# chapters

path: 111131131111111111111111122123122411243122
author_id: seuzz
title: The Seduction of Genesis Lee
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Oh my God, I'm kissing him I can't believe it I'm actually kissing Blake O'Brien and he made the first move so actually he's kissing me!</i><br/>
<br/>
Whatever Blake does to Genesis, he's doing it to you too, because your brain is making a noise like twenty calliopes blasting away inside an exploding fireworks factory.<br/>
<br/>
But even as Genesis's brain flips out, the very cold and uninvolved brain of Will Prescott is much less impressed. When you get down to it, Blake's mouth and tongue are, at best, just a mouth and tongue.<br/>
<br/>
And having the mouth and tongue of another person, particularly another guy, inside your own, is (when you think further about it) kind of—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Alright, let's not think about </i>that,<i> let's not go down </i>that<i> road,</i> you tell yourself. Instead, you force yourself to relax, and ride the boiling surf of Genesis Lee's hormones.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Blake holds you close, his arms wrapped around you. He snuffles lightly at your temple, at your cheek, and inside your hair. He smells wonderful (<i>no he doesn't, he smells like Ivory soap</i>) and his skin is warm and flushed, and his clothes rustle softly as he alternately squeezes and releases you.<br/>
<br/>
"This is really interesting," you murmur. "Is it interesting for you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
That's not really an answer. But "interesting" isn't really an observation either, is it?<br/>
<br/>
After breaking off the kiss, you and Blake had fumbled uncertainly with each other. It's easiest to let yourself be dragged along by Genesis's ardor for Blake—or for his body, which technically is what you're embracing back—but you also kept enough control to tap on the brakes. It's not only that you're not so keen about getting intimate with Blake O'Brien's body. You're supposed to be Blake-trapped-in-Genesis's-body, and would <i>he</i> be getting off on himself?<br/>
<br/>
Well, you'd have to grudgingly admit that he's a much more attractive specimen of the physical male than you were, with a fitter body and a more masculine face. But would he be turned on by himself? It's true that you were turned on by your <i>pedisequos</i> when you were with it, but only when you were being influenced by Sydney's emotions. Of course, the real Blake would be influenced by Genesis's emotions too, so—<br/>
<br/>
"You're really quiet," Blake says.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm thinking," you reply after a moment's hesitation. "You're quiet too. Are you thinking?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure."<br/>
<br/>
"What about?"<br/>
<br/>
Blake doesn't answer. "You're not worried about what I'll say, are you?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "I don't know what I'm thinking," he replies. "I'm thinking but I don't know what. I guess that sounds weird."<br/>
<br/>
"It's been a weird day."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," he murmurs, "is that ever an understatement." He's lapses into a long silence, then says, "I guess we should start telling us about each other. If I have to go back to your house and pretend to be you—"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to think about that," you interrupt.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't either. But—" <br/>
<br/>
You feel him freeze, and he pulls away from you. "Are you scared, Blake?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Damn.</i> "Yes," you admit. "I want to run away from it all."<br/>
<br/>
That much is true, though Genesis won't understand the real meaning behind your confession. It's the moment that she is pressing on you—the moment when you and she will have to start telling each other about yourselves—that you can't bring yourself to face, for that's the moment you'll be exposed as an imposter, and this half-assed plan of yours will completely collapse. (<i>I told you, told you, told you so!</i> Sydney will sing at you while capering.) So you want to run away and do something else—anything else—but face up to that moment.<br/>
<br/>
The chance to do "anything else" comes when Blake picks up your comment and runs off with it in an unexpected direction.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean run away together?" he says. "Leave town, change our names, start over?"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart drums hard on the inside of your chest. It's like Genesis's most amazing fantasy come to life! <i>He wants to throw everything away and run off with me and be with me forever and it'll just be us, together forever!</i> It's the most impossible, most swoon-worthy thing ever! <br/>
<br/>
In a flash it all comes to you. You and Blake scraping out a living in a weatherbeaten shack, its boards cracked and warped by a blistering sun that has  pancaked the prairie into a dusty emptiness. Every morning he leaves to scrape a few bucks from his job in the oil fields, and every night he returns, exhausted and filthy, to your shack, where you nourish him with simple but healthy food you cooked with love. He is sinewy and sweaty in his muddy jeans and boots and his torn undershirt. The hair beneath his cowboy hat is parched and dry, and when he pulls off dusty work gloves, his hands are hard and callused. You knead the weariness from his shoulders as he eats, and when you are washing up, he sneaks up behind to grip your shoulders and puts lips and teeth to the back of your neck.<br/>
<br/>
And then you're in bed together, the room lit only by metallic moonlight, and he is drilling again, but it is into the moist, yielding loam of your own loins that he is drilling, and it is to plant something there, not extract it, that he drills with a passion that would crack the earth in twain were he to expend it in the oil fields ...<br/>
<br/>
In a daze, you lift your face to his and ask, "What time do you have to be home?"<br/>
<br/>
He blinks. "Me or you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't have to go home," you improvise. "I can stay out all night. So you don't have to go back to my house, not if you don't want to. What about you? Can you stay out?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, not all night."<br/>
<br/>
"Not even just once? Would they kill you, your parents, if you didn't come home until ... tomorrow morning?"<br/>
<br/>
His dark eyes widen. "Where would we hang out?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't know any of any weatherbeaten shacks in the middle of any dusty plains. But Genesis knows a boy and a girl can spend the night, if they've got money, though she herself has never been to any such place.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You and Blake sit on the edge of the bed for the longest time. The sun is falling toward the western horizon, and its orange light comes blasting through the thin curtains strung across the small window. The room is stifling.<br/>
<br/>
Blake had blanched when you suggested spending the night at the Donna Motor Courts. <i>Do you want people to know where we went?</i> he asked. <i>Because if someone sees us there—<br/>
<br/>
Who would see us?</i> you ask.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Doesn't everyone know about the Donna? And Kim Walsh,</i> he stammered, <i>someone told me her family owns it.</i> Yes, now that she's reminded you, Genesis has heard that the president of the student council is connected to the Donna.<br/>
<br/>
But Genesis gave in when you modified your suggestion. So now here you are checked into another cheap, dingy motel on the same fading boulevard: The Layzee-Nites Motel.<br/>
<br/>
The walls are painted cinderblock and the seawater-green rug is woven of hard, scratchy fibers. The bedspread is orange and has the slick feel of spun plastic. But there's a small flatscreen TV sitting on the bureau opposite the foot of the bed, and it has a clean smell. After checking out all the facilities to ensure everything worked, you and Blake settled onto the edge of the bed, side by side, hands on your knees.<br/>
<br/>
Neither of you is touching the other, and you're very conscious that Blake is avoiding looking at you, just as you're avoiding look at him. All the same, neither of you can keep from shooting furtive, awkward glances at the other, and noticing the furtive, awkward glances that are being shot back.<br/>
<br/>
"You wanna watch TV?" Blake finally asks. "We could talk. We still need to get to know each other."<br/>
<br/>
"No," you tell her firmly. "I don't want to talk about us. What I mean is," you hastily add as Blake's face falls, "I want to talk about—"<br/>
<br/>
But you don't know how to finish that sentence. There's nothing you can talk about that might not be exposed—if Blake's memories start coming to her—as something Blake wouldn't know or talk about.<br/>
<br/>
"I want <i>you</i> to talk about us," you declare in a spur decision. You feel your face light up: Genesis's instincts tell you that she'd like that. "I'm not big on talking, and I'm kind of stressed out. But you tell me <i>everything</i> that you know. Everything you're feeling. I'll listen."<br/>
<br/>
Blake takes a deep breath and pushes his hair back. (He starts a little—surprised maybe at how short it is.) "I don't know if you'd be very interested in me," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Genesis, look at me." You give her a direct stare, and let your lips twitch into a small smile. "I think I'd be <i>very</i> interested in you."<br/>
<br/>
Blake's lips also twitch, and the sharp dimples that briefly slash across his cheeks give you a hard quiver below your diaphragm. "Well, I think I'd be interested in you too."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you?" You let your smile deepen.<br/>
<br/>
He blushes hard, and his eyes fall. <i>Well, if </i>that<i> isn't a giveaway,</i> you think. It would be a giveaway even if those flashes of erotic fantasy you've been suffering weren't giveaways too.<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure how long you can keep avoiding the biographical details. You shut her up for a little while at the park, when you kissed. Now you're in a motel room. You have a long time to kill. <br/>
<br/>
And a long way of killing it.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111111221231224112431221
author_id: seuzz
title: Getting to Know All About You
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Remember that you're Genesis,</i> you tell yourself. <i>It's the only way to get through this.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's easy advice to take. You feel like your brain is going to melt from the excitement as you play out a fantasy she has had about <i>lots</i> of guys.<br/>
<br/>
After a long, slow kiss—longer, slower, more searching, more <i>luscious</i> than the kiss at the park—you had pushed him back onto the bed. He was very shy and pale, and he licked his lips as you straddled his lap and tugged at the hem of his hoodie. You had to tell him to raise his arms over his head as you pushed it up and over his shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
He was wearing a red t-shirt underneath, but before taking that off you snuck your arms around him and under his shirt, to rub and stroke the hard muscles of his back with open palms. He was strong, smooth, and warm to the touch, and you kissed him like he was a cluster of grapes to be nibbled and swallowed a bite at a time.<br/>
<br/>
Then the shirt came off and he fell onto his back. You scooted down to the foot of the bed and removed his boots, letting them thud to the floor. You reached up inside the legs of his pants, and pulled first one and then the other sock off. You kneaded his feet—his toes are very long—and pressed into the arches with your thumb. He squirmed and sucked his lips in and arched his hips at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
Now you are straddling him again, rubbing the taut muscles of his torso with palms and fingertips. He is very lean and smooth, and you can feel his abs beneath the skin.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not the only one caressing his torso. It amuses you—though you keep the smile off your face—to see him rubbing his chest thoughtfully as he bores holes in the ceiling with his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<i>She's touching Blake's body,</i> you think. <i>That's what she's thinking. She's thinking about how she's touching Blake O'Brien's body.</i> You lightly grip Blake's stomach between your hands, and Blake, startled, looks down over his chin and chest at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on," you urge him. "Help me to—" You reach up to take his hands in yours. "Help me to help you."<br/>
<br/>
His throat flutters as you pull his hands down to his abs. He squeezes your hands, and you have to untwine yourself from his fingers before you can press his hands onto his stomach. You cover his hands with yours. "There," you tell him. "Now with <i>both</i> of us—"<br/>
<br/>
You pop the top button his jeans and yank them loose, revealing dark blue boxers. Something very large bulges in the front. When you glance up again, you see Blake's face frozen with terror.<br/>
<br/>
Now you can't resist a giggle as you fish at the front of his boxers. This is going almost exactly like that fantasy! Him, the shy but sexy puppy who has to be coaxed into confessing his arousal, and her the ministering lover who brings him out of his shy and anguished solitude.<br/>
<br/>
But you almost jump off the bed with the thing does pop out, right into the palm of your hand. <br/>
<br/>
<i>My God, it's enormous! And hairy!<br/>
<br/>
And it throbs! It's like a blind snake, and the lips at its tip quiver and purse.</i><br/>
<br/>
You gape as Blake starts to make some alarming noises. He puffs and gurgles, and a couple of different colors pass over his face. For an instant, you're terrified that he's having a stroke, or a heart attack. "Hey, are you okay up there?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Are <i>you</i> okay?" he croaks.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, remember who I am. There's nothing down here I don't see and touch every day. I'm just not used to seeing it from this angle, is all."<br/>
<br/>
Blake whimpers, grimaces, and twists atop the bed. "I don't know what's wrong," he puffs. "But it's— It's—!"<br/>
<br/>
You brush at it, to see if he's got it twisted up inside the folds of his boxers.<br/>
<br/>
That's when it spits something white and sticky at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At least you're on familiar ground as you explain to Genesis that what happened is of course perfectly normal, and happens all the time with guys. Intellectually, of course, she knows that. But you remember the first time it happened to you, and so can sympathize with her surprise and dismay.<br/>
<br/>
She insists on you getting out of the clothes you're wearing and soaking them in the sink. You protest, telling her as gallantly as you can that you don't want to take off  clothes if it would make her uncomfortable. But she insists, and soon you are completely stripped. You do insist on getting under the covers, though, but then she strips off the rest of Blake's things and gets under them with you. You lay on your sides, and look at each other, and stroke each other on the arms and sides and back. You talk, in a giggly way, about the sex ed courses you took. Genesis, you notice, carefully refrains from asking you about your sexual history, and you return the favor. When, shyly but without stammering, she admits to being a virgin, you tell her that you'll be sure to keep her that way. She turns pink, and gives you a long and tender kiss.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually you get hungry, and he dresses and goes out to pick up some fast food. You remain behind and study the texts you're getting from Leah, and from your other friends, asking where you are and what's happened to you. You show them to Blake when returns with a takeout box of fried fish, cole slaw, and hushpuppies from a nearby seafood place. He takes the phone from you and taps in the replies himself.<br/>
<br/>
After eating, you snuggle under the covers again and watch TV, then exchange cell phones so you can separately get onto the internet. Genesis busies herself this way for more than an hour. You surf the internet.<br/>
<br/>
Along about nine o'clock, you fool around some more, rubbing and prodding and squeezing each other all over, until you have lost all shyness about your bodies. You give Genesis a couple of hand jobs, until she's used to the idea of having a cock and to the practice of relieving it when it gets excited.<br/>
<br/>
Along about eleven you put the lights out and nestle in the bed together, arms around each other, breathing softly in each other's faces. Blake's cock, erect between you, practically makes it a threesome.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake a couple of times during the night, but not for good until a grayish light is showing behind the curtain. Water rushes through pipes, and when you lift your head to look around, you find you've got the bed to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You lay back and let your eyes close. <i>Another day. Sunday.</i> You should be in church, instead of tormenting Genesis Lee from inside her own body with a freaky body swap. Is what you're doing evil? <i>Yes,</i> you admit to yourself with a sigh. But somehow it doesn't <i>feel</i> evil. After last night, it just feels like a practical joke. Not even a particularly cruel one. Genesis sure seemed to have fun, once she loosened up.<br/>
<br/>
The water shuts off, and there's a metallic rustle from the bathroom. Did Genesis wake with wood, and take a shower to relieve it? You might be able to distract her for a little while longer with some bed play. But with the morning, she is surely going to insist on figuring out what comes next, and that's going to include some pretty intent questions about what she will find when (as she must) she returns to Blake's house.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should drive out to Sydney's, and insist on swapping back before that happens.<br/>
