolls that Kelsey Blankenship likes to inflict on her friends. "Bu fuck, it won't matter, not after we get a mask onto her. Hey, are you even listening to me?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." Joe's staring at her breasts as she continues to gently knead them. "But it's fine with me if we skip."<br/>
<br/>
"Probably a good idea. If you're going down yourself sober, who knows what you'll start doing if you get a little weed into you. Are you going to finish changing?<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," she says slowly. Then she drops her breasts and grabs the hem of her shirt. "Gonna get undressed, at least."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God." You retreat backwards, so you get an eyeful of Eva Garner's naked bosom. Two personalities vie for control of your reaction: your own panting, eye-watering need to drink it in, and Jessica's disgust at the way she's ogling her own sister. <br/>
<br/>
The first reaction, naturally, proves much stronger.<br/>
<br/>
But there's something very piquant and exciting about the other reaction, and something spurts inside you -- like an inner ejaculation -- at the inevitable thought that forms. <br/>
<br/>
<i>I want to fuck my twin sister.</i><br/>
<br/>
You retreat into the bathroom, where you close the door, pull off the lent clothes, and study yourself in the mirror. It's not the same turn-on -- not even close -- when it's your new body you're studying, but it's pretty freaking awesome anyway.<br/>
<br/>
The Garner girls have almost identical builds and faces. They are only about five-and-a-half feet tall, with small feet but strong calves and thighs from years of gymnastic work. They are hard all over, except for a lovely little layer of fat that warms and softens the wide pelvis and curved stomach. You palm these now, and you get a hard tingle inside your --<br/>
<br/>
You suck down a ragged breath. You have a pussy. You look down. The bush is a dark auburn color, of tightly curled hair. And inside it is a lovely little playground that Jessica is not shy about exploring, at night, while thinking about --<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head violently. Jessica likes thinking about the boys, and her tastes are nothing if not eclectic, though they do tend to run to a type. Alec Brown, Justin Roth, Joe Ysleta, John Darden, and Jonas Martin all belong to different groups and have very different personalities. But even though Alec is a gentleman-sportsman, Justin a stoner, Joe a marching band type, John a pig farmer, and Jonas a thug, they all have hard, brawny bodies. <br/>
<br/>
The kind of bodies Jessica would like to wrap her arms around and impale herself upon.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, enough of that.</i> What else have you got?<br/>
<br/>
Breasts, as large and globe-like as Eva's. Strong arms and dexterous hands. And for a face? Now you raise your eyes and regard your alter ego head on.<br/>
<br/>
Round and pert. With a little more fat, Jessica would be baby-faced, but as it is she's just got a round face with a soft chin and jaw and cheekbones; a small, turned-up nose; and large eyes that are a mix of green and hazel and a little yellow. Her hair, like Eva's, is a tawny color that sits somewhere between dirty blonde and light auburn. Jessica used to wear hers long, like Eva still does, with dirty ringlets falling to her shoulders. After seeing a picture of Gina Lollabrigida in her 1950s prime, though, Jessica chopped it back during her sophomore year so that it curls to the bottom of her ears and to the top of her nape of her neck.<br/>
<br/>
Clothes? The girls were planning to go to Kelsey's party -- and you can feel Jessica's disappointment at having to skip -- even though they rarely get more than a contact buzz from the weed. (Marc, on the other hand, likes to get totally baked, especially since he started hanging out with Hannah Westrick. <i>Gawd.</i> One of these days they're going to do it where someone will catch them going at it, and it's get posted online and break the internet.) Anyway, Jessica was already dressed casual for going out there when she and Eva got hijacked by that bogus phone call from Seth. You slip on the panties and bra, then the ankle socks and the skinny pants that look so good on the Garners because they've got such great legs. Over that goes a skin-tight gray top with a low-cut neckline, and you cover that with a white workout jacket with blue shoulders and blue knit cuffs. You zip it up just over your belly button, and turn this way and that, admiring the way the jeans and the jacket complement your curves. You bet any guy would love to have his arm around you. You know you'd love to have your arms around something with those kinds of curves.<br/>
<br/>
And there is someone, out in the living room, who's got curves like these. Excitedly, you sit down and put on the brand-new white sneakers. They are firm and tight, and as you jam your feet into them you think of something else of yours that is firm and tight that could have something jammed up inside it.<br/>
<br/>
That <i>has</i> had something jammed up inside it. Jessica isn't a virgin, but you flinch from thinking of who's had her.<br/>
<br/>
That's another reason to stay away from the party tonight. Jessica feigns that everything is cool between her and the ... several guys who will be there that she's let roger her, but you're not sure how well you'll be able to hold it together.<br/>
<br/>
You stand up, straighten everything out, scope yourself out again in the mirror. This is a really nice outfit. You'll enjoy wearing it to school on Monday, even if it's not something that will grab a lot of eyeballs.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Christ-on-a-stick.</i> Fucking Prescott and his insta-mindmelds. You're already acting and thinking totally like this girl.<br/>
<br/>
You put out the light and go out into the living room. Eva raises her head sharply with a guilty expression on her face. She pulls her hand free of --<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Jesus.</i> Your alter ego was fingering himself.<br/>
<br/>
He's got her clothes on -- mostly. No socks and shoes, but he's inside the clothes that Eva bought this afternoon: tightknit, navy-blue sweat pants, an overlarge white t-shirt whose hem hangs past the butt, and a forest-green jacket whose sleeves he has pushed up to the elbow. "Aren't you cute?" he sneers, and avoids your eye.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ha!</i> He's off-balance. You sniff the perfect opportunity to assert your dominance. And a perfect chance to sniff something else.<br/>
<br/>
"Were you touching yourself, sister dear?" you coo as you sidle up. The fake Eva flinches, but you've got your hand on the small of her back before she can get away. <br/>
<br/>
Then you get her by the wrist of the hand she was using.<br/>
<br/>
"It's nothing," she snarls. <br/>
<br/>
"Lemme see." You pull hard on her hand, but she resists just as hard, and the two of you pull and lock together in the wrestling match.<br/>
<br/>
"Fine, I'm sure you were doing the same thing in there!" she snarls.<br/>
<br/>
"Naturally. I was curious," you say softly. "But I'm more curious to know what my sister smells like." More gently, but still firmly, you pull at her arm.<br/>
<br/>
And her strength wanes, so that slowly you get her hand up to your face. You hold her eyes in yours as you raise her clenched fist to your mouth and nose. You sniff at her fingers.<br/>
<br/>
"Mm," you say. "Not much there. Just a little. You didn't get in deep, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
She can only breathe raggedly back.<br/>
<br/>
"I wonder if I can taste it better? I wonder if you taste better than me?" You put your open mouth over her fist and draw a slow tongue over her fingers. She relaxes them, and you close your mouth around them, sucking on them. "Mm. Mm-hmm. Yeah," you say as you pull your mouth from around her fingers. "You do taste good. I've always wondered. Haven't you wondered? Wondered if I taste good?"<br/>
<br/>
God, you are turning yourself on so hard. <i>This is your sister,</i> a voice screams inside your head. <i>I know,</i> answers another voice, <i>that's what makes it so. Fucking. Hot.</i><br/>
<br/>
You look Eva in the face. There is a hard wet sheen in her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<i>If you kissed her, would it queer things with your alter ego? Or cement an alliance?</i></span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: A Love Not So Sisterly
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You tilt your head and put your nose beside Eva's, while pulling her in close. You grip her arm with one hand, and dig into her ass with the fingers of the other. You close your eyes and open your mouth and cover her lips with yours. You push a tongue into her mouth.<br/>
<br/>
And then she is reciprocating. Her fingers entwine with yours, and her hand goes to your ass. Your tongues and lips and teeth bite and quiver against each other. Her mouth is hot and velvety. For long minutes there is only the sense of her body under your palm and in the crook of your arm; the fingers of your hand trying to break the fingers of hers before she can break yours; the smacking and sucking of mouths and the soft things inside them; and the hard desire between your legs.<br/>
<br/>
"God, you're such a pervert," Eva says when you break off and come up for air.<br/>
<br/>
"That's what makes it hot," you murmur back. "Believe me, if Eva is anything like Jessica -- " You kiss her again, and nip at her tongue. "And I know that <i>you're</i> like me, man." You rub your face hard against hers. "You will be so hot and wet when we do this tomorrow night, after you've got her memories and personality."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah. Forbidden fruit, man. So forbidden. So tasty. So hot." You duck your head to nibble at the fabric at her shoulder. "I am so hot and wet right now."<br/>
<br/>
"We're not going to Kelsey's party, are we?" she says, and slides her fingers through your hair to grip the back of your head. "We could stay here instead, couldn't we?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Mom and Dad think we're going to hang out with Kelsey and them, no one would miss us."<br/>
<br/>
Eva doesn't let go of you, but like a bulldozer forces you backward. You giggle as you trip backward down a hall and into a bedroom, where your sister pushes you onto a bed. She looms over you, pinning you down, and puts her hands up the front of your shirt. "Do you fantasize about this, Jessica?" she says. "Being groped by your own sister?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God, yes." Your groan has a titter inside it. "I'll tell you what I fantasize about, Eva, and you do it to me." Your sister raises an eyebrow, and her lip curls into a smile that would be terrifying if it wasn't so sexy.<br/>
<br/>
"Start up here," you say, putting a fingertip to your left breast. "I'm already hard, but start by nibbling on it." It takes a little cooperative groping before you can get the jacket and shirt and bra off. Your nipples are like rocks, and Eva takes the left one gently between her teeth and plays her tongue over it. Lazily, you run your own fingertips up and down her spine. "You can do a little more," you tell her. "Mm, yes. Just like that." You close your eyes and arch your back gently.<br/>
<br/>
She concentrates on that tit for awhile, then moves over to the other one. Your fingers quicken against her skin, and while she's sucking on you, you imagine what it would be like to suck on her. Your legs twitch and spasm excitedly, and you try to wedge a hand down so you can touch and stroke your clit.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you doing?" Eva asks. Then, slyly: "Oh. Are you ready for it down there now?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just want to -- " Your hand bumps into something, and there's a little flurry, and it takes a moment for you to realize it's Eva's wrist. She's holding you with one hand, and her other hand is -- "Oh God, you're fingering yourself while you're -- !"<br/>
<br/>
She laughs. "Naturally!"<br/>
<br/>
You twist and push her off. "Okay, it's my turn now. I want to know what you -- " You push her onto her back and clamp your lips around her breast. The rosy tips are erect and firm. The fragrance and taste isn't one you can quite place. You suppose it's "Eva flavored."<br/>
<br/>
You kiss and nibble and suck on your sister's tits, and put a couple of fingers up your pussy, pushing in and out. You are very wet, dripping even, and blazing hot. You put a knee between Eva's legs and push it up against her pussy. She groans, and grabs the back of your head, twisting her fingers into your hair.<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, I need something up inside there," you gasp, and rub your sweaty forehead against Eva's bosom. <br/>
<br/>
"How about my tongue?"<br/>
<br/>
"Deal!" With flailing limbs -- and a few bumps -- you twist around and get into position with your face pressed into her bush and your tongue searching inside it. She finds yours at almost the same time, and like the twins you are, you mirror each other's actions.<br/>
<br/>
And when your fingers penetrate each other's anuses, it's almost at the same time. Shrieks and gasps quicken and crescendo, and you grab each other by the calves when you cum.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're sweaty all over, and so is Eva, as you cuddle on the bed, grinding hot, salty perspiration into each other. It's been twenty minutes or more since you got each other off, and you're still throbbing and rocking to it, and digging your faces into the crooks of each other's necks. But you also talk in muffled voices. "Are we going to do this every night?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"If we can get away with it," Eva says. "And as a reward for you studying."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean that training?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh."<br/>
<br/>
"What's it like?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't know how it'll be with you. Depends on your mutant powers. But you'll start by meditating. If you can get your mind off how awesome it is to have a -- " She slides a hand down, and hooks you inside with a finger. "That's gonna be the hard part, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Your giggle melds with hers. "What's the point of meditating?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that puts you in contact with your planets. You'll start seeing them. You'll hang around with them, groove to them. Then something'll happen. Something will turn loose, like it did with these two ass clowns. Kind of like a wet dream, some power or other will come spurting out of you. Then we'll have to figure out what it is and how it works, meditate some more to figure out how to get ahold of it and use it. Then another one will come and then another one."<br/>
<br/>
"How long will this take?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," she groans. "You might have started to get some of them already. They show up around puberty, if not before. Have you noticed anything weird going on with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean has Prescott noticed anything?"<br/>
<br/>
She's silent a moment, then says, "Yes." You regret having asked the question, for it's reminded her of who you really are. Between Jessica's mask, and your own personality dominating Prescott's, she'd probably forgotten.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not really," you confess. "But tell me what kind of mutant powers you and that Frank asshole have, and maybe something will jump out."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay." She struggles out of your embrace, and you gulp anew at the sight of her naked body. "I already showed you that flame I can make. I can do it a few more ways." She cups her hands, and a globe appears in it. "I can make it blow up, like a lightning flash, causing temporary blindness. I won't do that now, but I can also do it without making a globe. I can move really fast when I want to, like, so fast I'm a blur. And if you put me in a car I can make it go so fast I can go back in time. But I can't change the past."<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa." That's a lot more than impressive than you were guessing might be the case.<br/>
<br/>
"I can also -- Here, repeat after me. 'I really like to eat pussy.'"<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just say it."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?" you insist.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you like pussy? You were all -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, but why do you want me to -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fine, don't play. But it's a little trick I can play on people. If I can get them to repeat something I've just said, I can force them to answer my next bunch of questions truthfully. Like, you can't lie, and you can't keep your mouth shut. Wanna see?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes narrow. "You got secrets from me, fucker?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just don't want to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever. But here's my favorite. Well, Joe's favorite." She grins, and chucks her chin at something behind you. You turn --<br/>
<br/>
And you spring halfway out of the bed. "The fuck is that?"<br/>
<br/>
It's Eva, obviously. Another Eva. Just as naked as the one in the bed next to you. She grins and waves at you. "Didn't know you had another twin, did you?" she chortles.<br/>
<br/>
"How did -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"She's like a hologram," says the Eva who's in bed with you. "The awesome part is I can make her do anything I want. I can even look through her eyes or -- "<br/>
<br/>
"-- talk at the same time through her," both girls say in unison. "We" "can" "even" "jump" "back" "and" "forth," they continue, alternating words. "Or say different things at the same time," says the one in the corner while the one in the bed says, "carry on different conversations simultaneously." "She's pretty useful," the one in the bed continues, "except for one thing." The other one crawls onto the bed with you. "Touch her. Go on." You extend a fingertip. It touches nothing, and your hand passes through the other Eva. Abruptly, she vanishes. "She's just a hologram."<br/>
<br/>
You whistle softly. "And maybe I can do stuff like this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe, but not exactly. This stuff here is on account of the planets I have. Light of Arbol, speed of Viritrilbia, mostly. Frank is super strong, and he's got this Jedi mind power trick of being able to pick things up with an invisible hand. He's got some other stuff, too, but a lot of it is invisible." She cocks her head. "Given that one of your planets is Sulva, I bet a lot of your powers are kind of hidden, too."<br/>
</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: The Burning Light of Truth
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a really dangerous idea you're playing with -- slapping the <i>anima</i> band onto the kid who took you prisoner. The band contains a copy of Gary Chen's <i>anima,</i> and if you put it on the kid then he'll be convinced that he's Gary Chen, the way you're convinced of it. Can the world stand to contain two guys who think they're Chen? You don't even want to let the real Gary Chen out, even though you and he would have the same thoughts and feelings.<br/>
<br/>
"I brought you some water," the kid announces as he comes back in. You let the anima band slip from nerveless fingers, and it drops to the floor. "And this box of cookies was still sealed up. Made by Keebler elves, but if they're bad for you its for solid nutritional reasons. Oh hey, what's this?"<br/>
<br/>
He bends over to pick the metal band up from off the floor. "Chen Guangli," he says, and it shocks you that he can read it and pronounce the name perfectly. It surprises you almost as much as the fact that he even spotted the band on the floor, for you were sitting between him and it. You blink as he fixes you with a sharp glance and drops lazily into the chair on the other side of the desk. He leans back and crosses his legs and steeples his fingers as he looks down his nose at you. "Chen Guangli," he repeats. "What did you say your name was? I mean, what were the names you think are yours?"<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips and look around, calculating whether you can get out the door and through the yard and over the wall and down the road before this guy can catch you. The way he's sitting, you're pretty sure it'd take him a couple of seconds to get onto his feet.<br/>
<br/>
But when you look back at him, there's no missing the gleam in his eye. It's like he's reading your mind, and daring you to try to make a break for it. "Look man," you say, trying though it kills you to go for the pathetic angle. "I don't know what's going on -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I know, I know, it's all a muddle, that's what you told me outside. Now tell me those names again. There was a 'Chen' in there, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Gary Chen. But I'm not Chinese. Obviously."<br/>
<br/>
"It says 'Chen' here," the kid says, showing you the band. "Can you at least read Chinese?" You shake your head. "Well, it's the name Chen Guangli, which is pretty close to 'Gary Chen'. We'll figure out what it is later." He tucks the band into his shirt pocket. "Now what about this?" He shows you the grimoire. "Know anything about this?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know anything about -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Let's keep this simple, whatever your name is. Just answer the questions simply and directly and truthfully. You don't have to try putting the pieces together, I'll do that for you. Have you seen this before?"<br/>
<br/>
You decide to fudge it. "Maybe, I don't know. There's a lot of books in here."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you work for Aubrey Blackwell?"<br/>
<br/>
You'll have to improvise. "Sure. He hired me to do some library work for him."<br/>
<br/>
"When?"<br/>
<br/>
"A couple of days ago."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you know Blackwell?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't, not really. I heard that he was looking for somebody to do this cataloging job."<br/>
<br/>
"Who told you about the job?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um, a girl at school. Cindy Vredenburg. Her sister -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Who did she tell all this to? About the job?" <br/>
<br/>
"I don't know who else she told."<br/>
<br/>
He smiles thinly. "I mean, she told you, right?" You nod. "What was the name of the person she told?"<br/>
<br/>
Your throat freezes, and a chill goes down your spine when the kid smiles. You're trapped. You have said that you don't know who you are. So how can you so confidently say that Cindy Vredenburg told "you" about a job that "you" took with Aubrey Blackwell?<br/>
<br/>
"You need some practice, if that one stumped you," says the kid. "Try a tongue twister, see if that gets you limbered up. Round and round the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran. Say it," he insists after you frown. "Repeat after me. Round and round the rugged rocks -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I know how it goes, I'm not gonna -- "<br/>
<br/>
"It'll help, believe me," he says gently with a grin. "It'll help us figure out one thing, at least. So say what I say. Round and round the rugged rocks -- "<br/>
<br/>
You loose an exasperated sigh, but give in, and follow him through the tongue twister like it's a round of "Merrily We Roll Along" or "Frere Jacques." "Well that settles one thing," says the kid. "You're not Chen Guangli, or you could never have said it so good."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?"<br/>
<br/>
He sniggers. "Lound and lound the lugged locks the lagged lascal lan," he lisps. A short, hot flame goes off inside you. "I'm joking, of course," the kid continues. "But let's see what that opens up. What's your name?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't -- "<br/>
<br/>
And your head jerks to the side as though you've been punched in the face. Your jaw twists and your tongue swells. "Will Prescott Gary Chen" are the words that squirt out of your mouth.<br/>
<br/>
The kid's eyebrows shoot up. "Say that again."<br/>
<br/>
"Will Prescott," you say with great deliberation, but your mouth refuses to clamp shut afterward, and "Gary Chen" comes out immediately afterward. And even then you can't stop, and say "Will Prescott" and follow it up with "Gary Chen." Your head jerks back and forth, and you have the terrifying thought that you've been possessed. A spasm runs up your back, and your breath becomes very short.<br/>
<br/>