<br/>
Before you can stir any further, the bathroom door opens and Blake comes out. His smooth skin gleams under a faint sheen of water, and his hair, black with water, sticks out in little curls all over. He is wearing nothing but boxers.<br/>
<br/>
You sit up and draw a sharp breath. There is something different in his manner this morning. Gone are the slumped shoulders and the tentative steps; the drooped head and the nervous side glances. This Blake walks with shoulders back and head up, with legs and arms swinging freely.<br/>
<br/>
And when he gives you a side glance, his jaw tightens.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow as he falls onto the foot of the bed and bends to pick his clothes up off the floor. "How are you doing back there?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you reply. "How are you doing?"<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't answer, and when he stands to pull on his jeans, he keeps his back to you.<br/>
<br/>
"We need to talk," he says as he fluffs out his shirt.<br/>
<br/>
"I know."<br/>
<br/>
"Right." He pulls his shirt on, and plucks at the front to loosen it. "Because I know who you are."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The shock of his statement is softened, but only just, as he continues. <i>Who you are,</i> it turns out, is not "Will Prescott." It's just Genesis's very brutal way of telling you that she recovered Blake's memories during the night. She woke with them. But she doesn't ask if you woke with hers.<br/>
<br/>
That's because she's got something else on her mind.<br/>
<br/>
"You gave me the impression yesterday that you liked me," she tells you gruffly. "It was a nice line of shit."<br/>
<br/>
"What makes you think it was shit?" you ask. Your heart seems to slow—time itself seems to slow—as you lie on the bed, dreading the answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Because you don't give a shit about me, Blake," she says. "You never even noticed me before yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
He glares at you, and his voice cracks. "But now you know how <i>I</i> feel about you." His eyes turn red and puffy. "You know how <i>humiliating</i> that is?"</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111111112212312241124312212
author_id: seuzz
title: The Grounded Girl
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>On the one hand there's good news: Genesis now has Blake's memories, so both of you will be able to bluff your way through your new lives without having to worry, and without having to consult with each other.<br/>
<br/>
On the other hand there's bad news: Genesis now has Blake's memories, which is going to make it very tricky when you try to act like him while "stuck" in her body.<br/>
<br/>
Like now. <i>What would Blake say and do?</i> when Genesis Lee bursts out crying?<br/>
<br/>
"Hey. Hey," you say as you scramble across the bed, unmindful of your nakedness, and of the way Genesis's boobs dangle and flop across your chest. "I'll tell you what I don't like," you improvise, "and that's seeing me crying like that!" You grab him in your arms, but he remains very stiff and stony. "Genesis." You shake him. "Genesis!"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't even know my name before yesterday," he burbles.<br/>
<br/>
"I knew your name! Okay, maybe I didn't pay a lot of attention to you"—that seems a safe enough guess—"but I paid attention to you yesterday!"<br/>
<br/>
"You had to."<br/>
<br/>
He hangs his head. His shoulders slump. His lower lip quivers and his brow twists into a knot. In short, Genesis has lost Blake's mojo and fallen back into hers.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen!" You grip him by the shoulders. "I didn't have to pay attention to you! We didn't have to come here! We didn't have to—! Oh God. I am in so much trouble. Your mom is going to have an absolute conniption when I get home. Isn't she?"<br/>
<br/>
Blake nods. Then his expression twists up again.<br/>
<br/>
"See," he spits. "I'm so selfish! I should have taken you back to my place— I mean, to where I live— And then I should have gone back to your place! But I wanted— Oh, Christ!" He balls up a fist and punches himself in the side of the head.<br/>
<br/>
"No! Stop that!" You grab his arm. "That's what I'm trying to tell you! If I didn't want to hang out with you, I'd've told you to take me to your house! But I didn't! I wanted to hang out with you instead!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, you were just scared," Blake sniffs. "Like me."<br/>
<br/>
"Was I, Genesis?" You let go of him and step back to give him a hard glare. You have to lift your chin, because he's half a head taller than you. "Was I scared? You say you've got my memories. Do you know how to act like me? Would I have been scared?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't know the answer to that question. But you've got the impression that Blake isn't someone who would <i>admit</i> to being scared.<br/>
<br/>
"Didn't you tell me you were scared?"<br/>
<br/>
"If I did, it's only 'cos I wanted to make you feel better, because <i>you</i> were scared. And I don't <i>think</i> I told you I was scared. Do <i>you</i> think I was scared? Go on!" You jab him in the chest. "Think about it."<br/>
<br/>
His gaze goes distant, and he frowns. When he doesn't answer right away, you tell him, "While you figure it out, I'm going to take a shower. After that, I'm going to see if I can get Leah or Melanie or someone like that to cover for me with my parents."<br/>
<br/>
You half expect Blake to interrupt you in the shower, in order to keep you from having "fun," so you keep it short. But he's gone when you emerge from the bathroom, though he returns shortly after you've finished dressing. He's brought a bag of donuts.<br/>
<br/>
You're dying for one—you and Genesis both—but you maintain your self-control and composure until you finish tapping in the text that you were working on. "These are bad for you, you know?" you remind him even as you fish a maple glazed donut from the bag.<br/>
<br/>
"You have them all the time."<br/>
<br/>
"We <i>both</i> have them all the time. But <i>I</i> work out," you remind him as you stuff half the donut into your mouth. "You're not going to slack on that," you mumble with a full mouth. "You're going to keep my body in shape."<br/>
<br/>
He winces, but whether it's from the threat of exercise or the sight of her body stuffing itself with a donut you can't tell. "Fine," he says, "but you can't slack on band practice."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll do my best." You glance at the phone, which has chimed with a text. "Come on. My only chance of making it back to school alive tomorrow is if you drop me off at Leah's."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There are fireworks—there would have to be—when you finally get home with "your" parents, but things aren't as bad as they could have been. It was nearly nine o'clock when Blake dropped you off at Leah's. Her parents were probably shocked at your early morning arrival, but they said nothing about it and cheerfully invited you to breakfast. You demurred with many thanks, and followed Leah upstairs, where she badgered you with questions while you washed your hair in her sink. She wasn't happy with your noncommittal promises to "tell you later," and she buzzed with frantic curiosity while driving you—your hair still sopping—to the church that Genesis's family attends. Your mom gave you a cold, slit-eyed side-glare when you slip into the pew with her and your dad.<br/>
<br/>
So you wind up grounded for the rest of the weekend, the following week, and the weekend after that, though Mr. and Mrs. Lee affect to believe you when you say that you only slept over at Leah's after losing track of the time and not realizing you had missed curfew until it was nearly three in the morning. As to your not getting your parents' texts: You tell them that your phone died and that you were only able to give it a little juice this morning as you frantically washed up so you could meet them at church. As you settle back in Genesis's bedroom, you reflect that there's not a lot of difference between your parents and hers. The only big one is that it is Genesis's mom, not her dad, who hits the roof, and it is her dad, not her mom, who sits in the background and tries to stay out of his spouse's eyeline while she's yelling at you.<br/>
<br/>
But at least your grounding puts you someplace you can finally unwind after a frantic twenty-four hours of improvisation. You kick back on Genesis's bed, with her cell phone, and study her messages, which have begun to pour in from all over: from Leah (still antsy), from Brianna Kirschke, from Philippa Hosford and Hermione Gilbert, all asking if something is up with you. Even Jack Li texts to tell you that people are freaking out at your sudden silence, but that might be taken as a veiled warning from the <i>pedisequos.</i><br/>
<br/>
But the last text in the queue is from Blake.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Sydney wants to see us after school tomorrow,</i> he says.<i> How r u? Get in trouble?<br/>
<br/>
Grounded,</i> you reply, <i>but not dead. What about you?<br/>
<br/>
All good at ur house. Ur friends r busting my balls bc I wasnt at warehouse last nite.</i> Three dots show for the longest time as he types a follow-up. But when it finally comes, though, it's very short and direct: <i>They think I was with a girl. What should I tell them?</i><br/>
<br/>
A great constellation of butterflies explodes in your stomach, and this time your helpless, instinctual squeak is more like a yelp. <i>We could tell them I'm his new girlfriend!</i> <br/>
<br/>
Then, as you try to regain your composure, a separate channel opens, from Sydney. <i>Hey can we talk? Phone.</i><br/>
<br/>
This time you growl, and the flock of butterflies transmutes into a froth of anger and resentment.<br/>
<br/>
But Fake-Sydney is right to text. You bottle up Genesis's distaste for Sydney, and tell Blake you'll have to think about the answer to his question for a bit. {i]brb, you sign off.<br/>
<br/>
"So how did the rest of yesterday go for you?" Sydney asks when she picks up. She sounds very amused.<br/>
<br/>
"It went," you snap. You pinch the bridge of your nose, and tell yourself to center. "Genesis got Blake's memories this morning."<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, too bad. I was looking forward to watching her galumph around in that body of his. What position does he play on the football team?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Wide receiver, you bitch.</i> "Not sure," you reply aloud.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh well. So what did you guys do after you left me yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
"Went our separate ways."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, don't bullshit me, Will. I—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm your boss, dammit! Don't forget!" Again, you have to struggle to regain your composure.<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. Then: "If you're too embarrassed to tell me what you did, boss, I understand. But you should know that Jack called me a couple of times, said that no one was hearing from you, and that Genesis was usually quite the chatterbox. Also, boss," she adds, "he told me that Genesis has the cutest little crush on Blake. So you can see, boss, why I thought you might be hanging out together."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we didn't. I just didn't feel like talking to Genesis's friends."<br/>
<br/>
"Or to me?" You don't like the lilt in her question.<br/>
<br/>
"I know you want to meet up with us tomorrow, but I can't. I'm grounded."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Crap. For how long? <br/>
<br/>
"Till a week from tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Dang. That's going to put a crimp in our plans. Leaves you stuck with Genesis for the duration."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess so."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney doesn't reply right away. When she does there's a chill in her voice.<br/>
<br/>
"You know, it seems to me, boss," she says, "that if you were really eager to finish inducting Genesis into our Brotherhood, that you'd be a lot more upset about being grounded and be asking me for sympathy. I'm getting a vibe from you, though, that you're <i>glad</i> of the delay."<br/>
<br/>
Are you?<br/>
<br/>
Because although intellectually you are still committed to the scheme, your gut is telling you to back off.<br/>
<br/>
But is that your gut—your subconscious—or Genesis's?</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111112
author_id: seuzz
title: No One Wants a Creepy Girlfriend
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>In a flash you realize that this is the moment you've been dreading, the moment when you have to decide.<br/>
<br/>
Are you going to make this a real partnership with Sydney?<br/>
<br/>
Do you trust her? Do you think that she trusts you? Are you just playing around together, trying to figure out magical shit, or is there a chance for something else between you?<br/>
<br/>
Is she only using you, manipulating you, pretending to like you and to be interested in you while she worms your stuff away so she can have it for herself?<br/>
<br/>
Now her suggestion—that maybe she could put on Caleb's mask so she can "get to know you fast"—has answered it for you.<br/>
<br/>
Why would she want to "get to know you fast" except that she doesn't like being with you and so doesn't want to "get to know you slowly"?<br/>
<br/>
Well, you're not going to accuse her of <i>that</i>, so you play it cool ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"That would be kind of creepy, wouldn't it?" you say.<br/>
<br/>
"How would it be creepy?" There's a titter wrapped inside her voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you turning into a guy," you reply. "You turning into a guy who looks like <i>Caleb.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney says nothing. Then she bursts out laughing. "Would it be creepy if you used a mask to turn into a <i>girl?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh." You feel yourself blushing hard; thank God it's dark. "I hadn't thought about it."<br/>
<br/>
"You haven't thought—?" She howls and snorts and giggles, which leaves you cringing. <br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong with you?" she gasps. "If you showed those masks to any other guys, ninety-nine percent of them would instantly start picking out girls they'd want to copy and try on. Looking for <i>boobs</i> to play with. Are you one of the one percent?"<br/>
<br/>
There's no good answer to that, so you say nothing. But her teasing only hardens your suspicions. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm sorry, Will," she says after a moment of silence. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot that way. And if you think it would be creepy if I, well, did myself up to look like your friend, I won't do it and I won't ask again. I was only thinking it was a way we could hang out and get to know each other."<br/>
<br/>
"We can't do it the regular way? Like we've been doing already?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." She strokes your leg. "We don't need magic to do <i>that.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're up early the next morning—and on Saturdays "up early" means "before eleven"—and drive out to the elementary school to check on the thing you're making. You're delighted to see that the fire is out, then disappointed when the cigarette lighter refires it. You study the thing for a bit, wondering what it's making.<br/>
<br/>
And it does look like it's making something. What started as a mound of loose dirt has pulled together and hardened into an irregular cylinder. It's cracked in places—a long fissure has nearly split the thing in two up the middle, and two smaller fissures have opened up on either side—which makes you wonder if the thing is deformed and will have to be redone, but there's nothing to do now but wait for the thing to finish.<br/>
<br/>
You get a text from Keith while you're still at the school: he and some other guys are going out to see a horror movie late this afternoon and he wants to know if you want to go along. With nothing else to do, you drive out to Don's Donuts, where Keith works on Saturdays. <br/>
<br/>
"So what's the plan for this movie?" you ask him after you've got a donut and some coffee. The place is empty, and Keith has nothing to do but move the fresh donuts into the "stale" case.<br/>
<br/>
"Hit the cineplex by five," he says. "We need more of a plan than that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Who are these guys we're seeing it with? Caleb?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pff, no. Johansson's being an anti-social dick, which is fine with me, 'cos I'm still mad at him. No, I'm seein' it with my YouTube crew."<br/>
<br/>
"Your who?"<br/>
<br/>
He gives you look. "My crew who make the YouTube videos. I told you about them."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you did. Well, tell me about them again." You stuff the donut in your mouth.<br/>
<br/>
Keith rolls his eyes. "Mike and Carlos. Hollister and Montoya. They got a YouTube channel, they do movie reviews."<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone's got a channel," you mumble around the donut. "Everyone does movie reviews."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and they do too. I been helping them out. Gonna do a couple reviews o' my own for 'em, maybe starting with this one, gonna get some extra credit in Hawks's class that way. Maybe we could do some together?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe."<br/>
<br/>
He snorts at your lack of enthusiasm. "Yeah, maybe not. Maybe I wanna be a YouTube star on my own."<br/>
<br/>
You almost snort coffee out your nose. Keith isn't ugly, exactly, but he's pretty damn homely with his home-done buzz cut, his patchy unibrow, his chapped lips, and his acne. "How about I see how you do," you tell him as he gives you a reproachful look, "then maybe I'll do something with you."<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. I'll show you how it's done."<br/>