The kid leans forward, an alarmed look on his face, and he snaps his fingers. Your mouth, thank God!, relaxes. The kid stares at you gravely. "You really don't know who you are," he says softly.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up," he says softly. He holds up the grimoire. "Have you ever seen this book before?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," you say instantly.<br/>
<br/>
"Where?"<br/>
<br/>
"Here. At school. At my house. At the used bookstore." It's not like it was a moment ago, with different words fighting to control your mouth. But these are true words, and they leap unbidden from your brain to your tongue and into the air.<br/>
<br/>
"When did you first see it?"<br/>
<br/>
Your head jerks back and forth. "At the used book store. At David Kirkham's house. At the bookstore. At Kirkham's. At -- "<br/>
<br/>
Again, a snap of the kid's fingers breaks the spasm. He gets up and sits on the table, his eyes boring into you. "You've got a real problem with the truth," he says, and he says it like he's lodging a very serious judgment against you. "You won't tell it voluntarily, and you've got too many truths inside you for me to compel them from you."<br/>
<br/>
You're scared and you're angry and you're sick of this guy's shit. You've recovered from the session in the back of his truck, too, and he's by himself and though he looks like he's got some big muscles, you're pretty sure you can make him hurt. "And who the fuck are you that you get to bust in here and even ask me shit?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
"Who am I?" He hops to the floor and takes a few steps back while holding your gaze. "Who am I?" You only notice now -- as he turns to open it -- a backpack in the floor near the doorway to the library. From it he takes a packet of cigarettes. It's new, and he tears the cellophane off and drops it casually to the floor. He pushes the lid back and thumps the bottom and pulls a cigarette out with his teeth. He drops the pack on the table. "Who am I?" He shoves his hands in his pockets and sucks on the cigarette.<br/>
<br/>
Glowing ash forms at its tip and smoke wafts out. Behind that curl of smoke, the kid's eyes glow. "I'm the burning light of truth, baby. That's who I am."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a good parlor trick, you'll give it that much, and it robs you of your voice for a few seconds, during which the front door to the house slams back and slams shut. An instant later a tall, dark-haired kid looks into the library. "I got you coffee and an Egg McMuffin," he says, and remains in the doorway, looking very watchful. "I got another McMuffin too," he adds when the blonde kid says nothing, but continues presenting his back to the doorway. "For me or for the other guy, if you think -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I think he needs to go on ice," says the blonde kid, his eyes locked on you.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you smoking, Joe? Unless this kid is -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I think he is. At least, he's not cooperative and I can't get him to be."<br/>
<br/>
"You try a tongue twister on him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I know my business, Frank." Now he turns around. "I'll get the bag. You tie him up again."<br/>
<br/>
The one called Frank shrugs and comes into the library as the one called Joe exits. You stand up. "Listen, asshole, no one's -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up," says Frank, sounding tired. You'd argue back, but something that feels like a giant invisible claw clamps around your torso, squeezing your arms to your sides. Frank doesn't even hurry as he wraps those silver ropes around you. And then your arms are numb again.<br/>
<br/>
"I hope no one misses you, kid," says Joe when he returns. "But according to you, there's already two kids answering to your name out there, so I suppose you can disappear for a few days." He's holding that silver cloth bag, and though you jerk your head back, he slips it easily over your head, and all thought instantly ceases.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Essential Facts About Your New Position
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You need to figure out how Prescott got your soul out of your body and into his, but your gut -- seconded by Blackwell's brain -- tells you that that's going to be a very hard problem, one that will take a lot of time and intense research to puzzle out. So right now, for personal and business reasons, you're going to concentrate on a different problem.<br/>
<br/>
How the hell did that dipshit Will Prescott manage to make so many golems?<br/>
<br/>
That's what the rockbot paste actually is. It's the same stuff that makes a rockbot, only it goes inside a mask. That's a really smooth and ingenious technique, and Blackwell's persona marvels at the elegance of the solution. Instead of making a rockbot and a mask and putting one over the other, and having to find a way to get the original person out of the way so the doppelganger can take over, the golem-in-a-mask trick creates an obedient copy of the person to be replaced and at the same time hides the original. Prescott has been pulling that trick all over the place. He has an actual golem that is impersonating your grandfather; and thanks to the masks he also has golems of yourself (Gary Chen), Adam Karter, Joe Thomason, George Mendoza, Tanner Evans, Joshusa Call, Jeff Spencer, and Jamie Rennerhoff. That's nine.<br/>
<br/>
But golems obey a master because they've got a little bit of their master inside them. That's what the hair is for. (Though it doesn't have to be hair. It could be a flap of skin or some drops of blood.) The hair carries a person's <i>essentia</i> -- the stuff that makes the person into <i>that</i> person and not some other person -- and when it is used in a spell like the one that makes a golem of any kind, part of the person's <i>essentia</i> passes into the golem. The golem becomes a part of the person, filled with the person's will, and so it obeys the will of the person who contributed the <i>essentia.</i><br/>
<br/>
But people only have so much <i>essentia</i> to spread around. If you spread too much into too many golems, the result can be a catastrophe, the magical equivalent of getting squashed and spread out by a steam roller. <br/>
<br/>
And from everything that Blackwell has read, most people can only divide themselves five ways before there will be such a failure. Some very hardy types can split themselves six ways. Seven ways might be possible, but it is as a practical matter unheard of.<br/>
<br/>
Counting his own body -- the one you are now inhabiting -- Prescott split himself ten ways. That should be beyond the realm of any possibility. If you make any more using Prescott's <i>essentia</i>, well, you're inside his body, and that means if you make one to many golems, you'd be history.<br/>
<br/>
Or so you assume.<br/>
<br/>
Even if that's a false assumption, even if Prescott could survive an eleventh division, or you could survive the failure of his <i>essentia,</i> you are not going to hazard the experiment to find out.<br/>
<br/>
Not until you figure out what the hell is going on with Prescott's <i>essentia.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your replacement has long since come and gone, and deposited the rest of Prescott's supplies in the mausoleum, and the hands of the clock are nearing nine when you lay aside the seventh book that you've consulted without result. The problem is that although the authorities have a lot to say about what <i>essentia</i> is used for, and the dangers of handling it, and though they have a lot of speculations about where it comes from and how it develops, they have nothing to say about oddballs like Prescott, whose <i>essentia</i> is so remarkably durable. With a grimace you glance over the shelves, looking for any other books that might help, but you're now too tired to care. "Fuck it," you mutter, and trudge outside to the mausoleum to dig into Prescott's supplies. You need to get a mask to Johansson in the morning.<br/>
<br/>
You've passed around the corner of the house when you hear the noise above: a sound like pebbles rattling over slate. You freeze, and a chill runs all over you.<br/>
<br/>
You'd almost forgotten about the <i>gwarcheidwad.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's Blackwell's watchdog, though he had nothing to do with it. It came with the house. It's a guardian entity -- Christians would call it a "demon", pagans would call it a "spirit." But it is what it is, and nothing else. It is a thing that is hungry, and will eat anything that falls into its grasp. Between the hours of midnight and dawn it walks at liberty over the grounds and inside the walls of Blackwell's villa; and during the day, when its reliquary is not in its niche, it can prowl inside the house, assaulting intruders but not able to abscond with them. Its power is waxing now, and though it cannot actually harm you at the moment, you've no desire to run into it. Blackwell has had many a bad fright when he's run into the thing after dark. <br/>
<br/>
So you step back around the way you came, and when you're inside you wipe a little perspiration from your forehead and try to still the beating of your heart. You're not ashamed to have retreated, either. You're not a coward, but you're not reckless.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, you now remember, Blackwell has some unused masks of his own, relics from his earlier ownership of the grimoire, which he kept down in the hidden basement with the old golem. But there will be time enough in the morning to fetch one up. Right now you repair your shaken nerves with some food from the kitchen. Low sounds are coming from the living room, and when you look inside, the Blackwell-bot looks up from the TV to give you a hooded glance. You don't want its company, and go upstairs to look over the bedrooms.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, you know what you will find. Blackwell's own bedroom is the only one that is decently furnished, but the others, though dusty and unaired, have beds with sheets on them. You check the door frames to insure that the protective spells that keep the <i>gwarcheidwad</i> at bay are still potent. You end up choosing the bedroom in which Blackwell had kept the golem and the masks. It seems like a fitting choice for you.<br/>
<br/>
Back down in the library, you amuse yourself by writing a letter in Blackwell's voice to the Lucy Vredenburg golem, one that will explain your presence at the house and direct it to give you help. You beguile yourself with fantasies of getting it on with Lucy. She was a senior a few years ago, and was even more devastatingly beautiful than Cindy. Like her little sister, she had sheets of platinum blonde hair cascading down the sides of her head to frame a face with the complexion of cream. She was a cheerleader like Cindy, too, and had the legs and the butt and breasts for it, as well the amazing acrobatic moves. Your cock swells as you think of her, and of her availability now.<br/>
<br/>
Except she won't be available. Like the Blackwell-bot, she must obey Blackwell's body. And as that has been transformed into a golem, she has no one to obey but herself. There is no way she would give Will Prescott -- or even Gary Chen or David Kirkham -- any attention or love.<br/>
<br/>
You could only get inside her by getting literally inside her -- inside her mask, the one that Blackwell made. It has no rockbot paste inside it, so you could put it on and explore her. Blackwell explored her plenty, and every weekend liked to go out and party as a popular and arrogant college cheerleader. Pervy old cocksucker, and you mean the epithet literally!<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
As midnight closes in, you put things away. But you take Kirkham's backpack, the note to Lucy, the <i>Libra</i>, and the most encyclopedic of the books on <i>essentia</i> upstairs with you. You prop up in bed with the latter and, safe behind the magically locked door, ignore the sounds of heavy, clawed footsteps in the hall after the downstairs clocks have struck twelve. You're just beginning to grow sleepy and are thinking of putting the lights out when you bolt upright at a passage in the book. You have the feeling that someone has just placed a long-lost key into your hand.<br/>
<br/>
You can't see what it is, though. The passage is just talking about the different "flavors" of <i>essentia,</i> for it can be "charged" in various ways. Not until you've scanned it half a dozen times, and felt gingerly around that opaque idea, do you center on the word "alchemical", on the fact that <i>essentia</i> can be "alchemically" charged.<br/>
<br/>
Alchemy, of course, is related to the metals -- the transmutation of such -- and a short and serendipitous chain of free associations takes you from "metals" to the "stars" that are associated with certain metals.<br/>
<br/>
If Blackwell's <i>mentalia</i> had hands, the knuckles would now be whitening, for "stars" reminds him of the <i>Stellae Errantes,</i> a band of occult practitioners that are the bane of black magicians such as himself. And what does Will Prescott have to do with the <i>Stellae Errantes?</i><br/>
<br/>
Only this, maybe: The <i>Stellae,</i> it is rumored, are born with alchemically charge <i>essentia</i> from which they derive certain occult prodigies that link them to the planets of the solar system: the Sun, Mercury, Venus, the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. Ten planets. Prescott was able to split his <i>essentia</i> at least ten ways.<br/>
<br/>
Coincidence? You put out the light and lay awake in the dark with Blackwell's suspicions a very long time.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are awoken very early by a loud crash. Early morning light shows in the window as you sit up and listen with a beating heart. Is it the <i>gwarcheidwad?</i><br/>
<br/>
Footsteps sound outside, and a hoarse yell. A door across the hall is kicked in, and Blackwell's sudden shout is muffled.<br/>
<br/>
It sounds like a police raid.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Dilemmas of a Soul Survivor
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Before you can answer Blackwell's question, Chen nudges you in the side and mutters in your ear. "Your friend Johansson wants to know when he's gonna get that thing you promised him."<br/>
<br/>
<i>The mask to use on Patterson.</i> "God <i>damn</i> it. I should fucking shove him up -- " You stifle yourself as the Blackwell-bot raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I'll take of that. I'll be back tomorrow morning to get started," you tell the Blackwell-bot. It has the grace not to look pleased, and only purses its lips. "Until then, just hold down the fort."<br/>
<br/>
"And Miss Lucy?" the thing asks with icy, impudent politeness.<br/>
<br/>
It comes back to you, from Blackwell's brain band. "Miss Lucy" is Lucy Vredenburg, and the sister of your classmate Cindy Vredenburg, she who "Seth Javits" dumped in order to take up with Chelsea Cooper. It suddenly feels like a tight, constricting ring of coincidences: When he still had the <i>Libra,</i> Blackwell replaced Lucy -- a student in one of his classes -- with a Lucy-bot.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you tell the golem. "Maybe the professor sent her a letter too. Maybe not."<br/>
<br/>
"Perhaps I should call her and inquire."<br/>
<br/>
"Do that," you say. "Though if she hasn't got a letter from him, maybe she just didn't get it yet."<br/>
<br/>
"Mm. I suppose that's a possibility." The golem's voice is soft, and you don't like the expression of sly suspicion it wears. You can only helpless retreat under his gaze. From the house you retrieve the few items you'd left behind that you'll need, and chase Chen back out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's lonely work down in the elementary school basement after Chen has gone to work, but it's preferable to keeping company with that creepy Blackwell golem at that creepy house. You'd have second thoughts about turning it into your base if your mind didn't keep reverting back to the library there. And to the safety and privacy that would go with working there. You can't shake the feeling that someone is going to discover the school basement eventually, and that you're going to get in serious trouble for breaking and entering and trespassing. But you can make the move tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
As mentioned, it's lonely work down in the basement. Or it would be if you didn't have so many personalities inside your skull with you as you make and polish a new mask, and follow it with a brain band. Prescott's personality is mostly quiet, because you kick hard at his instincts and his memories when the crop up, but after you remove the Blackwell brain band he comes more to the fore. He didn't ever worry about being found in the basement, but now that you've thought of the possibility he won't stop jumping nervously at every noise. To quiet those nerves you slip Kirkham's mask back on, and then you're back to three voices babbling in your head. Finally you give your own brain a rest, let Kirkham's instincts come to the fore, and he makes quick, vicious work of ghost-Prescott. <br/>
<br/>
It's a good set up and gets ghost-Kirkham's approval, and you think some more about maybe letting the real guy out. He's your best friend, and he's smart. The only trouble -- the trouble you keep coming back around to -- is that you're stuck in Prescott's body, and once you show him the brain bands he'll have no reason to believe you're really you. He'll think you're Prescott pretending to be Gary Chen.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Tell him to try taking a brain band off you,</i> one of the other voices inside you says. <i>That'll prove you're really inside Prescott's body, that it's not a cheat.</i><br/>
<br/>
That excites you briefly, but then another voice replies: He'll just think it's some new trick Prescott found that keeps brain bands from being taken off.<br/>
<br/>
<i>So show him the soul-swapping spell.</i><br/>
<br/>
He can't read it. Hell, even Blackwell can't read it without that library.<br/>
<br/>
<i>So show him how it works. Pull his soul out of his body -- </i><br/>
<br/>
A deep shiver starts at the base of your spine and ripples out, like a stone thrown into water. If you pulled Kirkham's soul out of his body and put it into another body, then he'd see that you might actually be on the level.<br/>
<br/>
<i>But he'd be pissed at you for doing that.</i><br/>
<br/>
Hey, it was <i>your</i> idea! You don't know who you're shouting at, but you shout it anyway.<br/>
<br/>
Pull Kirkham's soul out of his body, put it inside --<br/>
<br/>
You grin. Put it inside Johansson. Then he'd have control of Johansson's rockbots. Turn the Prescott-Johansson partnership into a Chen-Kirkham partnership.<br/>
<br/>
It's still a very tricky idea, and you're not totally sold on it. But you've the entire evening to work. It's late when you finish up the mask for Johansson, but still well before midnight. You text Chen, telling him to stop by the basement when he gets off work, and start making up another one of those goofy bands that Prescott made. <br/>
<br/>
He's come and he's gone by one o'clock. And in that time you took the mask off your best friend, and put his soul inside the new band.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake up around nine o'clock the next morning and text Johansson to set up a meeting, but he's not up yet or something, so to kill time you drive out to the Blackwell villa. Until you hear from Johansson -- and until you decide what to do about with that soul-swapping band you made last night -- you can look through Blackwell's library for books to help you out.<br/>
<br/>
You've two immediate goals. The first is to figure out how the soul-swapping spell works, and how to reverse it. The other is to figure out how it is that Prescott was able to make up so many golems.<br/>
<br/>
You want to get out of Prescott's body and back into your own, as that's the only way you can get amputate his personality. You thought you saw a way to do it last night, after you went to bed: When Prescott put that soul-band onto his forehead, it never came out. So maybe it's still there, and if you ripped that band off your forehead, and put it back onto the forehead of your real body, it would reverse things. But you'd need somebody's help to do that, and you can't think of anyone you trust.<br/>
<br/>
Also, you have to figure out why Prescott could make so many golems, because Blackwell's memories told you that that should have been an impossibility. When making a golem -- and that's what the Thomason-bot and the Call-bot and the Karter-bot and Chen-bot all are -- the golem maker puts a little of himself into them. But a human being only has so much of himself to spread around, and Blackwell's best knowledge was that people can only split themselves into six or at most seven pieces. Prescott split himself into ten. He should have died the night he was making the Call-bot, the Spencer-bot, and the Rennerhoff-bot.<br/>
<br/>
If you make another golem using Prescott's hair, there's an awfully good chance he'll die, and since you're in his body, you would die too. Even now you feel like you're living on borrowed time. <br/>
<br/>
Yes, it's all very confusing, and that's why you need Blackwell's library. To help you figure out the incredible mess that Will Prescott, Harry Potter's retarded cousin, has gotten you in.<br/>
<br/>
So occupied, you arrive at Blackwell's almost before you know it. And you're startled to see Prescott's white pickup truck parked out in front of it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You circle around the house and park near that culvert where you broke in yesterday, and sit behind the wheel of David Kirkham's car -- and inside David Kirkham's body -- and drum your fingers thoughtfully. The sight of Prescott's truck at the professor's is a horrible surprise, and you shudder inside and out.<br/>
<br/>
It makes no sense that he would be there. <br/>
<br/>
You are inside Will Prescott's body, and Will Prescott's body hasn't been near that truck in almost a month. For about that long Gordon Black has been trapped under the mask of Will Prescott, fumbling his way through that asshat's life. And Gordon Black knows absolutely nothing about the <i>Libra</i> and what has happened to him.<br/>
<br/>
So how did Black get to know about this place, and to know about it now? You don't have the professor's brain band on you or with you, but you don't remember anything from it that suggests that Aubrey Blackwell, professor of anthropology, knows anything about Will Prescott, and would have called him out.<br/>
<br/>
Then it comes to you: <i>The golem.</i> It must be the Blackwell-bot that you left behind. It started digging around and, God only knows how, it got onto Prescott's trail!<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips. The Blackwell-bot isn't under your control, so you can't order it to desist. Only the body of David Kirkham could do that. If you revived him in another form --<br/>
<br/>
But it might be too late for that, if Gordon Black has learned everything that's been going on.<br/>
<br/>
Instead of retreating, maybe you should walk into the tiger's den. It's still early. Maybe Black just got here, and there's time to head things off.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe you should just get Kirkham's soul into Johansson pronto, so that you have an ally in case the worst is already coming to pass.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Piracy on a Magical Scale
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Whether or not you make Blackwell's villa your base, you have the professor himself to take care of. There's no rush, but you can't help taking the stairs three at a bound on your way down to the foyer. The front door is open, and you can't help snickering at the sight of the professor sprawled outside on the stoop. It's almost like a running gag: Every time he gets close to you, you knock him cold.<br/>
<br/>
You avoid touching the booby-trapped door handle as you step over the unconscious man and run around to the side of the house where the old mausoleum is. The door resists being opened, but you shove it back and let fresh air into the dim and musty interior. There's an empty stone bier inside, just waiting for Blackwell, but you'll need help moving him onto it, so you send a text to your 'bot, telling him where to find you. Then from the kitchen pantry you get a less concentrated aerosol of the same knock-out ointment and spray it over Blackwell's face. That will keep him out for hours.<br/>
<br/>
Inside the library --<br/>
<br/>
And though Blackwell's memories have prepared you for it, you still pause just inside the threshold. It's a very large and impressive space, and is the main reason for moving your operations here. The ceiling floats two stories above, and from the floor to the ceiling on three sides it is covered in bookshelves: a wheeled ladder on a railing is necessary to get the books that are high up. Three desks occupy the wide space in the center of the room, and tall windows and a French door in the fourth wall let in the afternoon sunlight. <br/>