<br/>
You spend the next hour or so shooting the shit with Keith, and when he gets off work you follow him down Twentieth Street to meet Carlos. You wind up at the Top Shelf Storage complex, which Montoya's family owns, and Keith leads you into a cinderblock building whose central corridor is lined on either side by storage units. "Yeah, this's where we got our studio," he tells you.<br/>
<br/>
You ignore the possessive "we" that he has lately introduced to describe the channel and its operations, and ask about this studio operation. "I 'unno," Keith shrugs. "His dad lets him have two empty units to use. He's got his studio in one and his—"<br/>
<br/>
He breaks off as you come upon a unit with an open door. There's a weight bench and a footlocker inside. Sitting on the weight bench is a shirtless Hispanic guy in shorts and sneakers. He continues doing curls even after looking up to nod at you and Keith.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Carlos Montoya.</i> You recognize him now—he's in your English class this semester. He's a chunky guy, though far from fat; and you have the impression that he's actually lost weight since the last time you really paid attention to him. He's also acquired a fauxhawk. <br/>
<br/>
He grins at you and crushes your hand in his paw after he's dropped the weights and introductions have been made. "Cool, it's a popcorn flick," he tells you when Keith says you'll be hitting the theater with them. "We need a lot of people along, help us figure out if it's got crowd appeal. Know anyone else who wants to go?"<br/>
<br/>
"Carson and James?" you suggest, looking at Keith. He makes a face.<br/>
<br/>
Carlos's lips twitch. "How about some girls?"<br/>
<br/>
You blush. "You know any?"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought maybe you did. Keith doesn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you! I know lots of girls I can ask out!"<br/>
<br/>
You jump in with the obvious retort: "Sure you can ask them, but will they come?"<br/>
<br/>
"I know more girls than you!"<br/>
<br/>
Almost you blurt out Sydney's name as a suggestion, but you catch yourself in time. She would almost certainly accept. But you were worried about running Caleb last night at Catherine Muskov's party; and if you took Sydney on a movie run, it would certainly get back to Caleb and he would know that you had twitched her out from under his nose.<br/>
<br/>
And now you realize you've got another reason to keep things merely professional between you and her, and to keep that professional relationship as secret as you can.<br/>
<br/>
So when Sydney texts you a little after two, to say that she's going out to Sophie Van Der Burg's house and do you want to go along, you reply that you've already made plans for "extra credit school work" with some other guys and that you'll catch up to her at school on Monday.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But Sunday brings a plot twist. The dingus finishes baking.<br/>
<br/>
You don't find it until mid-afternoon, which is the soonest you can get away to check. The fire is out again when you enter the basement, and you grimace as you set the lighter against it. <br/>
<br/>
But it doesn't take. You press the flame closer to the dirt, and you press it against a couple of different places, but the thing refuses to catch fire again. With mounting excitement, you pull the book out from under it. It flops over to a new page.<br/>
<br/>
It takes you an hour of careful translation to figure out what you've made. It's a <i>pedisequos,</i> the best translation of which seems to be "servant" or "slave." It's a magical robot.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, the thing itself is just a crude lump of hardened clay in the rough shape of a person: blocky legs and arms split off from a misshapen torso and a turnip-like "head" at one end. It can't move to talk. But, the book informs you, if you put a mask on it, it will turn into a copy of that person, and will obey its maker.<br/>
<br/>
You're scrambling for the mask of Caleb to test it out when you're struck by an alternate plan.<br/>
<br/>
Make a mask of Sydney. Copy your partner. Test the <i>pedisequos</i> out with a copy of her.<br/>
<br/>
Or just put on her mask yourself. Learn what she really thinks and wants.<br/>
<br/>
You sit down, feeling cold all over. <br/>
<br/>
It would be a treacherous thing to do. And why would you do it, except that you've decided to end your "partnership" with her?<br/>
<br/>
Well, that's one good reason to do it, to figure out if you really do want to end your partnership. If you got in her head and liked what you found, you could continue things without her learning what you'd done. And if you don't like what you find, then you'd know for sure that you'd have to break things off.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Focus Pocus
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'm thinking I don't want to go to a party," you tell Sydney. "I'm thinking I wanna—"<br/>
<br/>
You want to say <i>I wanna hang out with you, just the two of us, someplace.</i> You can't bring yourself to go that far, though, so you come out with the next best thing: "I'm thinking I wanna go looking for that other ley line. I mean, the other focus or whatever it is of that—"<br/>
<br/>
You pull up short as a grin breaks across Sydney's face. <br/>
<br/>
"Sure, we could do that," she says. "You said last night it was romantic." You gasp, and she laughs. "I thought we could go to Catherine's first," she continues, "then go looking for the other focal point. But I like your idea better. It might take us all night to find it." She squeezes your thigh. "Which could be fun."<br/>
<br/>
You stifle a sudden case of the hiccups.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So, is it fun looking for that other focal point? In one way it is, for you've got Sydney with you, and she teases and goads you as you tramp around brambly lots trying to get a bead on the focal point. She calls you her "pack mule" because you carry all the gear while she traipses along with arms swinging freely; and once—when she pretends to take fright of a rustling in the grass—she leaps upon your back and insists that you carry her back to the truck. You stagger and fall a couple of times, but it's worth it to feel her satiny legs about your waist, and her soft arms about your shoulders. You're not sure, but you think you catch her sniffing at your cap a couple of times.<br/>
<br/>
In another sense, though, it's no fun at all, for you have to drive up and down lots of streets, dismounting and remounting your truck, and using the gyroscope and the sextant to see if the line is brightening as it nears its other focus. You start by exploring the empty spaces between Saratoga Falls proper and Acheson, which means you have to hike in and out of rough ground thatched with tall, spiky grasses, and lay down in the weeds to sight along the sextant. Before long, your pants are a mess of burrs and stickers and other trash.<br/>
<br/>
But track it down you do, finally, inside a yard enclosed by a high stone wall, long after the sun has set and the stars have peeped out.. Sydney snorts at a whitewashed wall whose crest rises higher than the crown of your head. "It figures someone would've built a house over it," she mutters.<br/>
<br/>
You walk around the wall a couple of times, snooping for a way to sneak in or over it, before stopping at the single wrought-iron gate that pierces it. You peer through its closely space bars at a large house, two stories tall at least, that's shaped like a shoebox. The outside lights are off, and no lights show in any of the windows, so it's hard to make anything out.<br/>
<br/>
"It doesn't look like anyone's home," you say. "Wanna take a chance on going in?"<br/>
<br/>
"Go in there?" a voice sounds directly behind you. "Are you out of your fucking minds?" <br/>
<br/>
You and Sydney whirl, bumping into each other.  The speaker jumps back a foot. "Whoa," he exclaims. "Sorry I scared you guys. 'Chuptoo?"<br/>
<br/>
He's a buff-looking dude in a t-shirt and athletic shorts. His eyes glint under his brows; and even in the deepening dusk his hair gleams with golden highlights. His teeth sparkle inside a wide grin.<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw works but your tongue doesn't, so Sydney makes the retort: "Minding our own business," she snaps.<br/>
<br/>
The guy hoots. "Oh, classic comeback. Next time try 'Your mother wears combat boots' or 'Pull the other one, it's got bells on'. No, seriously, you weren't gonna climb that wall, were you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe we live here," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"Leave the snappy rejoinders to your girlfriend, champ, at least she can lay her tongue on one that makes sense. And now I'm wondering why you don't just tell me to fuck off." He cocks his head. "It's well within your rights. It's well within <i>anyone's</i> rights."<br/>
<br/>
You look at Sydney. She looks back at you. The guy arches his eyebrows, and his grin widens. "Repeat after me, kids," he says. "Fly you the freaking fu—"<br/>
<br/>
Then he gasps, as though punched in the gut, and bends to brace his hands on his knees; his face screws up and he inhales sharply a couple of times. When he looks up again, it's to peer at you narrowly.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, consider it said," he sighs as he straightens with a grimace. "So I'll fuck off now." He turns, but he half-glances back at you as he walks away. "Drop me a postcard if you find the focal point of that ley line you're trying to track down," he says.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes bulge, and he's halfway to the corner of the wall before you can react.<br/>
<br/>
But Sydney finds her voice first. With a cry she springs after him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After a confused colloquy the decision is made to adjourn to The Crystal Cave (the stranger's idea) where "cards can be put on the table" (his words again). You and Sydney take the lead in your truck; half a block later another truck swings in behind and follows you into town.<br/>
<br/>
"Of all the fucking luck we both pick tonight to trip over that ley line," the guy chuckles after you're settled at a table. ("Mercury," he said, indicating the card that decorates it. "Conducive to talking," he added as he pulled out a chair.). He leans back now, one brawny arm slung over the back of the chair while with his free hand he fiddles with sugar packets. His eyes—very blue—dart between you and Sydney as he suppresses his smiles. You couldn't tell in the dark how old he was; now you see that he's not much older than you if he's actually not the same age. He still has a summertime tan, and his hair, which curls slightly over his ears and eyebrows, is even more sun-soaked than Sydney's.<br/>
<br/>
His story? He's been trying to find and trace the same ley line that you found. "Been after it since hitting town at the start of summer," he says, "and it's the first one I've been able to get a solid lead on." He shakes his head. "I've been sniffing and scratching at every decayed aura between here and the Great Lakes. 'Course if I had toys like yours it would'a been a lot easier. Where'd you pick 'em up?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's "toys," he goes on, are how he knew you were looking for ley lines. Tramping along, using his "inner ear" to follow the ley line, he spotted the two of you bending over her instruments. After you went around to the gate he snuck up and took a peek through the sextant (which you'd left positioned along the track of the line) and saw the line manifesting. <br/>
<br/>
"So I came around to say 'Howdy'," he concludes. "Introduce myself, see if maybe you'd be up for a partnership." He flicks a finger between you and Sydney. "Are you two together?"<br/>
<br/>
He's been doing almost all of the talking, so the sudden thrust of the question leaves you and Sydney babbling incoherently. The guy shows his teeth. "Cool, from the uncoordinated answer I take it you're not. That's awesome." A lecherous light creeps into his eye as he studies Sydney; the same glint turns contemptuous when he glances at you. "So if I picked you up it would be a casual trio and not a three-way."<br/>
<br/>
You're nearly strangled by your own outrage, but Sydney answers for the both of you. "And what would <i>you</i> bring to a partnership?" she demands.<br/>
<br/>
"My inner ear." He tugs at an earlobe, and you can't miss the bulge in his bicep as he does so. "Not to brag, but it brung me to the same spot as you two without your fancy toys.<br/>
<br/>
"Also, my instincts," he continues. "Like, if I hadn't stopped you from going in through that gate, you'd now be looking at the gaping hole where your guts used to be and wishing that someone—preferably a good-looking, blonde-haired son of a bitch with very blue eyes"—his grin almost reaches his ears, and his eyebrows waggle—"had stepped in to stop you."<br/>
<br/>
You snort.<br/>
<br/>
"And—again, not to brag—my experience and education, which is of a sort you've not likely received as part of your early twenty-first-century American public school education." His tone turns insolent. "If you ran into an ettin, could you contain it with the ceremony of Shay-ibn-tell-Amath?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney grips your knee under the table. "If we're going to be partners," she says, emphasizing the <i>if,</i> "we can start by exchanging names. I'm Sydney and this is Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Nice to meet you, Sydney-and-Will. I've been traveling as Dee since materializing on this arc-second of the material torus. But my star-name is Exekutantatzeh-Jakintsu-Orus-Amon."<br/>
<br/>
"Star name?" Sydney says. You can practically hear her eyebrows cinching up with skepticism.<br/>
<br/>
A ripple of light runs through the guy's hair. "Yes," he says. "In Lemuria we go by our star-names."</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Man from Lemuria
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Lemuria?" you echo. "What's that?"<br/>
<br/>
The stranger—Dee, did he call himself?—snorts. "What's that, the guy asks," he mutters with a curling lip. "Which one of you is in charge?"<br/>
<br/>
You flush, but Sydney jumps in before you can retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Look," she says, "maybe we should start over, talk about what we're doing, why we're both looking for ley lines."<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome." Dee cups his hands behind his ears and leans forward with a bright, expectant smile.<br/>
<br/>
"You first," you say.<br/>
<br/>
He rolls his eyes and drops his hands to the table. <br/>
<br/>
"Fine. I'm trying to get home, and that means—<i>obviously</i>—either finding a ley line with the right harmonic resonances, or tracking down the crystal keys of the ten star-kings. As I've no desire to get in a fistfight with a mummy—"<br/>
<br/>
Abruptly he cuts off and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, am I <i>boring</i> you with all this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not at all," Sydney says.<br/>
<br/>
"Hrmph. Well the point is—"<br/>
<br/>
"How can a ley line get you home?" you interrupt. "And where is—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Look, you want the math? By the way, which one of you is it, exactly, who found those toys you were playing with?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're mine," Sydney says after a fractional hesitation.<br/>
<br/>
Dee's eyes glint. "Interesting. So, before I get any deeper into it—" He tosses you a sidelong glower. "Can either of you interpret a differentiated monad? No? Okay, then to dumb it down a little—"<br/>
<br/>
He crosses his arms and tilts his chin. <br/>
<br/>
"So you know how aircraft carriers have slingshots, for shooting jet fighters into the air? Well, if you knew anything about ley lines—" Again, he casts a contemptuous glance at you. "You'd know a ley line's like that. Except it can sling-shot people and things from one spot on the material torus to another. Provided," he adds, "you've done the math correctly."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney smiles. "I'd love to see the math."<br/>
<br/>
"For you, adorable, anything. Just scare me up a pencil and some paper."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney fetches writing material from the barista, and Dee blithely chatters away as he scrawls out a lot of complex equations. You quickly give up on trying to follow any of his explanations, but you can tell by her expression that Sydney is impressed by what he's showing her. She is very pale by the time he's finished, and there's a quaver in her voice as she asks if she can take the paper home with her.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," Dee says. "Though I'd like to know what you think you're gonna do with it."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney hesitates. "I've got some notes at home I want to compare it to."<br/>
<br/>
Dee grins. "Double-checking that I know what I'm talking about? I know more than whatever <i>you'd</i> be using to check up on me." He cocks his head. "What <i>have</i> you got at home?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just some notes."<br/>
<br/>
He shakes his head. "Tch. And here I've been so generous with what I know. You guys, though, ain't told me shit about yourselves." He crosses his arms.<br/>
<br/>
"It's just some old notebooks my dad left behind," Sydney says. "He died—"<br/>
<br/>
"Died?" Dee's glance sharpens. "How?"<br/>
<br/>
Again, she hesitates. You tense. "Traffic accident," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" Dee's eyebrows go up. "What kind?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just an accident."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure?" He raises a finger. "I'm going to say one word, just word," he tells Sydney, "and I want you to look me in the eye as I say it. Ready?" He shows the tip of his tongue, then says, "Aureax."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney almost comes out of her chair. "What did you say?" she squeaks.<br/>