<br/>
But despite the high ceiling and clear glass, an air of gloom and oppression settles on the room. Some if it is due to the discordant ticking of two grandfather clocks in one corner. Then too there are the alcoves from inside which stare balefully the stuffed corpses of impossible creatures. One of these -- a small orangutan-like monkey with a single, Cyclops-like eye in its forehead and razor-like teeth in its grinning mouth -- is out of its alcove and sitting on a table. You put it back in its spot while muttering a spell that Aubrey Blackwell knows but that Gary Chen doesn't. With that, those uncanny noises should cease to disturb you.<br/>
<br/>
From another alcove you take down a stuffed two-headed dog and wedge it under your armpit. Then you twist a candlestick stuck incongruously in one of the walls. A door disguised as a bookcase unlatches with a click and swings open. <i>Ah, the classics!</i><br/>
<br/>
Inside is a narrow, hidden basement lit from a single window. A metal spiral staircase leads down to a concrete floor. This hidden dungeon has held a number of prisoners over the years -- you grimace to think of the last prisoner, and her ghastly fate -- but now only holds the supplies that Blackwell had accumulated when he still had the <i>Libra.</i> These include most of the ingredients you will need for finishing off the professor; the one ingredient you lack can be got next to one of the tombstones next to the mausoleum.<br/>
<br/>
Then, once you've got the stuff set out in the library, you sit down to write a letter. With Blackwell's brain band you can, after a little warm up practice, imitate his handwriting perfectly, and on some of his stationary you compose the following:<br/>
<br/>
<i>My dear Lucy,<br/>
<br/>
This letter will find you after I have already departed. I have not time now to explain where I have gone nor to issue instructions in person. Not that I have any instructions to give you, for your orders are merely to carry on as you have been.</i><br/>
<br/>
You pause, wresting with whether to say more. The "Lucy" you are addressing is Lucy Vredenburg, older sister of your classmate Cindy Vredenburg, the cheerleader whose heart Seth Javits broke when he exchanged her for Chelsea Cooper a few weeks ago. Like her younger sister, Lucy is a cheerleader, but at Keyserling College, which she attends, and like Cindy she is a bosomy, platinum blonde with sensational legs and an arrogant attitude.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not Lucy Vredenburg you are addressing, not really. It's only a magical 'bot -- "golem" would be the word Blackwell would use -- that the professor made when he had the <i>Libra.</i> Lucy was the unlucky student that he chose to experiment on, and after murdering the real girl he replaced her with a Lucy-bot that's under his control.<br/>
<br/>
After struggling with temptation, you decide to split the difference between not telling the Lucy-bot of your existence and full-on encouraging her to spread her legs for you. You continue:<br/>
<br/>
<i>This letter comes to you from the hand of a young man I have recently engaged. He has my complete trust, and you may trust those whom he vouches for. You are to give him every aid that he asks for.</i><br/>
<br/>
You write Blackwell's name at the bottom with a flourish, tuck it in an envelope, and seal it with wax.<br/>
<br/>
You go to put Kirkham's mask back on, but stop just in time. Blackwell's ghost reminds you that you are already wearing one brain band, and that it is bad idea to introduce another -- as is contained in Kirkham's mask -- above it.<br/>
<br/>
You cuss. That means that you're going to have to show Prescott's fucking face to the world when you are using Blackwell's memories.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's another hour before Gary Chen's Jeep slides to a hard stop next to Blackwell's car. He's at the gate before you're out the door. "Christ, what the hell is this place," he exclaims, then does a double take at you. He grins. "What the fuck happened to your face?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, that's what happened. I need your help moving this asshole over there." You point first to Blackwell, then around the corner of the house.<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?"<br/>
<br/>
"Go fuck yourself, man, that's what happened. Help me move him."<br/>
<br/>
He blanches, but complies, grasping Blackwell by his wrists while you take the feet. Your 'bot, despite his strength, can't get Blackwell off the ground, and the professor's fat ass drags across the dirt across as you haul him to the mausoleum.<br/>
<br/>
Three bodies collide at the door to the crypt before you squeeze inside. Chen tries to flatly refuse moving Blackwell onto the bier, but he can't argue with his master, and together you manage to roll the whale-like prof up and onto the stone slab. "What now?" Chen asks. "Lock him in?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nope, I'll be right back." The struggle to move Blackwell has winded Prescott's shit body, but snapping and twanging nerves give you the energy to run back inside for the ingredients. In the mausoleum you sprinkle Blackwell with dirt and incendiary chemicals. You don't bother with hair, for you are permanently disposing of the man. You use your 'bot's lighter to set him ablaze, and a minute later Blackwell is a stone golem -- the same kind that Prescott made of your grandfather. With some scissors you snagged in the kitchen, you cut the clothes off him so that he'll just look like a hyper-detailed statue of the man. Then you close the door of the mausoleum on him.<br/>
<br/>
Chen's eyes are wide when you're done. "So you gonna explain what all that was about, or is it a secret?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll tell you about it when you get back from your errands."<br/>
<br/>
"What errands?" His eyes narrow suspiciously. "You know I got work tonight."<br/>
<br/>
"You also got time to swing by the Panda Garden and pick us up some food. Also, the box store. We need -- " You go through the pockets of the professor's shredded pants to find his wallet. "As many book boxes as you can buy with this," you say, thrusting a fistful of cash at Chen.<br/>
<br/>
He whistles. "This'll buy a lot of boxes."<br/>
<br/>
"Start with fifty. We'll get more tomorrow if we have to."<br/>
<br/>
"Fifty? What are we gonna do with -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just get the fuck going." You clap him on the shoulder and propel him back toward the Jeep.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But where are you going to keep all the books and supplies that you're going to take from Blackwell's house? It would seem simplest to keep the house and use it as your new headquarters. But that would require the professor's presence. He made a mask of himself, and you could set the mask onto a golem, but it would not be under your control, and you don't want to have to fight it or negotiate with it. So you're going to raid the house for its value and leave it abandoned.<br/>
<br/>
You start by pulling out all of the late professor's magical supplies. Some of these are in that basement -- and it includes a blank mask, ready for use -- and some tools from a workshop in a third-floor cupola on the back of the villa. These you pack in some spare boxes and set by the front door.<br/>
<br/>
Then you turn to the major task: sorting through the library.<br/>
<br/>
Even with Blackwell's memories, it's a prodigious task, and you are loathe to leave any of the volumes behind. But there is simply no place to keep so many books, except by renting a storeroom someplace. So you are going to have to make do with Kirkham's closet for the most important books, his garage for the slightly less important books, and the elementary school basement for the rest.<br/>
<br/>
You start by pulling out the books that Blackwell consulted most often when working with the <i>Libra.</i><br/>
<br/>
And as you work you wrestle with another problem: How to handle the disappearance of Professor Blackwell. The simplest thing would be to let him vanish: Today he was at the university; tomorrow no one heard from him ever again.<br/>
<br/>
But he has money, and he made a mask of himself, which you could wear. Maybe he should abruptly resign from the university, and you could use his form when you need access to his bank account and credit cards.</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Of Clearances and Clean Slates
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're still not decided about what to do with the late Professor Blackwell, but it's worth keeping some of his stuff around as a back up. You break from sorting through the books long enough to run upstairs to his bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
The professor lived alone -- Morticia Addams being unavailable, no one else would have him -- and he only half maintained the house. The downstairs is reasonably well appointed, with a plush living room, a fine dining room, and a well-stocked kitchen, for the professor enjoyed his food. There was the library, of course. But upstairs there's only one bedroom with any real furniture. There's a king-sized bed, a large wardrobe, a dressing table and a desk, and several chairs. The whole thing is also done up in crimsons and brocades, like a Westerner's idea of a Chinese brothel.<br/>
<br/>
There's no need to pack much: one suit of clothes, shoes and socks and underwear. From the stone corpse you have his watch and wallet, and from the bedroom desk you extract a check book and some extra credit cards. The information that will get you into his financial accounts you copy it down in one of the man's own notebooks.<br/>
<br/>
You're still at this when you hear a noise downstairs. "Hey!" the Chenbot calls. "I need some -- "<br/>
<br/>
Then there's a screech, a shouted "Jesus!" and the sound of something hitting a hard floor.<br/>
<br/>
You grab up the gathered material and race downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
There's a mess on the floor just outside the living room: dropped cartons of Chinese food. You whirl around, calling your own name out. An answering shout comes from outside.<br/>
<br/>
Pallor is showing under the bronzed cheeks of Gary Chen when you find him on the patio. "Christ, what's going on in there?" he gasps, and a shiver goes through him.<br/>
<br/>
"Man up, there's nothing -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, there was a <i>thing</i> in that library, it popped out at me when -- "<br/>
<br/>
"A thing? What kind of a thing?" His obvious fear sobers you up.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know." He shudders. "But I saw all these teeth and some wings and -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Wings?" you say, and spin around to frown at the house. "I thought I put it away."<br/>
<br/>
"Put what away?"<br/>
<br/>
 "The thing that you saw."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes bulge. "The fuck are you talking about? You know all about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, come on."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh uh. I'm staying out here. Besides, I hafta get to work."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you disobeying me?"<br/>
<br/>
He grimaces, hard. "No," he says in a very tight voice, and he takes a few steps toward you, as though being pulled along on the end of a rope. "I just really don't want to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sure it's okay. It can't hurt you, not in the daytime. It can only scare you."<br/>
<br/>
"It's pretty fucking good at its job." But he follows you inside.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>gwarcheidwad</i> is in its alcove, where you'd put it. It can't ever be completely leashed, Blackwell's memories tell you, and even when put it away it is capable of making some startling lunges inside the library. But Blackwell has no memory of it ever being really intense. But a little later on, Chen mentions some of the costumes that people were wearing at school, and that reminds you that it's Halloween. The thing will be much more powerful, it occurs to you, on that very occult day, and you put the incident down to that. <br/>
<br/>