<br/>
"You heard me, and your guess about why I threw that word into the conversational stew pot will be at least as good as the guess I made in picking it." Dee turns to you. "And what's your interest in all this, champ?" Despite the derisive address, his tone is very sober.<br/>
<br/>
"Me?" You feel yourself impaled on his glittering glance. "I'm just helping Sydney out."<br/>
<br/>
He looks between the two of you, and sucks in his cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so I've told you what I particularly want the ley line for," he says. "Now how about you tell me what <i>you</i> want it particularly for."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney huddles in her seat, and winces. "It's personal," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"That word I hurled at you a moment ago. Is it part of this personal business?"<br/>
<br/>
She swallows. "Maybe."<br/>
<br/>
"Does someone need his ass kicked?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe." She hunches under his stare.<br/>
<br/>
Dee drains his coffee and sets the cup down with a bang.<br/>
<br/>
"How much of him do you want left?" he asks. "You want his skull on a pole, or do you want the world scrubbed so clean of his stink that not even his mother will remember he'd ever been born?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney glares at him from under her brows. "Tough guy," she sneers.<br/>
<br/>
"It's why I'm here." <br/>
<br/>
A sudden fire flares behind his eyes, and his voice rings out harshly, like struck bronze, as he turns his face to the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
"Only to the gods bow the Fourteen Families of Mu," he cries, "even for the crime of king-slaying." He shows you his palms. "Stained are these with the blood of monarchs, and by my will is the royal tribe of Ur-Belza no more. Yet the Altar of Erregelu refused to drink my gore, though I was stretched naked over it and the prayers of the high priests rose like red smoke into the sky. Banished thereupon was I, that I might trouble innocent Lemuria nevermore."<br/>
<br/>
Red streaks show in his forehead and cheeks, and his teeth flash. <br/>
<br/>
"But this exile will I break, I swear, and Lemuria will again shiver beneath my gaze. Then will I make of Mu a charnel house, and my foes will I break beneath the wheels of my chariot. The feathered crown of Jainko-Er-Jabea will burn upon my brow, and the sky will I blot with the sacrificial smoke of those who worship me not. Tough guy?" he barks, and he pinches a sugar packet between his fingers.<br/>
<br/>
"I beg you to show me him whom you would hurt," he says, "that I might know ere its time the taste of the blood I mean to spill."<br/>
<br/>
A thin stream of smoke geysers from the corner of the sugar packet.<br/>
<br/>
Then it bursts into flames.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Well, that puts a punctuation mark on the evening, and your little party breaks up shortly thereafter. Sydney has no answer for Dee, and with grim insolence he informs her that he can find plenty of people to help him with the ley line, but that she won't be able to find anyone like him for the help she needs.<br/>
<br/>
You are both silent on the drive back to her place, and she only says that she wants to think about things. You, of course, have no idea what to think after that display with the sugar packet. Until that point you were inclined to think Dee a blowhard; now you're afraid partnering with him might be like partnering with a sociopathic mass murderer.<br/>
<br/>
But you're the one who runs into him again, the next day.<br/>
<br/>
You had to help your dad with an errand in the morning, and then together you stopped at Paris Baguette to get a bite and some food to take home to your mom and brother. It was while you were eating that you looked up and saw Dee sauntering in through the door. He ignored you, though, even after pulling off his sunglasses and swaggering to the front counter. He ate in a corner, staring out the window, and for all the world acted like he's never seen you.<br/>
<br/>
While your dad's in the restroom, you seize the chance to go over and talk.<br/>
<br/>
"Glad you finally made it over, champ," he says. "I was starting to think you were chickenshit."<br/>
<br/>
You flush. "I'm with my dad."<br/>
<br/>
"Tell 'im you got business with me. I'll take you home when we're done."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then nod. Your dad looks startled when you catch him outside the restroom door, to say you ran into someone you know and you want to hang out with him, but he nods goes off without you.<br/>
<br/>
"Try not to look so much like a gutted fish," Dee says when you're sitting across from him. "I won't set you on fire." He pops a last crust of bread into his mouth and brushes his fingers on his shirt. "I just wanna talk about you and the girl. You say you're helping her?" His lip curls when you nod. "Well, tell her she wants my help. I'm not gonna get between you two. She looks great even outside a royal harness, but I get plenty of chances to entertain myself. Anyway, if I help you, then you'll help me, and then you'll be rid of me. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't know the diplomatic answer to that; luckily, he doesn't seem to want an answer. "What does she want, exactly?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you confess. "She's never told me."<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>do</i> you know about her?"<br/>
<br/>
"I know she's from Kansas City. And I know her dad died in a car wreck," you hurriedly add when Dee glowers at you.  "I don't know anything else. Oh, except that he was the one who was, uh, into this stuff, and she found out about it after he died."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't know who she wants to get back at? Who killed him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know that anyone killed him, she told me it was an accident."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, she gave the game away last night, after I made a couple of shrewd guesses. Someone used stuff like you guys are playing with to kill her dad, and she's got a burr up her ass about getting back at him."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you saying?" you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
"Am I speaking English?" he retorts. "Someone killed her dad, and she wants the killer's guts on a platter."<br/>
<br/>
He spears you with a keen glance. "Will you go that far to help her? Or do you want to turn things over to me? Because I'll crucify the asshole, and I'll get a hard-on while doing it."</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111212
author_id: seuzz
title: Yielding the Floor, Before You're Mopped With It
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Kill someone? Is this guy serious?</i><br/>
<br/>
No, the real question is even worse than that: Could <i>Sydney</i> be serious about something like that?<br/>
<br/>
You can't help shivering. "I'll talk to Sydney about it," you mumble with downcast eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you do that," Dee drawls, and the contempt in his voice is unmistakable. "You ready to go do that now?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You jerk your head up.<br/>
<br/>
Dee snorts at you, then stands. "I said—"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He's serious about going out to Sydney's to talk, but you have to admit you don't know where she lives. So Dee has you text her for directions, then gets her number from you so he can talk to her directly. <br/>
<br/>
But on the drive out, you chicken out and ask him to take you home. "You can talk to her about it," you tell him. "If you wind up needing anything from me—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we'll send you a message by carrier pigeon," he assures you. <br/>
<br/>
The words are harsh there's no meanness in his tone, which makes it even worse. He knows he's bullied you off, so he doesn't even have to <i>try</i> to be nasty to you anymore.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You spend the balance of day waiting to hear back from Sydney. You have a wretched time of it. The minutes drag by as you wait with a tingling sickness in your heart. <i>What is she telling Dee,</i> you wonder, <i>that she wouldn't tell me? What is he promising her? What is she promising to do for him—to do with him—to </i>let him do to her<i>—to get his help?</i> <br/>
<br/>
Pretty soon you're feeling like you want to tear your own face off.<br/>
<br/>
It's all the worse because you won't let yourself do anything else while waiting, so even when Keith invites you along to a movie he and some other guys are going to see, you turn him down. The afternoon withers into an arid but anxious emptiness, one barely relieved by a trip out to the old school to check on that fire. It's gone out (again) but it relights, and you make the weary trip back to the house feeling as though you've accomplished less than nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Half a dozen times you almost text Sydney: <i>Hey, what's going on?</i> or <i>Hey, waiting to hear from you</i> or <i>You and Dee still talking?</i> or <i>Text me when you can.</i> But the only message that matters is the one you tell yourself: <i>Don't be pathetic.</i> So you keep very still and quiet.<br/>
<br/>
You're a wreck when Sydney finally does call you after supper. "Hey Will," she says, and her voice is pinched. "So, um, I just wanted to catch up with you. Talk to you. About stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"That guy still with you?" Your heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vise.<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. "Dee?" she says. "No, he— We just wrapped things up. Um, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Listen, I had a really long talk this afternoon with him and his— Well, I guess you'd call him his friend. They told me about— Well, we talked about lots of stuff. Stuff to do with him and stuff to do with me." Another pause. "Um—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Just spit it out!</i> you want to yell.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think you want to, um, to be involved."<br/>
<br/>
You don't answer. Now it feels like your heart is being torn in half.<br/>
<br/>
"Will, are you there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. So did Dee promise to—? What? Set the guy on fire? The one you want to—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's why I'm telling you you don't want to be involved. It's— It kind of scares <i>me</i> a little. What Dee was saying."<br/>
<br/>
<i>So tell him to fuck off,</i> you want to say. <i>Tell him no thanks, I changed my mind, go away. Tell him you don't want anything to do with ley lines or magic, you just want to be a normal girl and hang out with the guy you—</i> <br/>
<br/>
"So I'm just catching you up to speed," she says. "I don't want you worrying about me. And when all this is done—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yes?</i> you think without hope. <i>You're going to say that maybe we can still hang out, see each other at parties or at school?</i><br/>
<br/>
But she backpedals even further than that, and only mumbles something about getting together with you tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You do meet up with her the next day, after church. You weren't expecting much—just another report on what went down between her and Dee, only with more excruciating details—but it turns out to be so much worse.<br/>
<br/>
Because she brings him along.<br/>
<br/>
And she asks to meet you out at the school.<br/>
<br/>
So she can show him the thing you've been working on.<br/>
<br/>
You're pacing the ground in a black mood when they pull up in Dee's truck at the old school. He's all sunny smiles as he leaps lightly from the truck cab, and there's a cheery note in his voice, even when he calls you "champ." It sickens you—he's now in so good with Sydney that he can act all sweet and friendly with you.<br/>
<br/>
He sobers up, though, and becomes very alert once you lead him and Sydney down into the basement. He glances around with a sharp eye as he descends the stair, and light seems to ripple off him. He listens intently as Sydney tells him that this is a "project" that you were working on, and how it's that common interest in the occult that you and her bonded over.<br/>
<br/>
You're too numb to take any comfort in her claim that you and her "bonded."<br/>
<br/>
"The fire's gone out," Sydney observes when a silence has settled over the dim and murky basement.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you sigh. "It went out last night but it relighted again. I guess I—"<br/>
<br/>
"What's the fire doing to the thing?" Dee asks. "What <i>is</i> the thing?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. The book—"<br/>
<br/>
"What book?"<br/>
<br/>
"The book I'm working out of. It—"<br/>
<br/>
"It got a name? Where is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's under the stuff." You point to the dirt pile. "But—"<br/>
<br/>
But it's no longer a dirt pile, now that you get a direct look at it in the muddy light that comes slopping into the basement through the narrow, dirty windows. The loose dirt has pulled together into a solid mass. It is roughly cylindrical in shape, about six feet long, with the color and texture of cement. There are three rents in it, one up the middle, splitting it in two almost halfway up, while two smaller rents on either side, higher up, look almost like limbs. The undamaged end terminates in a blob like a misshapen onion.<br/>
<br/>
While you're taking this in, Dee has pushed past you and pushed a hand under it, and he's clutching the grimoire when he pulls it back. "Hey!" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"Something biting you?" He casts a swift glance over the open page of the book.<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't done yet!"<br/>
<br/>
"How do you know it wasn't done yet if you don't know what it was doing?" He flips to the title page of the book. "If you don't know what a spell does you shouldn't— Well well! And where did you pick this old relic up?" He gives you a keen look from under his brows.<br/>
<br/>
"Bookstore," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Really? Barnes and Noble?"<br/>
<br/>
"Arnholms! It's a used book store. It was in the special collections and—"<br/>
<br/>
"So is this the book you were telling me about?" Dee asks Sydney. "The book whosists here says can make these disguises?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," she says. "Uh, Will, that mask thing you made of your friend—"<br/>
<br/>
"You made something else with this book?" Dee asks you. You give Sydney a very black glance, and sullenly nod. "This would be perfect, babe," Dee says. "Nicholas'll never see us coming if we use something like the thing you were telling me about."<br/>
<br/>
She beams. "Right! I told you! Will—"<br/>
<br/>
"Go put this in the truck, babe." Dee pushes the book into her arms "Give me a few minutes to look over this dingus your boyfriend made, ask him a little bit about it. I'll be along in five."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney looks momentarily confused, then blushes flushes a bright and happy pink when Dee pinches her arm. "Okay," she beams. Dee watches her all the way as she dashes up the stairs and out the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Look—" you start to say.<br/>
<br/>
"Ask me your questions, I'll tell you no lies," Dee interrupts. He wheels on you, and in two steps he has backed you into a corner. His eyes are alarmingly bright. You shudder all over as you remember how he caused that sugar packet to burst into flame at the coffee shop. <i>Is he going to set </i>me<i> on fire?</i> you wonder in a panic.<br/>
<br/>
"Just repeat after me, champ," he tells you in a soft voice. The tone is friendly, but there's steel beneath it. "Repeat after me: Ask me your questions, I'll tell you no lies."<br/>
<br/>
"What—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ask me your questions, I'll tell you no lies."<br/>
<br/>
Your throat tightens. You swallow, and your jaw feels numb. But you're too frightened to resist. "Ask me your questions, I'll tell you no lies," you mumble.<br/>
<br/>
Dee's smile widens. "Good! You'll find it goes a lot easier this way!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's not hard, what comes next. It's surprisingly easy. He just asks you a lot of questions about the book, like where you found it, what you know about it, what you did with it. He's very matter of fact and doesn't let you wander in your answers. For your part, it's almost alarming how heedlessly you tell him about everything you got up to with the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
You even agree to go back to your house and bring him the mask you made of Caleb when he asks to see it.<br/>
<br/>
And after he's carried it—and the book—and Sydney—all off, you don't even worry about whether you'll ever see them again.<br/>
<br/>
Because something tells you that you won't.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111112121
author_id: seuzz
title: Done and Doner
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You don't hear from Sydney that evening, and you don't see her at school on Monday. Not that you're in a mood to see or talk to her.<br/>
<br/>
But on Tuesday you text her to ask what is happening. She replies that <i>Things are moving.</i> You don't ask any further.<br/>
<br/>
Then you let the days pass. It seems easiest.<br/>
<br/>
But on Saturday you are restless, and text her again. This time she says she'll talk if you meet her at the municipal library.<br/>
<br/>
"He took off," she fumes when you ask her about Dee. "He took himself and his catamite—" She spits the word. "And took off! He says he's still working on the thing for me, but personally I think—"<br/>
<br/>
She catches herself, and gives you a sidelong look. Then she flinches. "He took that book of yours with him," she says.<br/>
<br/>
She probably expects you to yell at her. But you're far from surprised, so you just shrug.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he did say that something was going to happen," she continues in a more muted tone, "that it was all turning out to be a lot more complicated. That there were a lot more people involved. So supposedly he's coming back to—"<br/>
<br/>
She has to break off, for someone has called her name, and you look over to see a couple of girls approaching your table with wide, warm smiles. It turns out that they are here to do some studying with her, and that <i>that</i> is the reason she came up here, not to meet you.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll talk to you when I know more," she says. It's like you're being dismissed.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The whole affair—<br/>
<br/>
And when it's all over, it does feel like the kind of complicated bad dream that dissipates when you wake, groggy and exhausted from it.<br/>
<br/>
—concludes a month later. Sydney, who has been looking past you without seeing you when you've glimpsed her in the hallways, finally pulls you aside one day and in a dazed voice asks if you've been following the local news. You confess you haven't.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's all over," she says. She sounds numb and distracted. "Dee— Well, he took care of it."<br/>
<br/>
"Took care of it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Took care of ... the thing."<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw tightens. "You mean the guy that you—?"<br/>
<br/>
She nods. Then she frowns hard at you. "You didn't hear?"<br/>
<br/>
Feeling guilty, you shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
She looks angry for just the briefest moment. Then an expression of relief washes over her.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he took care of it. He took care of <i>all</i> of them. I didn't even have to do a thing."<br/>
<br/>
"That's good, I guess," you say. You don't even query the word <i>them</i>.<br/>
<br/>
She nods.<br/>
<br/>
Then she gives you another look, as though seeing you for the first time.<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you, Will," she says. "For— Well, for setting it all up."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't set anything up," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, for starting the avalanche. It wouldn't have— Well," she stammers, "it wouldn't have all happened if I hadn't run into you. And if you hadn't—"<br/>
<br/>
But she doesn't finish. Her gaze goes distant.<br/>
<br/>
Then she shakes herself, smiles brightly, and says, "I'll see you around. Maybe we can still hang out, see each other at parties or at school?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah, maybe,</i> you allow. But there's only a cold place now in your heart for her, and you take some small, spiteful pleasure in thinking how Dee must have done to her what she has done to you.<br/>
<br/>
Made you feel special and loved and alive. Then took it all away again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So, briefly, you had some fun and some excitement. Then, somehow, it all slipped away, like water through your fingers. The rest of your year at school, and your life afterward, is not particularly worth relating.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111213
author_id: seuzz
title: The Story with Sydney
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Kill someone? Is this guy serious?</i><br/>
<br/>
No, the real question is even worse than that: Could <i>Sydney</i> be serious about something like that?<br/>
<br/>
You can't help shivering. "I'll talk to Sydney about it," you mumble with downcast eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you do that," Dee drawls, and the contempt in his voice is unmistakable. "You ready to go do that now?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You jerk your head up.<br/>
<br/>
Dee snorts at you, then stands. "I said—"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have to admit you don't know where she lives, so Dee has you text her for directions, then gets her number from you so he can talk to her directly. <br/>
<br/>
This is the first time you've been out to Sydney's house. Her address, once fed into the GPS in Dee's truck, take you to the northwest side of town, where the subdivisions fade into rolling countryside with woodland stands. <i>This is where the rich folk live,</i> your dad always mutters out of the side of his mouth when driving out this way, and it's country where the McMansions stand aloof from each other with pastures and grazing land to buffer their borders. Kelsey Blankenship lives out this way, you think, and who knows who else with money.<br/>
<br/>
And, it turns out, Sydney lives off this way too.<br/>
<br/>
Hers is a rambling, asymmetrical house of white stone walls and gray shingled roofs, with a tower rearing up over the front door. The foyer is spacious and cool, and the living room also spreads out under a vaulting ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
But Sydney's pulls you and Dee—who cranes his neck to give the place an admiring once-over—out into a spacious backyard for privacy.<br/>
<br/>
Dee comes bluntly to the point. "Will here wants to know who it is you want whacked."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney looks as startled as you feel, and gives you an uneasy glance. Then she flushes. "Well, maybe I don't want him 'whacked', exactly," she says. "Maybe I just want you to take him back to wherever with you, so I don't ever have to see him again."<br/>
<br/>
Dee laughs, then he clucks his tongue. "Amateurs," he sneers. "It's always this way with amateurs. I mean, it makes it easy and all, but then you gotta go making up stories for them. 'Your puppy's okay, sweetheart,'" he mewls. "'We just took him to a farm in the country, where he could have lots of fresh air and room to run and play!'"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney flushes deeper. "So feed him to a dragon when you get there! Promise me you will!"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. So who is it? Who is it you want me to—? Look, I can't feed him to a dragon," Dee growls when Sydney only bites her lip, "if I don't know who it is. And if you want to play Twenty Questions—"<br/>
<br/>
"It's my mother's new husband," Sydney blurts out.<br/>
<br/>
"So ... your stepdad."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney winces. "Don't call him that. Call him 'Nicholas', if you have to call him anything."<br/>
<br/>
Dee glances back over his shoulder at the house. "So maybe I should call him 'Uncle Richard'."<br/>
<br/>
<i>The fuck?</i> you wonder.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me all about it," Dee says. "Tell <i>us</i> all about it." He jogs you hard in the side with is elbow. "Your boyfriend's dying to know all about it too." His tone is cold and brutal.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The story comes out in fits and starts, and Dee has to drag some of the details out. When it is all said and done—<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's stepfather—who is only in his late twenties or early thirties—and her father both worked for a textbook publisher in Kansas City. But they were also colleagues in a secret society, something called "The Brotherhood of Baphomet." Her dad was the head of it and Nicholas was one of the underlings. He was always coming out to the house, where he would suck up in a really disgusting way to her parents. (To Dee's blunt query, Sydney gives a furious denial: No, her mother wasn't also part of this "Brotherhood.") But her dad died in a traffic accident. Afterward, Nicholas managed to worm his way into her mother's affections, and they got married. Sydney, who hated Nicholas, managed to salvage some notebooks and instruments that her father had hidden away in a high-security storage complex—she got the combination code to it from a Ouija board—and since then has been studying them. It was from those notes she learned the truth about her father and about Nicholas, and put together the clues that led her to believe—though she has no direct evidence—that her stepfather used occult means to murder her dad and take his place in the Brotherhood.<br/>
<br/>
The contempt on Dee's face grows deeper the longer he listens. His attitude, you can tell, pisses Sydney off. "Is he going to be too much for you?" she sneers.<br/>
<br/>
"No," Dee says. "I could take him off your hands this afternoon." He snaps his fingers. "Temporarily. But this Baphomet business is a complication. Things like that, they're like weeds. You got to get the roots out." He cocks his head and gives Sydney a steady look. "I could remove your stepdad from the mortal plane real easy. But the metaphysical plane— You don't want a <i>revenant,</i> I take it."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"He has <i>roots,</i> your stepdad does. That's why he's into this Baphomet business. Gives him <i>roots</i> so that death, not the ordinary kind anyway, can hurt him. He's probably looking forward to it, actually." He shakes his head. "They're nasty things," he says in a soft voice, "things like what he's mixed up in. They're greasy. There's no smarts in guys like that, but plenty of malice. If you want your stepdad out by his roots, you're going to have to give me a little time and a little room."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney gives him an appraising look. "To do what?" she asks. "And what do we give you in return?" She glances at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Just time and room to prepare, for now. Help with the ley lines, too. It's a million to one if Nicholas and his friends don't know about them, and if they're not how come they've chosen to base themselves in this little shitburg." He squints into the sunlight, then glances around. "Did you look for any ley lines running through this house?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney hesitates. "I didn't <i>look</i> for one. But I've tested the instruments out around here, and I didn't find—"<br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow," Dee says. "Meet up with me tomorrow at my place." He gives her a number and a street name. "Right now I want your instruments, and I want to know where else you've found a ley line. Tomorrow, two o'clock, we meet at my place to talk."<br/>
<br/>
He does a slight double-take at you, and his lip curls. "You can bring a friend," he tells Sydney, "if you think you wouldn't feel safe with me alone."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Dee takes the gear but leaves you with Sydney. "Do you believe all that stuff he told you," you ask, "about your stepfather needing to be, like, exorcised or something?"<br/>
<br/>
She hesitates, then nods. "I think he knows what he's talking about," she says in a low voice. "Those things he wrote out at the coffee shop, they mostly check out with some of the things my dad left in his notebooks."<br/>
<br/>
Mention of her dad leaves you queasy. He was into the same stuff, just as deeply as her stepfather. Dee said that people like that were "full of malice." Was her dad like that? What did it do to Sydney to hear Dee say something like that?<br/>
<br/>
"Is this really worth getting into?" you ask her. "I mean, I'd hate anyone who did something to <i>my</i> dad, but—"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney shudders.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't ask me that, Will," she says. "Let's just talk to him tomorrow and see what he says."<br/>
<br/>
You want to linger, but it appears she wants to be alone with her thoughts, so you let her drive you home.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you're restless all afternoon and evening. There is something very "off" about Dee. Sydney vouches for his credibility on the occult, but his story about being from "Lemuria" sounds ridiculous, and the longer you think about it the more paranoid you become. It's scary enough that you and Sydney have caught the attention of someone who knows a lot more about magic stuff than you do. Worse is the dreadful suspicion that he's a con man of some sort. And Sydney just went and gave him those instruments you were using to track the ley line!<br/>
<br/>
As dusk falls you pace your bedroom, trying to work up the courage to come to a decision. It sounds like Dee is going to take those instruments out tonight to do some surveying with them. If he is, that would give you a chance to go out to his address and snoop around.<br/>
<br/>
Trouble is, if he's as dangerous as he pretends to be, you could find yourself dead—or worse!—if he caught you!</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111112131
author_id: seuzz
title: Dee's Domicile
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You quail at the thought of being caught by an apparent psychopath like Dee. But some bantam-like need to protect Sydney keeps asserting itself. It leaves you feeling impaled through the chest. <i>I could die if I went out to his place to snoop around!</i> vies with <i>Could I live with yourself if I didn't?</i><br/>
<br/>
Finally, you compromise. There couldn't be any harm in just <i>driving</i> by his place.<br/>
<br/>
And if you stopped and got out and looked around, and went up to the front to peer around when it looked like he wasn't home— Well, there'd be no harm in that, and if he caught you you could tell him you came out to talk and were waiting for him.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna go meet someone," you call to your dad as you pass the open doorway into his study.<br/>
<br/>
"Be home before your curfew," he says.<br/>
<br/>
Missing your curfew, you glumly reflect, will be the least of your troubles if you can't get away from Dee's place by eleven.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Dee's place turns out to be up near the college campus, in the "student ghetto" part of town. All the houses are small and squalid, with tired, unmown lawns, and patios heaped over with old couches. Said furniture is not without utility, though, for as you prowl the streets you see there are lots of parties being thrown in the front yards, and the air thumps with music and the shouts of burly guys hoisting beers.<br/>
<br/>
But Dee's house is dark, and the driveway is empty. You slow and pass it at a crawl, peering out at it anxiously. Then you drive around the block and pass it again.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck it,</i> you think as you pass it a third time, <i>or fuck me.</i> You jerk the wheel to the side and park a few houses down, at the tail end of a row of cars that go with one of the parties. Your breath is coming in quick, painful spurts as you hike your way back to Dee's place.<br/>
<br/>
The lawn out front seems lusher than the neighboring yards—the grass is longer, and the shrubs that front the house burgeon beneath the windows. The house itself is low, and the dark, blank windows are sunk beneath the brow of the eaves. There's a filthy mat in front of the screen door.<br/>
<br/>
With a sense that you're taking your life into your hands, you softly knock on the door.<br/>
<br/>
There's no answer, not even to the third knock. <br/>
<br/>
You step off the porch and into the shrubs to peer in through a dark window. The blinds are lowered, though, so you can make out nothing inside. <br/>
<br/>
Vexed, you pace the front yard, feeling exposed and vulnerable to the watch of the neighbors. <i>What do they think I'm doing here?</i> you wonder. <i>What do </i>I<i> think I'm doing here? What kind of a place does this look like, and what does it tell me about Dee?</i><br/>
<br/>
It suggests nothing inconsistent with his story, that he is a refugee from another dimension, tramping the country looking for ley lines. It looks like the house of someone who has neither the money nor the inclination to linger in one place.<br/>
<br/>
But that's just the outside. What would the inside tell you?<br/>
<br/>
On a hunch, you search for a house key under the mat or just inside the flower beds. No luck.<br/>
<br/>
Then, hardly believing what you're doing, you go around the side and vault the low cinder-block wall that separates the back yard from the front.<br/>
<br/>
If anything, the backyard is weedier than the front, and the tree branches close overhead, blotting out the sky and smothering the air with the scent of dusty leaves. There's some broken lawn furniture on the back patio, and an old grill. You bark your shins on a stool that was huddling in the dark.<br/>
<br/>
A sliding glass door would give entrance. Idly you pull on the handle.<br/>
<br/>
To your amazement—and terror—it opens with a soft rumble.<br/>
<br/>
Your lungs seem to collapse as dry, musty air wafts out to envelope you.<br/>
<br/>
You would <i>really</i> get it in the neck if Dee caught you breaking and entering his place.<br/>
<br/>
But he's not home, and there seems every chance that you could hear the engine and see the lights of his truck through the front windows if he returned, giving you time to run out the back and get away.<br/>
<br/>
And the longer you hesitate, the sooner he will return. With a hard gulp of fear, you dive into the house and pull the sliding door just barely shut behind you.<br/>
<br/>
You can't put on a light, but you pull out your cell phone and by its feeble glow you glance around. Gradually your eyes adjust to the deep gloom.<br/>
<br/>
You're in a small dining room just off a tiny kitchen, with a wobbly table with a laptop and some books. This dining area merges seamlessly into a larger room where a much larger table is covered over with even more books and papers. You rifle through these, and find a mix of math and physics textbooks and some ratty paperback novels.<br/>
<br/>
There's a living room dominated by a dumpy sofa, like an old bear, and a stand on which rests a small flat-screen TV. In the kitchen you find some old pizza boxes and plastic cups that smell of beer or soda. There are crusted-over dishes in the sink, and the trash is half full. The refrigerator contains milk, orange juice, a bottle of Pepsi, some hot dogs and—to your surprise—a lot of fresh vegetables.<br/>
<br/>
A small laundry room comes off the kitchen and leads into a dank ,empty garage that smells of oil, grease, and grass cuttings.<br/>
<br/>