That's after the 'bot has cleaned up the mess he made when he dropped the food, and you have brought in the book boxes. Most of the meal was salvageable despite the accident, and there is time for the two of you to gobble it down before your 'bot has to leave for the country club. He also asks about the books and where you're going to put them all.<br/>
<br/>
"Not sure," you say. "We're not staying here -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Good."<br/>
<br/>
"  -- but I don't know where else to put them except that basement."<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't we use that rockbot paste on someone's family, someone with a big house? Then we'd -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Can't. Can't make any more rockbots."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not? We were making them all over the place just last week."<br/>
<br/>
"That was last week, and it's complicated why we can't do that now."<br/>
<br/>
He relents, then reminds you that Johansson still wants a mask to use on Patterson. You start to give him the blank mask that Professor Blackwell left behind, but pull it back. "I'll handle it myself," you tell him. "For fucking reasons, that's how come," you explain when it wants to know why.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your various reasons for various actions you reflect over after you've started to pack up boxes. <br/>
<br/>
For a start, you can't make any more rockbots because of reasons that you've learned from Blackwell's brain. It has to do with the way that golems work.<br/>
<br/>
A golem -- whether it is a featureless pile like what Prescott and Johansson made; or a transformation like what Prescott did to your grandfather; or a paste put inside a mask -- most obey its creator because it contains some of the <i>essentia</i> of the creator. <i>Essentia</i> is a mystical component of people, and it is extracted from the hair -- or semen, or skin, or blood -- that the creator puts in the mix. As it contains part of the creator, it must obey the creator because the creator is sharing his will with it.<br/>
<br/>
But a human being only has so much of himself to spread around, and if he spreads too much of himself he will die. Most human beings can only divide themselves five or six ways; a lucky few have been known to have divided themselves seven ways.<br/>
<br/>
Prescott divided himself ten ways, which is absolutely unheard of. He should have died when he started making 'bots of Call and Spencer and Rennerhoff. So you're not going to take a chance on creating an eleventh golem, not while you're inhabiting Prescott's body.<br/>
<br/>
As for why you'll give Johansson the mask yourself instead of passing it on through Chen, that's just a practical caution. You want to talk to Johansson. Also, he will need to mix up a rockbot paste to use in the mask of Patterson, and you want to make sure that he does it right. The Chenbot, though it knows how to make a paste, is a golem, and golems can't perform magic -- that's why it couldn't get Jelena's mask off of Call. So there's a chance things could go wrong if it's put in charge of making the rockbot paste tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
Not that you'd be unhappy if something went wrong for Johansson. You just want to make sure any such accident doesn't cause a problem for you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Packing up books isn't hard work, but it's tedious driving them out to the elementary school, for you've packed too many to take them all in one trip. It's this part of the job that wears you down, and causes you to scale back your plans for removing much of the library. By the time eight o'clock comes, you're ready to end the move after using the last five book boxes, and after making the last delivery to the old school you settle back in the car with a groan and start to raise David Kirkham's mask to your face.<br/>
<br/>
You catch yourself at the last minute -- a just-in-time warning from Blackwell sounds in your skull. You're still wearing his brain band, and you take it out before putting on the mask, which contains Kirkham's brain band.<br/>
<br/>
And when you wake you feel refreshed and energetic, for David Kirkham hasn't spent the evening moving boxes. So you make one last trip to Blackwell's, and add one last box of magical supplies to the great mass packed inside the basement. Then you go home.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You must have been worn out still, even under Kirkham's mask, for you sleep late the next morning. You eat a late breakfast with his mom and brother, and outline a day that will be spent around town in the company of Gary Chen, a boy that Mrs. Kirkham doesn't know that well but of whom she has a high opinion -- largely based on stereotypes about his ethnicity, it must be said. Tad, luckily, has a friend in the neighborhood he can drive around with when he wants to goof off in town. You all separate with minimal drama, though you and Tad get into a shoving match after colliding with each other just outside the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
Despite what you told your mom, your plans actually take you up to the high school, where Johansson via text has told you he wants to meet. He's in the unlocked gym, shooting free throws. He looks like a natural athlete, which he naturally should, since he's gotten very comfortable inside the face and body of Seth Javits. "So how was <i>your</i> Friday night?" he asks with a leer.<br/>
<br/>
<i>I'm Will Prescott,</i> you remind yourself. <i>Not Gary Chen, not David Kirkham. I'm this fucking loser's friend.</i> "Fucking lonely. Just me and Kirkham's fantasies."<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Well, me and Chelsea -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need to hear about it, fucker. Unless Patterson was there and you sucked his cock, and you sucked it so good that's how come he's coming up here to get himself turned into a robot. Is that what happened?"<br/>
<br/>
Johansson blinks, then turns a little red. "No, he's just coming up to hang out. But are you sure you didn't hang out with someone?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pretty sure. Why?" You don't like the puckish expression on his face.<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "I just wondered, since I saw you out driving around, and you were in Kirkham's car but you weren't in Kirkham's face."<br/>
<br/>
It takes a supreme act of will not to swallow at this. "Yeah, where'd you see me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just driving around. You stopped at some big house by the river. I would have stopped too, but -- " He rolls his tongue in his mouth. "I figured I'd see you today, and Chelsea was <i>begging</i> me to get over to her house."</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Date on a Dare, Part 1
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Johansson's naked boasts about Chelsea --<br/>
<br/>
Naked? This is full-frontal dick-wagging.<br/>
<br/>
-- pisses you off. It's bad enough that Prescott's butt buddy get to fuck Chelsea Cooper. Worse is that he's angling to turn himself into Steve Patterson so he can get even more pussy. And now he can't resist bragging about it to you.<br/>
<br/>
Only the fact that you have no way of controlling him keeps you from ripping the mask off him now and kicking his ass all the way back to his shitty little house and his shitty little life.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe he catches your mood, for he pulls himself back abruptly. "So why don't you get yourself a mask of someone who can get laid?" he asks. The sniggering brag is still in his tone, however.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I can get laid," you tell him. "Kirkham's got no troubles there."<br/>
<br/>
"You're fucking with me," he chortles. That's more fuel to a fire that is already dangerously close to raging out of control. "Dude, are you seriously bragging about Kirkham's prowess with they lay-days?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're only getting pussy because you're wearing Javits's mask. And because we turned Chelsea into a 'bot."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." He shrugs. "That's how come you should do the same. Come on." He shoves you in the shoulder, and grins. "I'm just winding you up so you'll go out and get some of the same fun I'm having." He swivels on his heel and sinks a three-point shot with a swish.<br/>
<br/>
"You think I can't do anything with Kirkham?" You bridle at his mirthful expression. "Or Chen?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can you?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>A dare.</i> You think you can get some satisfaction -- less than the satisfaction of breaking his face, but more than nothing -- by winning a challenge. "What about Javits's old fuck? Cindy? Think I can't get anywhere with her?"<br/>
<br/>
A couple of expressions wash over his face in quick succession: surprise, anger, amusement. "Not without doing to her what I'm doing to Chelsea."<br/>
<br/>
"Bet you I can. And not a one-night lay. Full on relationship."<br/>
<br/>
"No! Ha!"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. That way you know I'm not cheating. I get her to go out with me, we make it a thing, you check her for masks and shit, and you'll see it's the real girl. What do you say?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks you over, then thrusts out an open hand. "You don't try to fuck it up for me, either," you say, and he nods. "You got her phone number?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna try her now?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm getting a raging boner just thinking about all the times I'm going to humiliate you by satisfying her."<br/>
<br/>
His lip curls, but he gives it to you.<br/>
<br/>
You get another dividend. In the heat of that raging competition, he forgets to ask you for the blank mask he can use on Patterson. And if he remembers it later, he's too resentful to send you a text reminding you about it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Actually, you don't need Cindy's phone number, for by chance you've got a perfect way to run into her, assuming she's home. You go back by the elementary school basement, where you pick up the letter that you wrote for Professor Blackwell's Lucybot. After finding the Vredenburg's address online, you drive out to their house.<br/>
<br/>
Mrs. Vredenburg answers the door when you knock, but she tells you that Lucy isn't home. So you ask if Cindy is around. She is, and Mrs. Vredenburg calls her down.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Don't give me that face, you bitch,</i> you think when Cindy appears. The distaste shows all too obviously. "Hey, I've got a note I'm supposed to pass on to your sister," you tell her. "Are you going to see her around?"<br/>
<br/>
"Later on."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you know where she is now?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"You mind passing it along to her for me?"<br/>
<br/>
Cindy puts out her hand with a shrug. There's a tug of war as you both pull at the letter.<br/>
<br/>
"On second thought," you say. "I supposed to give it to her directly. If you don't mind, I'll come back later."<br/>
<br/>
"Doesn't bother me," Cindy says, and an irritated weariness shows in her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
They also look a little puffy around the eyes. "Hey, are you okay," you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm fine."<br/>
<br/>
"You wanna talk about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Talk about what?" Her lip curls.<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever's bothering you. There's something, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's none of  your business, uh, David."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say it was. I only said you might want to make it my business. I don't care. Wouldn't bother me. Or am I keeping you from something?"<br/>
<br/>
"Actually, you are." She puts her hand on the door to close it.<br/>
<br/>
"Is it your friends? Are they here, because I didn't see any cars out front. Are you texting with them instead of talking with them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, actually." You could scratch a diamond with the edge in her voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Those are some real friends, if they won't get together with you. You know, I'm going out to get some coffee, something to eat. Come along, talk to me about it. An actual flesh-and-blood person. I'll even pay for it."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you asking me on a date?" Well, those are her words. Her tone suggests a meaning closer to <i>Are you seriously trying to put your cock in my mouth?</i><br/>