You're back in the living room and wondering if you have time to investigate a hallway that likely leads to the bedrooms when the screen door opens and a key is loudly shoved into the deadbolt. Your heart explodes in your chest, but your legs are rooted to the floor as the door opens and a tall, shadowy figure steps inside.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Please don't turn on the lights!</i> you pray with a fervor so hard it would cause the Earth to wobble on its axis. <i>Please don't see me! Just give me a chance to bolt before you put on the lights—</i><br/>
<br/>
A switch flicks on, flooding the room with a jaundiced yellow light. You are only feet from, and face to face, with—<br/>
<br/>
It's not Dee, which is a relief. He's taller than Dee, with dark hair and hard eyes and a full mouth. His t-shirt drapes over a deep, massive chest, and the air seems to dive out of the way as he pushes into the house.<br/>
<br/>
But even though you are standing more or less in front of him, he doesn't react to your presence, but just brushes past to throw a heavy backpack onto the book-strewn table.<br/>
<br/>
Then he walks right past you again to stand in the doorway and bellow into the darkness. "Get your fucking ass in here, Joe! You're being a sex pest again!"<br/>
<br/>
You'd run for the back door while his back is turned, but you are paralyzed from the waist down.<br/>
<br/>
"Joe!" the small giant shouts into the darkness again. "I'm starting a countdown! You don't want me to hit zero while you're still outside!" He trudges back into the house, again barely missing you with his wide shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
You manage to take one step back, but are again arrested by the sound of the screen door. You grin with terror as Dee steps inside.<br/>
<br/>
But is it Dee? The form and face are right—a strong kid about your age with golden hair and a wide, open countenance—but the expression is all wrong. Dee was all sneering contempt, but this kid—Joe is his name?—has a merry expression, and his eyes and smile glint. Okay, yes, he swaggers like Dee, but it's a playful swagger where Dee's was threatening.<br/>
<br/>
"She was <i>into</i> me, Frank!" he exclaims as he brushes past you—like the other, all uncomprehending of your presence. "She was the best chance I've had of scoring since—"<br/>
<br/>
"Since Friday over at Catherine's. What was her name? Alexandra?"<br/>
<br/>
"Alexa. And if you're keeping track—"<br/>
<br/>
He stops and looks around with a frown—his eyes raking blankly over and past you—and sniffs the air.<br/>
<br/>
"Foo!" he says. "Trash needs taking out!"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you that this morning, Joe."<br/>
<br/>
"So why didn't you do something about it, Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
"I did. I told you it needed taking out."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh! That was a request in the form of an assertion! I thought—"<br/>
<br/>
"Take the trash out, Joe. That's a threat in the form of an imperative." The one called Frank is unloading the backpack, and you are fascinated and horrified to see him spreading Sydney's occult equipment over the table.<br/>
<br/>
"Ooo!" chortles the one called Joe. "Heap-big hunka-hunka-man-muscle make heap-big talk, make to call down thunder if— I'm taking it out, I'm taking it out!" he cries as the other turns a deep frown at him. He hustles into the kitchen, from where you hear the rustling of a plastic sack.<br/>
<br/>
"And bring the truck back around, park it in the driveway," Frank adds as Joe—who sticks his tongue out at the other as he passes behind his back—stalks to the front door with a trash sack slung over his shoulder. "They don't want it parked in front of their place."<br/>
<br/>
"I told Christine I'd be back to get it!" Joe stops directly in front of you to protest. "If I go move it now and don't stay she'll—!"<br/>
<br/>
"So stay at the party and bring the truck around later."<br/>
<br/>
Joe hesitates. "Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. I can handle this myself." He's shoving aside books to make way for what looks like a large chart.<br/>
<br/>
Joe groans. "You'll fuck it up, Frank! Like you fuck everything up! Like you fuck me up every time I get a chance to—"<br/>
<br/>
Then he's out the front door.<br/>
<br/>
You glance at Frank. His back is to you. This looks like your chance to bolt.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111121312
author_id: seuzz
title: The Eavesdropper
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Whatever is going on—whatever miracle is keeping these two guys from reacting to your presence—is too good to last, so you edge toward the front door.<br/>
<br/>
But Joe—Dee's twin, if he's not Dee himself—comes busting back in before you can make it outside.<br/>
<br/>
"I know you're playing Br'er Rabbit and the briar patch with me, Frank," he bellows. "But I want you to know it won't work!" He throws the door closed, but you catch it with your toe so that it bounces back open. You glance back in fright, but Joe has joined Frank at the table. "You're just trying to trick me into staying and doing work instead of going back to hang out with Stephie!"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought her name was Christine."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm undecided between them. Christine's got that big-jugs-in-a-low-cut blouse thing going, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"So why aren't you back at the party?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because like I told you, Frank, your Briar Patch trick won't work on me! You <i>want</i> me to think you're okay with me going back to the party, so that I'll really stay here and do the work just to spite you!"<br/>
<br/>
"So why'd you come back?"<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos I know you'll fuck it up if you don't! I just don't want you thinking you put one over on me."<br/>
<br/>
"You're too smart for me sometimes, Joe."<br/>
<br/>
"Only always, Frank."<br/>
<br/>
Your foot is still in the doorway, but now that you have a real chance to get away, you quail. You'd have to push the door open, and what if they noticed and then noticed you? There's other places to hide in the house. Maybe if you wait, you can slip past them later without making any fuss.<br/>
<br/>
So you creep as quietly as you can backward into the dark living room. Your knees are aching from standing so still and rigid, so you gladly sink onto the sofa, to listen and sweat and wonder how the fuck you are getting away with all this.<br/>
<br/>
From the other room you hear the rustle of paper and some short, brusque comments: "Weigh that corner down, will you, Joe?" "Watch your thumb." "We couldn't find a map with a bigger scale?" "Beggars and choosers, Joe." "I think you're off by a few degrees." "I think your <i>brain's</i> off by a few degrees!" "You see anything that looks like it might be an anchor point?" "I guess we can go out again and check it." (Your heart leaps at that one!) And finally, after a long silence, a deep growl from Frank: "I'm going to punch you so hard you'll have to peel your face off the kitchen wall."<br/>
<br/>
"You see where it all points back to, Frank!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, that's just an anchor point."<br/>
<br/>
"It's an apex, Frank! I'd bet—"<br/>
<br/>
"Bet what, cocksucker? Your chances with Christine and Stephie!"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, like you could collect if I lost! Any other place in this shit burg give off as much bad juju as—?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but there'll be at least two other apexes. If they're as bad as—"<br/>
<br/>
"So we'll check 'em out tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"In the morning? What time are we supposed to meet the guy and the girl?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told 'em two, that'll give us plenty of time. And it'll just be the girl."<br/>
<br/>
"What happened to the guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>I</i> happened to the guy, Frank."<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. Then: "Just how hot is this girl?"<br/>
<br/>
"Bruh!" There's the sound of heavy panting. Followed by another, "Bruh!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then what makes you think you shook him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Thppht!"<br/>
<br/>
You feel your mouth curl up into a rictus.<br/>
<br/>
"So what do we tell them when we see them?"<br/>
<br/>
"First, we're only going to be seeing her. Second— About you and me? We tell her you're my— Um— Here! We tell 'em I'm your soulmaster. As in, I hold your soul. Literally. It's in an egg and I hold it, and that means you're my—"<br/>
<br/>
"That I'm your fucking slave," says Frank in a growl so low it practically makes the floor shake.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! So we're gonna have to play it up, of course, I'm gonna have to, you know— And you're gonna have to—"<br/>
<br/>
There's a quiet gasp, followed by a shriek. "Ow! <i>Ow ow ow owww!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to have to do what, Joe?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Ow!"</i><br/>
<br/>
"You're going to have to explain it to me carefully, Joe, because I don't—"<br/>
<br/>
"Quit it, Frank! Okay! Uncle!"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. So now, tell me, what are we going to have to tell—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Son of a bitch, Frank! <i>Son! Of! A! Bitch!"</i><br/>
<br/>
There's a silence, eloquent of unarticulated pain and fury, that ends only when Joe says, in a pinched voice, "I'll behave, Frank! I swear I'll behave! But I have to be the one in charge, I already told—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then what are we going to tell the girl about the ley lines and the Brotherhood?"<br/>
<br/>
"We'll tell her the truth, that we have to root them out, and that to do that we have to get their names and find their homes—"<br/>
<br/>
"But what does 'rooting them out' mean?" Then before Joe can answer: "And what do we tell Dad?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a longer silence. Then Joe says, "You think we can't handle a bunch of goatsuckers?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's not our assignment."<br/>
<br/>
"So we pick up a second assignment!"<br/>
<br/>
"What do we tell Dad?" Frank asks in a deeper voice.<br/>
<br/>
Joe audibly sighs. "We tell him we found a Baphomet circle. Like telling him will matter, because then he's going to—"<br/>
<br/>
"He's going to send Rick down, Joe, that's what he's going to do. Now, how is <i>Rick</i> going to fit into this fairy tale you've been weaving for—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll think of something! You know I'm good at—!"<br/>
<br/>
He stops short. It takes you a moment to recognize the dry, coughing sound that comes next. It's laughter. "What's so funny, Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just trying to picture Rick going along with whatever fairy tale—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then we keep him out of the way while <i>she's</i> around! Cheez Whiz, Frank!"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't blaspheme."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck off! You've been a pill, an utter pill about the—" They both start talking at once, and you can't make out any of the words until Frank says, "I'll let the fuck go when you take that finger out of my face. You know," he adds, "I could have put it someplace you really wouldn't have liked."<br/>
<br/>
"Tssshhh! Sometimes it's like you're still twelve years old!"<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you going?"<br/>
<br/>
"To get me some soda! You want some too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Please."<br/>
<br/>
"The point is, Frank, this chiquita needs to be weaned off the junk! Yeah, I was mostly goofing with her at first, but her old man was into—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you told me."<br/>
<br/>
"—so I need to seriously put a scare into her!"<br/>
<br/>
"Why don't you leave that to Rick?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. Then Joe, sounding very sober, says, "There's putting a scare into her, Frank, and then there's 'introducing her to Rick.' I don't think we need to go <i>that</i>—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you're hopeless."<br/>
<br/>
"You just say that because Lurga's in the ascendant."<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up."<br/>
<br/>
A long silence falls at that point, which is good because you've got more than enough to try to digest, and it's long past time that you got out of there.<br/>
<br/>
You get to your feet as quietly as you can and creep toward the foyer. You peep around the corner into the other room. Frank and Joe are standing over the big table, staring down at it. You glance over at the front door. It has drifted half open. You tiptoe over.<br/>
<br/>
There's not room to squeeze through, so with gritted teeth you start to pull it open.<br/>
<br/>
Then Frank says, "What are you doing?" You squawk aloud, and whirl.<br/>
<br/>
Joe—Dee—is staring at you with a puzzled expression. Frank is glancing between Joe and you with a soft frown.<br/>
<br/>
"The front door's open, Frank," Joe says. He stalks over toward you. You jump back and narrowly avoid being brushed by him. Joe pushes the door shut, then looks around with his hands on his hips. He is so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body.<br/>
<br/>
Frank says, "What's wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," Joe replies, "but I don't like it!" His lips quiver, and light ripples like a wave of gold through his hair.<br/>
<br/>
An arctic chill runs over you, but only for a moment.<br/>
<br/>
Then Joe wheels on you. His eyes pop and his mouth falls open. Before you can react, he howls and grabs you.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111111111213121
author_id: seuzz
title: Twenty Questions (At Least)
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Motherfucker!" Joe howls. "Son of a bitch!" He seizes your throat with strong, meaty hands."God da—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Joe!" The shout is like a peal of thunder, and even as you writhe inside Joe's grasp you are jerked off your feet as though yanked by a rope. Joe grabs and throws you to the floor. He pushes your face into the carpet and sits on you.<br/>
<br/>
"Son of a bitch!" he seethes. "The fuck? <i>What the fucking fuck?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"That's enough, Joe."<br/>
<br/>
"He was standing right—! Ulp!"<br/>
<br/>
Joe's weight vanishes from your shoulders. But before you can lift your face, you are seized by the back of your shirt and hauled up. Frank lifts you by your belt buckle, as easily as though you were a bag of feathers, and smashes you against a wall, pinning you in midair with your feet dangling and kicking. His expression, though dark, shows no anger, only confusion and puzzlement. "Who are you?" he demands.<br/>
<br/>
"He's that pissant who was hanging out with the girl!" Joe shouts. "And he was standing right—! Watch it, Frank! He was fucking invisible!" Joe lifts his hand, and a brilliant globe of blistering bright light, like a miniature sun, blazes forth from his palm. "You just try something, motherfucker!" he hisses at you, "and I will burn you where you stand!"<br/>
<br/>
"Calm down, Joe," Frank says, but his coal-black eyes glitter, and he doesn't take them off you. "Alright, what's your story? Spit it out and make it fast."<br/>
<br/>
"He was spying on us, Frank!" Joe hollers "That's his story, and I'll bet—!" He dances in place like he has a hot-foot, balancing that fiery globe in his hand.<br/>
<br/>
"Check the rest of the house," Frank says. Joe gives a curt nod, and vanishes.<br/>
<br/>
Literally. There's a bright blur in the air, and then he's gone. But only a couple of fast heartbeats later, he's back. "Seems secure," he says. But still he glances around with a sharp, watchful expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, kid," Frank growls at you, and he tightens his grip on your belt. "You got a name?"<br/>
<br/>
You've been too terrified to think properly, let alone cry out. But you manage to stammer out your name. "W-w-will! P-pres-s-s-c't!"<br/>
<br/>
"And how long have you been hanging out in here with us?"<br/>
<br/>
You dart a quick glance at the front door, which is hanging open. Do you risk pretending that you had just now sneaked in?<br/>
<br/>
Frank shakes you like a doll. "I'm losing my patience, Will Prescott," he says. "And when I lose my patience—"<br/>
<br/>
"I c-came looking for h-him!" You jerk your chin at Joe. His eyes blaze even more brightly. "And I c-came inside—"<br/>
<br/>
"When?"<br/>
<br/>
"Earlier?"<br/>
<br/>
"While we were gone?" His frown deepens when you nod. "Doors were locked."<br/>
<br/>
"The back door was open. And I was, uh—"<br/>
<br/>
Frank's gaze turns very, very cold.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to ask you one question," he says. "And you'd better answer it fast and you'd better answer it true. If you were here when we got back, how come we didn't notice you until just now?"<br/>
<br/>
He releases you and steps back two paces. But you remained pinned to the wall, suspended halfway to the ceiling. It's like an immense, invisible hand is holding you up and pushing you against the wall.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you don't know the answer to his question. You can only plead that you were standing right inside the doorway when they came in, and that they almost ran you down without seeing you. And how is that your fault?<br/>
<br/>
Frank listens with a brutal and obvious disbelief. Joe seethes. "Lemme burn him, Frank," he says. "He's a witch! He's been playing stupid with me, but he's in it with her! Their whole story stinks now, and—"<br/>
<br/>
"He'd better come up with a new one," Frank agrees. "Well?" he says to you. "How about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you the truth!" you howl. "We told you the truth! I—! I don't—! That stuff is Sydney's!" You point a shaking finger at the instruments that are strewn on the table. "I don't know about any of it, I don't understand it! She—!"<br/>
<br/>
"She sent you out here?"<br/>
<br/>
"N-no! It was my idea!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's too bad you said that, Will Prescott." Frank's temper is clearly heating up. "Because if you said that she sent you, I might believe you. I might believe that you don't know how you made yourself invisible. So you wanna try again?" The invisible claws that have fastened you to the wall seem to tighten around you.<br/>
<br/>
"She didn't send me!" you insist. "And I don't know how—! <i>Mmmfphggg!</i>" Another invisible hand welds your jaw shut.<br/>
<br/>
Frank looks back at Joe. "You wanna take over the interrogation?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean do it my way?" Joe shakes his head. "Too late. He's too scared."<br/>
<br/>
"You hear that?" Frank turns back to you. "When my brother conducts an interrogation, it is very soft and very easy. But when <i>I'm</i> asking the questions—" That hand squeezes your head until you feel you're about to pass out. "It hurts you a lot more than it hurts me when you tell a lie."<br/>
<br/>
The grip relaxes, enough so you can open your mouth. "I'm not lying!" you pant. "I really don't know—"<br/>
<br/>
"You know how to use those things?" Frank points to the instruments.<br/>
<br/>
You hate the way your eyes are darting. "Sydney showed me a little. But she just showed me how to look through them! And how to find—! I don't know how they work, though!"<br/>
<br/>
Frank growls. "You don't know any more—" He rolls the word around in his mouth before uttering it. "Magic?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I—!"<br/>
<br/>
But then you freeze. The book and the masks and the thing you're making in the basement. You do know more magic than just what they're asking you about.<br/>
<br/>
Frank has caught your hesitation, and that iron fist closes about your face again. "What?" he says. "What else do you—?"<br/>
<br/>
"A book!" you mumble. Your jaw in pinched almost closed. "It's how Sydney and me met! I found a book in the bookstore, and it had some spell type stuff in it, and we—"<br/>
<br/>
"What kind of spells?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"Real spells?" Joe asks. "Real damned, black, twisted, evil, ungodly stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ... I guess?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is it at your house?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. No! It's at—"<br/>
<br/>
"Tell us where it is so we can go get it."<br/>
<br/>
You writhe, unwilling to give up your treasure. But you can't hold out for more than three seconds. "It's in the basement of the old school! Near where I live!"<br/>
<br/>
"Address?"<br/>
<br/>
"The Acheson Community Center."<br/>
<br/>
"Then let's go get it." Frank glances at Joe and says a word you can't recognize. Joe nods, and sprints from the room. When he returns, he's got a bag, made of a supple, silvery material, like silk. You fall off the wall to your knees. You raise your head just in time to see him open the bag and shove it over your head.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You see, hear, feel, and know nothing until you wake again with a snort and a start. It's dark and you have no idea where you are until a hard hand seizes you by the back of the neck and drags you to one side. You fall off a high place onto your hands and knees, then are hauled to your feet. When you look around, you find yourself standing next to the open door of a truck.<br/>
<br/>
It's parked on grass next to a wall, and it takes you a moment to recognize the Acheson Community Center. Strong fingers close on the back of your neck. "Where's this basement?" a hard voice mutters in your ear.<br/>
<br/>
You shudder all over, and fight the urge to retch. "Over this way," you stammer, and on staggering steps lead Frank—and Joe, who materializes by your side—to the black pit where the short flight of steps leads down to the basement door. "Uh, it's locked—"<br/>
<br/>
"Got the key?"<br/>
<br/>
"My pocket," you mutter. You reach for it, but your hand is forced aside and another's hand plunges in to feel for your keys. A soft light comes on—a glow from Joe's hand, like the blazing ball he threatened you with before, but softer and paler—and by its glow you are forced down the steps. Joe takes the lock off and opens the door. He steps inside. <br/>
<br/>
"Any surprises or traps down there?" Frank asks. You shake your head. "Recon, Joe."<br/>
<br/>
"Already on it," Joe says, but doesn't move from his spot just inside the door. "Whew! Lotta junk. So what shelf do you keep that book of yours on?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's— I'd have to show you."<br/>
<br/>
"Where?"<br/>
<br/>
You squirm. "I've got a project going, and it's— There should a fire going. A purple fire."<br/>
<br/>
"Ain't no purple fire down here," Joe says. Frank's grip on your neck tightens.<br/>
<br/>
"Under the windows. On a big table. It—"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I think I found it, but there's no fire. Just a big old lump of— Stuff."<br/>
<br/>
You blink. This is bewildering. How could Joe have "found it" when he's still standing at the top of the stairs?<br/>
<br/>
"Don't stop to try to think, Will Prescott," Frank warns you. "Just tell Joe where this 'fire' supposedly is."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess it's gone out," you gabble. "It does that, then you have to relight it. It was a pile of dirt when I started it, I don't know what—"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so you're forging something," Joe says. "Where's the book?"<br/>
<br/>
"Under the dirt."<br/>
<br/>
Joe sucks in his cheeks, and gives you a sidelong look. Then with a heavy tread he descends the steps.<br/>
<br/>
Frank pushes you inside and watches as Joe, still balancing that globe of light in the palm of his hand, threads his way into the bowels of the basement. At about the spot where you set up the spell, he bends and feels around, then pulls something loose. He sets it on a flat surface and bends to examine it. He freezes, then looks up with a bright but serious expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Paydirt, Frank," he says. "It's the <i>Personae.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"You are in such deep shit, Will Prescott," Frank says.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111111112131211
author_id: seuzz
title: Bad Cop, Worse Cop
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Frank and Joe don't linger in the basement with you. They hustle you back outside and loft you into the bed of their truck, where Frank throws you onto your back and squats over you with his knee on your chest. Joe hunches nearby and pores over the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
"Where did you get that book?" Frank demands of you.<br/>
<br/>
"I found it at the used bookstore." You are too broken in spirit to resist his questions. "In the special collections," you gasp when he presses his knee into your ribcage.<br/>
<br/>
"Ask him about the professor," Joe says.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you know a man named Aubrey Blackwell?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Liar," Joe says. "We found you and the girl outside his house last night."<br/>
<br/>
"But we don't—! We were just looking for ley lines, and—"<br/>
<br/>
"When did you find the book?" Frank presses you in the chest with his knee.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know! Um, a couple of weeks ago?"<br/>
<br/>
"And it had a spell that showed you how to make yourself invisible?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I don't think so! It—"<br/>
<br/>
Joe says, "That's not the <i>Personae's</i> subject matter, Frank."<br/>
<br/>
"Then where <i>did</i> you learn the invisibility trick?" Frank asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't—! I don't know why you guys didn't see me! Maybe you're blind!"<br/>
<br/>
"You ever fuck around with this kind of stuff before?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I told you, I just found that book, and I was goofing around with it! That's how I met Sydney! I was, uh, getting some dirt. From the cemetery."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you already told us," Joe says. He is still concentrating on the book. "So this book and Sydney's instruments, and that's all you know about shit. Is that your story?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we know you made some other shit with this thing," Joe says. He shuts the book with a snap. "Lemme in, Frank, lemme try something."<br/>
<br/>
Frank shifts position, and Joe leans over you, so close you can feel his hot breath on your face. He grasps you by the forehead and mutters under his breath as he pulls at your temples.<br/>
<br/>
You grit your teeth. "I'm not wearing a mask!" you cry, for it's obvious he's trying to pull one off you. But Joe has to try half a dozen times before he gives up, and even then he glares at you in suspicion.<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott," Frank muses after Joe has squatted back down with the book. "The name's familiar."<br/>
<br/>
"Harris Prescott," Joe says. "Salopek Engineering."<br/>
<br/>
"That's it."<br/>
<br/>
"My dad?" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
Frank's lip curls. "Your dad, huh? But you said you got the <i>Personae</i> at the bookstore."<br/>
<br/>
"I did!"<br/>
<br/>
"So why did your dad sell it to the bookstore?"<br/>
<br/>
Now you're just bewildered. "He didn't! Did he? What makes you think—?"<br/>
<br/>
"You made a mask, Prescott," Joe says. "And some other stuff. Who did you use it on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh!" Crimson shame washes over you. "My friend. Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
"He's mixed up in this too?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just— I tricked him into putting it on."<br/>
<br/>
Joe hefts the grimoire thoughtfully, then makes a face at Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there's nothing in here to explain how he got past us, Frank," he says, "and nothing the girl's admitted to could either." He stands up, to join Frank in glaring down at you.<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to spend the night with us," Frank growls at you. "And we're going to have a long talk between now and dawn."<br/>
<br/>
Weirdly, fear of your father briefly washes away fear of these two. "I have a curfew! I have to get home!"<br/>
<br/>
Frank looks at Joe, who chortles. "Oh, <i>that's</i> no problem!" he says.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
What he means by that, you don't find out. But that silvery, silken bag goes back over your head, and the next thing you know you are back in their house, sprawling on the sofa while Frank and Joe, their arms folded, take turns playing "bad cop, worse cop" with you.<br/>
<br/>
Wearily you tell them your story from the top, then backward and forward and in fragmented order, leaping from time and date to subject and biography, from every possible direction, in mind-numbing detail and repetition. They're trying to break your stories, and a couple of times they act like they've tripped you up in a contradiction. But you're telling the truth—<br/>
<br/>
You found that book Arnholm's Used Books, where you paid two dollars for it when you pointed out it was damaged, and you took it home where you experimented with it by making some items. You tricked Caleb into putting some of those items on, and you stole money from friends by wearing his face—a confession that now horrifies you but which Frank and Joe seem uninterested in—and you tell of how you also used his face and form to get close to Sydney, who had observed you digging up dirt in the cemetery. That was only a few days ago, and you were just getting friendly with her by sharing the magical trinkets each of you had, when you ran into Joe outside that house.<br/>
<br/>
So they're never able to pry anything further from you because there is nothing more to pry.<br/>
<br/>
They're also not able to break you into confessions about some other people. You insist you have never heard of "Aubrey Blackwell," whose house it was where you ran into Joe—or "Dee" as he called himself last night—and you insist that you were there only because that's where you had tracked one of the ley line anchor points to. You're more baffled, and even angered, by the way they press you about your dad, for they seem to believe he must know something about the book. You can only insist that you're sure he knows nothing about it, and that he only yelled at you for stinking up your room while making the first mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It is well after midnight when, exhausted and belligerent, they give up. They shove that bag over your head again, and when it come off a moment later, strong sunlight is filtering through the blinds of the front window.<br/>
<br/>
"On your feet, Prescott," Frank says. He's standing over you, right where you saw him last, but he's changed clothes, into a nice set of slacks, a dress shirt and tie, and a sports coat. It gives you a pang of jealousy to recognize how much better he wears nice clothes than you do. "Your dad's waiting for you."<br/>
<br/>
"Is he here?" you bleat. You're too punch-drunk to think clearly.<br/>
<br/>
"You're meeting him at church," Frank says. "It's Sunday."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh yeah. Church.</i> If Frank and Joe are letting you go on account of that, it will be the first time in your life you will be glad to go to services.<br/>
<br/>
Frank claps a hard hand on your shoulders after you're on your feet. "You're driving," he tells you. "And we're stopping by your house first."<br/>
<br/>
It's just you and him, and the drive out is oppressed by a deep and uneasy silence. Your family has already left when you slide the key into the front door of your house. Frank sticks close to you, parking himself in your bedroom while you change into church clothes, and not explaining himself. He forces you to give him the mask you made of Caleb—which he takes in a very gingerly manner—and all the supplies you had gathered for the making of masks and whatnot. Then he makes you drive to church.<br/>
<br/>
He calls Joe after you're parked, and makes you wait until Joe—also dressed to the nines, and looking like a catalog model in them—comes out to meet you in the church parking lot. They talk for a minute and there must be something wrong with your hearing, because you don't understand a word they say. Neither one looks happy.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, time to go in and sit with your family," Frank tells you when he's done consulting with Joe. "But remember, we'll be in the back of the sanctuary. And you're going to lunch with us afterward. Joe already set it up with your dad."<br/>
<br/>
You glance at Joe, who returns your stare with a gleaming eye.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So church winds up being even more dreadful than usual. The service drags forever, but it still manages to be far too short for your taste, and on heavy feet you trudge to the back of the sanctuary to look for Frank and Joe. (Your dad only asked you if you'd be home for supper. And when you said you weren't sure, he nodded absent-mindedly.) But when you leave, this time it is Joe who rides with you, and directs you back to the house he and Frank share.<br/>
<br/>
He's a lot friendlier than he's been before, though his manner is still muted, and he spends the first minute of the drive giving you sidelong squints. Finally he says, "Okay, you got us."<br/>
<br/>
You flinch. "What are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Last night. Listening in on us. The whole 'Dee' act was a just that, an act. I ain't really from Lemuria."<br/>
<br/>
"I kinda wondered," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "I had you going, though, didn't I? Come on, tell me I had you going! Frank was all, like, 'You're overplaying it, Joe,' but I was, like, 'No no, they're buying it!' Tell me you were buying it, so I can get in Frank's face about it!"<br/>
<br/>
"You were scary," you admit.<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Alright, that works. But with a purpose!" He points at you. "You need to be scared off this shit!"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm serious! Promise me you've learned your lesson."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to—"<br/>
<br/>
"Just repeat after me. 'I've learned my lesson.'"<br/>
<br/>
"I've learned my lesson," you grumble.<br/>
<br/>
Joe only looks amused. "Yeah, I know, it's just words for now. But trust me, words spoken aloud have a way of freezing into facts." He claps your thigh.<br/>
<br/>
Then, in a sly tone, he says, "Now come on, really, you can tell me. How'd you turn yourself invisible last night?"<br/>
<br/>
The words seem to erupt from deep inside your chest. "I don't know!"<br/>
<br/>
The denial seems to stun Joe.<br/>
<br/>
"Wow," he says after sucking in a deep breath. "You're going to be worth knowing!"</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111121312111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Morning After
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your denial seems to stun Joe, and you steel yourself for another harsh interrogation. But after a long silence, he abruptly declares that he's starving and figures you are too. In actuality, you feel nauseous, but you can't tell if it's from fear and anger, or from a hunger so extreme it has passed through the other side to illness.<br/>
<br/>
But at Joe's direction, you detour through the drive-through at Ben's BBQ.<br/>
<br/>
His chatter for the rest of the drive is light and inane, which leaves you paranoid. He claims that yesterday and the night before were just "an act", but if so it was a pretty convincing act , and not for an instant do you believe by this "friendly" act he is pulling with you now. More than ever, you are convinced he is some kind of sociopath.<br/>
<br/>
But for the moment, the best you can do is keep very still and try not to rile him up.<br/>
<br/>