<br/>
"No. I'm just a school friend who dropped by, saw you, decided you looked like you needed someone to talk to, and made an offer. Does that piss you off? Does it piss you off that someone might want to help you out by listening to you?"<br/>
<br/>
She looks like you whapped her in the middle of the forehead with a two-by-four. She starts to stammer. "No. It -- It just -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Great. If it doesn't piss you off, come go with me. Now. I'm starving, and you look like you need a person, not a cell phone to talk to."<br/>
<br/>
She sways on her feet, but can come up with no counterargument. A few minutes later, she is awkwardly sliding into the front seat of your car.<br/>
<br/>
And almost as bad as the way Johansson was bragging to you earlier about his ability to score with girls, now Kirkham is gloating to you about how he can talk them into going on a date.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You take her to The Crystal Cave, which is one of those kooky eateries close to the Keyserling campus. Like a lot of spots in town it is built around an occult theme. But where Besandwiched overwhelms with occult iconography, and The Flying Saucer spooks with weird architecture, the Crystal Cave only uses an astrological seating arrangement. The front of the restaurant -- an open space with a concrete floor and an open ceiling with bare support beams -- contains the cafeteria-style restaurant stations and the coffee bar and ten tables, each marked with a different symbol associated with one of the ten planets. The back room contains twelve booths, each with a symbol of the zodiac painted on the wall next to it.<br/>
<br/>
After getting your food -- a panini sandwich for yourself and a bean-and-pasta salad for Cindy, and some coffee for you and hot tea for her -- you lead her into the back and slide into a booth, where you take direct control of the talk. You kept to school stuff on the drive out, but now you hit the main subject. "So what's making you all puffy?" You wipe at one of your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
She looks away. "Nothing. Really. I'm okay."<br/>
<br/>
"So why'd you come out with me? You think I'm charming, you wanna hang out with me?"<br/>
<br/>
She stiffens.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you don't wanna answer that, do you," you observe. "That's okay, I'll ask you again later, maybe. But you came here with me because you were upset and I said you should talk to me. At least you can tell me what you were texting about with your girlfriends."<br/>
<br/>
"I just needed to get away from it, that's why I came with you. Out of sight, out of mind, you know." <br/>
<br/>
"Is it embarrassing? Is that why you don't want to tell me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, don't badger me, David. Let's talk about something else." She squeezes some lemon into her tea.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, whatever you want. What do you want to talk about?"<br/>
<br/>
For a long, dreadful moment, neither of you say anything. She busies herself with stirring her tea, hanging her head, and darting her eyes about.<br/>
<br/>
It's a miserable sight. Cindy Vredenburg is a beautiful girl, with a pale complexion, blue eyes, strong cheekbones in her pie-pan face, and straight hair that shimmers like pale gold as it drops to her shoulders. Her breasts are large and firm, as are her thighs and calves, and her torso curves like a vase between her hips and her chest. <br/>
<br/>
"So I heard you broke up with Seth," you say at last. "Have you found a replacement yet, or are you still auditioning guys?"<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a dirty look. "I don't <i>audition</i> guys."<br/>
<br/>
"So what are you doing with all those guys lining up around the block to go out with you? You telling 'em to send an application and you'll get back to them?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not like that," she says in a very cold voice.<br/>
<br/>
"So what <i>is</i> it like? Seriously, I'm dying to know."<br/>
<br/>
Her complexion curdles, and her eyes are like gimlets. "Are you really."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Why wouldn't I be? I don't get to see the auditioning process, or however you do it. Is it a process, or are you just winging it? How do you handle the attention, how do you pick a guy out?"<br/>
<br/>
She rolls her eyes. "It's not like that," she says again.<br/>
<br/>
"So what's it like?" you repeat. "I try to imagine it, and nothing comes."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I bet you try to imagine it," she mutters, and pushes her plate away. She hasn't taken a single bite of her salad.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, answer me this, then. Have you gone on a date with anyone since you broke up with Seth?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Good. 'Cos I'm not interested in a girl who's just on the rebound."</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Date on a Dare, Part 2
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Cindy Vredenburg settles back in her seat. Her blue eyes are very hard. "What did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"You heard me. You know exactly what I said."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're <i>auditioning</i> to be my boyfriend?" she sneers.<br/>
<br/>
"You told me it's not an audition. I'm just declaring an interest, Cindy. Well, maybe. It depends on if you're serious about not being on the rebound."<br/>
<br/>
Her stare is unblinking. You return it steadily, until you see the quiver of a swallow in her throat. Then you flash her just the tiniest smile. She looks away.<br/>
<br/>
"If you're really serious about me, David -- " She breaks off. "This is really awkward."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean we're not having fun."<br/>
<br/>
"No we're not."<br/>
<br/>
"That's only because we're talking honestly. Or I am. You wanna talk about something else, we'll talk about something else. But lemme say something first."<br/>
<br/>
You lean back and look at her coolly. You've got a huge advantage over her, because your eyes will be mostly invisible behind your tinted lenses. But still you can't stop yourself from playing with the fork as you talk.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't give a shit about me, Cindy. You don't give one fucking thought to me. I'm not in your little circle jerk of jocks and cheerleaders. I'm just a guy taking AP Stat and AP Calculus and Chemistry II, and I can talk about the late Beethoven string quartets, or show you how the Bach cello suites work, if you're into that shit. Also, I played dentist on Victor Anaya my sophomore year, used my fist to remove two of his teeth. And if you ask that dumbass who was dumb enough to dump you a couple of weeks ago, he'll tell you that I once punched him so hard for hassling me in P.E. class that he shat a little brown peapod into his underwear. But I dunno." You shrug. "That's all I gotta say for myself. From now until we go, you can talk and I'll just listen. 'Cos I like listening to you, and you can tell me anything you want, and I won't say anything back unless you ask me to. This ain't a date, Cindy, but that don't mean we can't be nice to each other. I mean, I'm no fucking good at being nice, but I'm sitting here trying hard to be, if you can believe it, because I <i>want</i> to be nice to you."<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure, but you think Cindy's pupils have dilated during this speech. A flush has crept up her throat, and her nostrils are flaring lightly. Even some of the life and bounce has seeped from her hair.<br/>
<br/>
She swallows openly, and shifts in her seat. She looks around.<br/>
<br/>
Then she sags. "I can't -- " She pinches her eyes shut, and some of the red from her throat puffs out around her eyelids. She puts her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands.<br/>
<br/>
You mirror her pose. She jumps a little when she opens her eyes and finds you staring at her, only inches from her face.<br/>
<br/>
She wilts. "I just want to kill everyone at school," she says in an aching voice.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The dam doesn't break all at once. It's more like a glacier cracking up, calving off big chunks one at a time.<br/>
<br/>
It's school, and her romantic life. She and her friends got forced off the cheerleader squad. Her boyfriend broke up with her hard, then jumped into the arms of the girl who drove her off the squad. Betrayal and backstabbing everywhere she turns. She had such ambitions for her senior year, such dreams, and they've all been smashed and shat on.<br/>
<br/>
You ought to feel guilty about this. It's all your fault. It isn't even Prescott's fault. Sure, he put you inside Chelsea Cooper's body after you made that bargain. But it was you -- not the real Chelsea -- who obliterated Cindy and her friends, and used a magic mask to steal Cindy's boyfriend.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't give a fuck. Truth to tell, you don't even really give a fuck about Cindy's happiness. But it would be fucking awesome if you scored with her, got her to be your girlfriend, even if you have to do it from inside the likeness of your best friend.<br/>
<br/>
So when she asks you what you think, you say, "I think you don't have any friends."<br/>
<br/>
She starts at that. "What do you mean? You think Lin and Yumi -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're not your friends, are they? You said everyone's stabbed you in the back."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't mean <i>them.</i>" Her face is hot with embarrassment.<br/>
<br/>
"So they really are your friends? Then okay, you've only got two friends in the whole fucking world. Naturally you should feel sorry for yourself."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Name me one more friend you've really got. Bet you can't."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes flash. "Eva and Jessica Garner, and Jenny Ashton -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So that's five. So what?"<br/>
<br/>
She purses her mouth into a grim line. "I know what you're trying to do, David. You're trying to get me to count my blessings or some shit like that."<br/>
<br/>
"And you don't want to. You'd rather feel sorry for yourself."<br/>
<br/>
She slumps and glares at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Do what makes you feel good, Cindy. If feeling rotten makes you feel good, then keep thinking about all the stuff that makes you feel rotten. I know I'd rather feel good by doing stuff that actually feels good, but I guess you've invented another way."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes widen. You tap her plate -- food still uneaten, as is yours -- with your fork. "You wanna get this to go?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I'm not hungry."<br/>
<br/>
"Then get it to go. 'Cos you'll be hungry later if you're not hungry now. I'm getting mine to go, I can't afford to let it just fuck off." You get up.<br/>
<br/>
"Are we leaving," Cindy asks, sounding startled.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah, we're done here." As she scoots out of the booth, you grab her hand and haul her to her feet. You pull her close, clutching her hand in yours and resting your other hand on her hip. "I'd love to help you feel good, Cindy. But you have to want to feel good before I can help you out. So think about it. Think about whether you want to sit in a puddle, or if you want to find some new way of feeling good. A way I can help you with." You release her, and swagger off to the front to get a couple of Styrofoam containers, leaving her to stare haggardly at the floor.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Conversation between you and Cindy is muted as you drive her back home. She thanks you as you pull up in front of her house. "For what?" you ask. "Listening," she replies. "And for the, uh, pep talk." "You're welcome. What are you doing Wednesday?" "I don't know." "Hang out with me after school."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a quizzical look. "Why Wednesday?"<br/>
<br/>
"So you won't think it's a fucking date and get all defensive. And it'll give you time to get used to the idea of hanging out with me. Which, yeah, takes some getting used to."<br/>
<br/>
She turns a little pink, but this time it looks like pleasure, not anger.<br/>
<br/>
You've noticed a new vehicle in the drive, a big SUV. Cindy identifies it as Lucy's when you ask. "Let me come in a minute," you say, shutting off the engine. "I still got that note I'm supposed to give to her." You follow her in.<br/>
<br/>
Lucy, when she appears, is even more luscious than Cindy. She's got the same pale, blonde looks, the same intensely huggable shape, the same sexy legs and calves and bosom. But somehow she's just twenty-five percent more <i>everything</i> that a guy wants. Maybe it's because she's a fully ripe woman, while Cindy is still a little green. You want to bite great chunks out of Lucy, and to rub yourself all over with her juice.<br/>
<br/>
She takes the note with a skeptical "tch", and reads it with a frown. She looks u you up and down. Then she shrugs. "Any reply?" you ask her.<br/>
<br/>
"No. I guess I'll see you around," she says with faint and undisguised distaste.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah, I guess you will.</i> She's just a mask on a golem, and her hauteur makes you want to take her off alone, rip the mask off her, put it on, and get it on with one of your alter egos. Teach the fucking cunt some respect for Chen Guangli and his power.<br/>
<br/>
But you just nod, and with a soft "Catch you later" to Cindy you take off.<br/>
<br/>
This very girl-heavy afternoon has got you thinking about girls, and about getting laid, and the jealousy you feel toward your best friend Kirkham and the way he manages to score more often than you ever did. The few girls you've scored with, he's managed to get, and quite a few more. None of them have been anywhere near the caliber of Cindy Vredenburg, though. It depresses you and excites you both, the prospect of snagging her. You marvel that you did as well with her at lunch as you did.<br/>
<br/>
Meanwhile you've gotten a text from your robot replacement, asking about plans for the day, and reminding you that you need to move Evans out of Chris Trantham and into Kelsey Blankenship. You tell him to meet you at the elementary school basement. You've only one blank mask on hand, and will need more soon, so you'll make some there.<br/>
<br/>
Probably that was a mistake. You're addled by all the thoughts about girls and sex, and it's made worse by sitting in the basement with your double: all those feelings of sexual fascination come flooding back, and you can't shake a fantasy -- horrible and exciting at the same time -- of putting on a girl's mask and doing it with him. You gruffly distract him, finally, by telling him to call Evans and outline the plan for him.<br/>
<br/>
It's a conversation that ends with yelling and threats. "He says he won't do it," Chen says when he hangs up. "He won't play a girl."</span></div></div>


author_id: seuzz
title: Hiding Tanner Evans
path:
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chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Fucker." You grab the phone away from Chen and are about to call Evans back when you stop. "What exactly did he say?"<br/>
<br/>
"That he's not gonna be a girl," Chen tells you. "He said he didn't care what I did to him, he wasn't going to do it."<br/>
<br/>
You bet that between Gary Chen and David Kirkham you've got the persuasive muscle to convince Tanner Evans that he'd love to be Kelsey Blankenship, but you decide it'd be better if he was playing someone he likes and not something he hates. "Fuck it," you say. "We'll put him in for Roth. Or for someone else."<br/>
<br/>
"We still need someone for Kelsey," Chen says. "Or are we giving up on that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll think about it," you say, and hand Chen the mask you just finished casting. "Go polish that up while I think." You start making another mask. And you'll make another mask after that.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It probably wouldn't have occurred to you if you weren't so fixated on the sex-and-girls things. You've been using guys in all your schemes because they're friends -- of a sort -- and you feel like you can dominate and control them. But there are some girls that might be useful too, if slotted into the correct spot.<br/>
<br/>
Molly Shaw, for instance.<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham has had her a couple of times, the fucker. Once after he heard how easy she was, and discovered that rumor did not exaggerate. A second time when, to his delight, she came to him with an itch that she insisted only he could scratch. A third time, when he had an itch, and after some intense pressure got her to yield. And a fourth time when she was adamantly against it until he relaxed her with some of his stash and she became very friendly indeed.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, and a fifth and sixth time when he pulled the same trick. He's not been much interested in her since then. She gets these intense pregnancy scares, and makes life hell for whichever guy she's convinced herself is the father.<br/>
<br/>
The main reason you're thinking of her now, though, is because of what she said one time when they were stroking each other and the subject of Kelsey somehow came up. "Bitch! Cunt! I wish I had her fucking money and she had a feather up her thing, then we'd both be tickled." There was a lot more in that vein, though Kirkham had tried to get her off the subject, all of which showed how venomously jealous Molly was of that stuck-up snob, and how she felt slighted by her.<br/>
<br/>
Replace Kelsey with Molly Shaw? You bet she'd go for it. And you bet she'd put out afterward, too.<br/>
<br/>
After you finish two more masks -- giving you a total supply of four -- you leave your robo-bro to finish polishing them while you take off with the book and some supplies for making mind bands. You'll do that tonight, but you have a stop or two to make first.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I didn't know you were part of this," Chris Trantham -- really Tanner Evans -- says. He's looking fatter and pastier than the last time you saw him, and the weedy blonde moustache on his upper lip looks like a hairy caterpillar that's dying of mange.<br/>
<br/>
"Well I am," you retort. "Me and Chen are partners on this. What he says, I mean, and what I say, he means. Got that? Two heads, one brain. So what's this shit about you not playing a girl."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not playing a girl," he replies with quiet truculence. "You're not giving me a pussy."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want a pussy to finger? Don't you want a couple of fucking globes to fondle?"<br/>
<br/>
He tries to shrink down inside himself. "I'm not," he says in a voice that's soft and pained.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll do as you're fucking told. But you're lucky this time." You jab him in the shoulder. "My brother Chen talked to you before I told him I had somebody else lined up for Kelsey. Now if you fucking beg me -- " You grab him by the hair, and with a knee to the groin force him to kneel. "If you fucking beg me, you cocktail of puke and dirty cum, I won't change my mind! I won't <i>make</i> you put on Kelsey's face and blow me! But you gotta beg!" You choke on a bolus of fury, and knee him in the chest. "Beg, cocksucker!"<br/>
<br/>
Trantham gasps and snuffles. "Please," he whispers.<br/>
<br/>
You are almost nauseous with contempt. "You're gonna do it, aren't you, you fag? I'm gonna make you, because you already have a pussy where your balls should be. Well, fuck you!" You shove him away.<br/>
<br/>
You're out by the water towers east of town, and you and Trantham aren't the only assholes out here. But you're off by yourselves, and the gangbangers loitering a couple of dozen yards away are only eyeing you furtively. So you're not expecting any trouble, and certainly not after the way you've forced the tall and chubby Chris Trantham into a fetal huddle on the grass.<br/>
<br/>
"You fucking pussy," you snarl at Trantham. "The only reason I'm letting you off is because you'd be <i>shit</i> in the part. You playing Kelsey? Fuck that. I told my bro you were a fucking loser and I'd find someone else for the part. But he went and called you anyway." You blow a wad of spit onto the side of Trantham's face. "The first time I ever had to bitch slap my bro, and it was on account of your fucking ass. Fuck me, but that's typical of you." You drop to one knee and press his head into the ground. He weeps with fear. "Thank me for going easy on you, cocksucker. I said, thank me!"<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you," he gasps, and starts sobbing in a low whine.<br/>
<br/>
"Now we just gotta figure out a spot we can put you where you can actually do some good. I was thinking about giving you Justin Roth's face, but Roth's a fucking cool guy, and it makes me want to puke all over myself to think of you there. You got any ideas?"<br/>
<br/>
He whimpers and shakes his head.<br/>
<br/>
"Me neither. Fuck." <br/>
<br/>
You sit next to him and let him cry and snivel until he runs out of tears and snot and self-pity. It's a long process, and even after he's quiet again he remains curled up like a immense, blubbery baby. When you're on the verge of losing patience again, you tell him to sit up. He does, and rubs at the dried streaks of tears that stain his cheek.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you know I'm in charge, and you're going to do what I fucking say. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
Trantham nods.<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to play Kelsey."<br/>
<br/>
He gapes. Then his face twists up. You're sure he's about to start crying again, but with a couple of deep gasps he fights it down. "Okay," he says quietly. "I'll play Kelsey."<br/>
<br/>
"Good man." You slap him lightly on the cheek. "You said the right thing, so I'm gonna let you off. You don't have to be a girl. Like I said, I found a much better person for the part. But if you kicked again, I was going to make you. But you can be a guy. You don't got any ideas of your own?"<br/>
<br/>
He is in such shock that it takes him a moment -- and a couple of swallows -- to recover, and to shake his head again. "You know what we want?" you ask him. "We want someone who can move product directly, or who can help us move it by making it look good. That's why we got Andrea Varnsworth working for us now, it's how come we want Roth on the team."<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't mind being Roth."<br/>
<br/>
But you don't think it would work. Looking at Evans, you're pretty sure you've broken his spirit, and you don't need a spirit-broken Justin Roth. If anyone is going to play Roth, it has to be someone who is happily on board with you and your program. Evans needs to be slotted in someplace where he can do a job.<br/>
<br/>
Someplace like Douglas Canfield.<br/>
<br/>
Now that you think about it, you've got Mendoza and Evans in the wrong spots. Mendoza's got spirit and guts -- of the three fucketeers, he's the one you like and respect the best -- and he's shown a lot of good sense and worked for you faithfully. You'd trust him with a spot like under Roth's face. He's wasted in the role of Douglas Canfield, whose only job it is to take orders by pulling more of the junior class into the AP snobs' "reefer parties." That's a job that Evans could do.<br/>
<br/>
"I gotta think about this," you tell him, and to show him that the storm has blown over, you put out a hand and help him to his feet. "I want you to do what we tell you, but I also want you to be happy. I mean, Jesus. That's how come Chen was going to put you in for Kelsey. I mean, besides her being a total score for us, he figured you'd have fun playing with her boobs and driving her BMW. What's the fucking matter with you that you don't want that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I just don't," he says. "Being a girl is -- " He shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"I'd do it."<br/>
<br/>
"You would?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking hell, yeah. But me and Chen, we got to keep our heads out of other people's heads, keep our thoughts clear and pure. We got some other girls you could be, though. You sure you don't want -- ? Yeah, okay," you say when he shakes his head. "Well, come on, let's get you an ice cream or something, make the tears go away."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Craig Wyatt," Mendoza suggests later, when you ask him of any juniors it would be good to acquire.</span></div></div>