The driveway at their house is empty, and Joe mutters something about Frank "getting his ass lost again." Inside, after dividing the barbecue among three plates, he gestures you to follow him back to the big table where Sydney's instruments are helping to hold down the corners of an immense map of the city. It is criss-crossed with straight, razor-sharp red lines. Joe points to these and to various other spots while munching his fries.<br/>
<br/>
"So those are the ley lines you and your girlfriend were scoping out," he says. "This is the one"—he points—"that runs through the cemetery and Professor Blackwell's house. This other one"—again, he points—"is anchored by the gazebos at Stewart's Hole and Potsdam Park. You have any idea how old those things are?"<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head. You didn't even know there was more than one ley line in town.<br/>
<br/>
"Something to look into, I guess." Joe points to a spot on the college campus. "Another anchor point, we're pretty sure. Makes a line back down to the professor's. You know, it's pretty lucky we tripped onto you guys the other night. It never even occurred to us that there'd be any ley lines in town." He taps the center of the triangle formed by the three intersecting lines. "Little bastard,"  he mutters, though who or what he's talking about is unclear.<br/>
<br/>
"So." Joe now gives you a hard squint. "Your girlfriend has it in for her wicked stepfather, and you really didn't know that."<br/>
<br/>
"She's not my girlfriend," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't say that. I told you, words have a way of freezing into fact. Say, 'She's not my girlfriend,' and she never will be. Say, 'She <i>is</i> my girlfriend'—" He leans in to wag his eyebrows at you, and you shrink away. "And she will be. That's how I get lucky, so often and with so many," he brags. "But anyway, what do you know about Baphomet?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing." It's getting to be an old refrain, one you're heartily sick of.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." Joe shoves a fistful of fries into his face, and gives you an appraising look up and down. "Well—"<br/>
<br/>
The front door opens and Frank comes in. He's carrying three takeout bags from McDonalds. The two boys freeze when they see each other.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit," Frank says, and with a grimace brushes past toward the kitchen.<br/>
<br/>
"Why didn't you tell me you were gonna stop off for food?" Joe hollers after him.<br/>
<br/>
"Why didn't you tell <i>me?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Hey! You're the asshole who's supposed to be in charge of this operation!"<br/>
<br/>
"Which is how come you shouldn't'a gone and done something on your own!"<br/>
<br/>
Joe sticks his tongue—gummed over with chewed-up fries—at Frank's retreating back. Then he nudges you into following him into the kitchen, where Frank is unpacking the sacks.<br/>
<br/>
"It'll be fine, Frank," Joe says. "We'll just have leftovers, that's all. I'll pack the ribs away. What'd you get me?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank slaps his hand from a bag. "They're all the same. Quarter-pounders, fries, and Cokes."<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome blossom." Joe leans in and mutters something at Frank, who spears you with a quick, dark glance, and says "Interesting."<br/>
<br/>
"Innit, though?"<br/>
<br/>
Your sense of unease deepens. If you thought you could get away with it—and if they didn't know now where you live—you'd be tempted to bolt for a door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Sydney texts while you're eating—you've discovered you are ravenous, but you have to fight to get the food down anyway—and Joe makes you reply that you'll see her when you meet up with "Dee." He then sends a text of his own to her, pushing that meeting time back until six.<br/>
<br/>
It's while he's doing that that you get a long text from Sydney telling you that "Dee" is enrolled at Eastman High School under the name "Joe Durras", along with a brother named "Frank." She says that you and her will have to be very careful of "Dee." <i>Now you tell me,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
Joe hoots over her message after he's made you show it to him. "Your girlfriend's smart," he says. "Didn't I tell you we'd have to watch out for her, Frank?" he calls as his friend saunters into the living room. "She's no dummy!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," Frank drawls. "So how were you gonna talk your way out of it when she found out we were enrolled at Eastman?"<br/>
<br/>
"We were undercover!" Joe turns to you. "At least <i>your</i> partner's smart. Look at the lunkhead <i>I</i> got paired up with. But anyway," he continues in a careless tone. "Yeah, we're enrolled at Eastman. But we <i>ain't</i> from around here, and we <i>are</i> undercover. Oh, by the way, before you get any wrong ideas, me and Frank are brothers."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck me but you're full of questions. You break in here to snoop, and now that we're all friends and want to talk, you won't even ask anything!"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Friends?</i> you want to shriek. <i>How much shit are you full of?</i><br/>
<br/>
Instead, you shrink further into yourself. "Okay," you mumble. "Are you cops?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank and Joe exchange a glance. "Well, of a sort. Not officially, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"We belong to a special society," Frank says. "We can leave it at that for now."<br/>
<br/>
"And we're out here on assignment," Joe says. "That's all wrapped up now, but—" His eyes gleam. "Looks like we've got another situation on our hands!"<br/>
<br/>
You can't help flinching. "You mea about Sydney's stepdad? Does she really want you to—?"<br/>
<br/>
"She doesn't know what she wants done," Joe says. "But it doesn't matter. Something's gotta be done about them anyway. That's the new job!"<br/>
<br/>
"If Dad gives us the assignment," Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"He will. We're on site."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But they don't tell you any more about Sydney's dad, or Baphomet, or the ley lines, or themselves. Instead, for the rest of the meal they talk about Eastman, and their friends out there, and the girls that Joe has been chasing. When that's done, they clean up, after which Frank declares he's going to take a nap. But then, after changing into sweatpants and a sweatshirt, he goes into the backyard.<br/>
<br/>
Joe pulls you into the living room, and pushes you onto one end of the sofa while he drapes himself over the other end. "So tell me all about yourself, Will," he says. "I know we were pretty rough with you last night, but that's all over. We really do wanna be friends with you."<br/>
<br/>
You snort and roll your eyes, for by now you're so sick of him and the house and everything else that you can't even summon the strength to speak.<br/>
<br/>
But Joe presses you. So haltingly, you bite off pieces of your biography in a surly mumble, mostly just to shut him up. Joe listens, his eyes gleaming behind half-closed lids as a dreamy smile plays around his mouth. He leads you on with some gentle questions, to tell him about your family and where they come from, and prods you into recounting people and events from elementary school and high school. He even gets you to talk a little about Lisa, and the relationship that went sideways with her, and about Caleb and Keith and other people you hang out with at school. You can't disguise—you openly admit to it!—that you don't have much of a social life, and that you scuttle through school trying to keep your head down without being noticed.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess that sounds kind of pathetic," you mutter, for from what he says it's clear that Joe loves to party and pursue girls, and that the bigger the crowd, the louder the music, and the closer to the center of it all he is, the happier he is.<br/>
<br/>
"No, everyone's different, everyone has their thing," he says. "Like, this right here, just you and me, this is nice."<br/>
<br/>
You can hardly stop yourself from face-palming.<br/>
<br/>
Then he throws himself onto his feet and trots down the back hallway. When he returns, he's got a huge sketchpad—like the kind artists use—and a pencil. He balances it in his lap after settling back onto the sofa.<br/>
<br/>
"Almost everything you've said has been very suggestive," he says as he runs the pencil lightly over the paper. (Is he going to make a drawing of you?) "But now I have to be a little more plain. The fact is, I'm still trying to figure out that invisibility trick you played on us last night."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, I don't know—"<br/>
<br/>
"Shh! And I believe you now, baby, I totally believe you," he coos. "I am <i>convinced.</i> But I still want to figure out how you did that. Because, you know, it was pretty weird."<br/>
<br/>
<i>That's an understatement,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
But Joe is still talking. "Weird, but not unprecedented," he says. "You should know by now that there's some pretty funky shit out there. So with your permission, I'm going to try to figure out if there is more to you than meets the eye!"<span class="O"></span></span></div></div>


path: 111131131111111111111122
author_id: seuzz
title: Of Wardrobes and Ley Lines
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Lemuria?" Sydney says after a lengthy silence, during which the stranger's smile only widens.<br/>
<br/>
"Lemuria," he agrees. "Ever been? Like to visit? Didn't think so, you'd get eaten alive." He flicks a sugar packet into your chest. "But if we play this right, kiddos, I can pry open a portal and you could stick your heads in for a quick gander. Not that I recommend that either, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe we should start at the beginning," Sydney says. "Talk about what we're <i>doing,</i> and why we're both looking for ley lines."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm all ears." The guy—Dee, did he call himself?—cups his chin in his hand and leans forward with a bright and expectant look.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney folds her arms and returns him a glare.<br/>
<br/>
"Fine," Dee snorts. "I'll go first. So like I was saying—"<br/>
<br/>
His gaze goes distant for a moment, and you have the odd impression he's suffered a glitch and is rebooting a subroutine. But when his smile comes back online it's as if there'd been no hiccup.<br/>
<br/>
"—I've been hunting down ley lines since materializing on this arc-second of the material torus—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you said something about that, and what does it even mean?" Sydney demands. You were wondering too. "Arc-second of the—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you really want the math?" Dee rolls his eyes. "Let's just say it means I'm not from around here, and when I say 'around here' I mean—" He sweeps his arm to take in the room. "And it wasn't no wardrobe that brought me here neither. But that's about the—"<br/>
<br/>
"Wardrobe?" Sydney's smile sharpens. "And where did you get <i>that</i> figure of speech? I mean, if you're from <i>Lemuria,</i> and not from around here?"<br/>
<br/>
Dee throws his head back and barks at the ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
"Ha!" he scoffs. "You think it isn't the same all over, inside here or outside there? You think the material world isn't cracked and porous and shot all through with light from the other side?" <br/>
<br/>
He leans across the table. "Do you really think," he says, "that a sensible man who's read sensible books and opened himself to sensible influences won't thereby draw sensible conclusions about the most <i>sensible fucking way</i> to thrust four schoolchildren out of one world and into another? How do I know about wardrobes?" he jeers. "You might as well ask a businessman how he knows about jet airplanes and taxiways. Or—" He leans back with a sneer. "Are you asking how a <i>Lemurian</i> gets himself <i>library privileges</i> in this screwball dump you call a world?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's lips vanish into a tight line. "I'm asking about what wardrobes have to do with getting from here to Lemuria."<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing! I told you, I didn't use no wardrobe. I'd have no troubles if I could!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then why—?"<br/>
<br/>
Dee flings his arms out. "Because that's how we get around back home! We use wardrobes! It's a lot more convenient than a bus line, I can tell you that much!"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney snorts. "Fine. So you're trying to get back to Lemuria?"<br/>
<br/>
The guy rolls his shoulders. "Sure. As a start. The fun won't begin till I'm actually back, and that's another reason you probably don't want to come with me, you won't want to get your feet all sticky and wet. But on this side it's the ley line that's important. Using a ley line is easier than collecting the ten keys of the star-kings—"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney sweeps the air with her hand. "So tell me how you use a ley line to get back to Lemuria."<br/>
<br/>
But Dee just cocks his head and grins. <br/>
<br/>
"I've told you what I want it for, and that's enough for now. Now you tell me what <i>you</i> want it for. <i>Then</i> we'll talk mechanics and techniques!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
His question stops Sydney dead. She clasps her hands and says, "We just want to find it."<br/>
<br/>
Dee snickers. "You just want to find it, huh? Like a guy who hears there's a key that'll get him into a bank vault, and he 'just wants to find it'. Right?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's expression turns very pinched. "Listen, I don't know a lot about this stuff—"<br/>
<br/>
"Then that sounds like another reason you'll want me along. I can give you some ideas."<br/>
<br/>
You shiver. There's a slimy leer in the stranger's eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Like?" Sydney says.<br/>
<br/>
Dee shrugs. "Hit a ley line hard enough and you can open a crack that <i>things</i> can slither in and out through. Thump it at the right frequency and you can give yourself a 'Groundhog Day'. Mostly, though—" He stretches his arms and slouches deeper into his seat, "you use it to power certain kinds of conjurations and to siphon off the bad juju."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what kind of conjurations?"<br/>
<br/>
Dee holds her eye. "Imagination is the only limit, babe. Imagination, technique, and craft."<br/>
<br/>
He leans forward, his gaze unwinking.<br/>
<br/>
"If I was good enough to show you how to do <i>anything you want</i> with that ley line, and if I promised to help you do it in exchange for your helping <i>me,</i> well—" He looks between you and Sydney. "How long until you made the smart, obvious play and grabbed my offer?"<br/>
<br/>
You give Sydney a sidelong look. No one speaks for a long moment.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll have to get back to you," Sydney finally says.<br/>
<br/>
Dee shrugs. "When can I expect your answer?"<br/>
<br/>
"Where can we find you?"<br/>
<br/>
"You can't," he snaps. "I'll find you. So when do you <i>want</i> me to find you?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You'd prefer the answer to be "never," but Sydney tells him to meet her back at the Cave tomorrow afternoon. He shrugs again, and dismisses you by flicking a finger toward the exit. It's the last straw, as far as you're concerned.<br/>
<br/>
"No way are we working with that asshole," you growl as you stalk back out to the truck.<br/>
<br/>
"He knows what he's talking about, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"You believe all his shit? About Lemuria or whatever?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, not about Lemuria. Although it's interesting that he knows about it."<br/>
<br/>
"What's to know about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind." She opens the truck door and clambers in. "The point is," she resumes after you've started the motor, "he knows this stuff and he could help us."<br/>
<br/>
"Help us do what? What <i>do</i> we want with this ley line?"<br/>
<br/>
She squirms in her seat. "Well, what do <i>you</i> want to do with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know anything about them!"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if you could do anything with them—" She sucks in a breath. "Like he said, if you needed one to do something that you really wanted to do—"<br/>
<br/>
"I want to do whatever you want to do, Sydney," you blurt out. "That's what this partnership is about, right?" you stammer, for you've surprised yourself. "You help me with the thing I'm working on, and I help you with the thing you're working on."<br/>
<br/>
She makes no reply. You sit in the dark, in the parking lot, with the truck running but with the drive in Park.<br/>
<br/>
"Will?" she finally says in a small voice.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean it. I thought that was our deal. I help you with the ley line, and you— Well, uh—" You swallow. "It's your choice, you know, what to do about it."<br/>
<br/>
<i>And,</i> you don't add, <i>I guess that means it's your choice about whether we partner with that guy back there.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I guess you should take me home," she says after a long silence. Something crumples inside of you as you put the truck in reverse.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Listen, I don't want to do anything with that guy," you tell her again after you've pulled up in front of her house. "I don't like him. I don't trust him. Even if he does know about this stuff."<br/>
<br/>
She turns the back of her head to you. "He's probably not going to leave us alone."<br/>
<br/>
"Then tell him we'll help him get back to Lemuria or wherever, no strings attached. Let's get rid of him."<br/>
<br/>
"He can't go back to Lemuria, Will, if he didn't come from there."<br/>
<br/>
"Then call his bluff. Tell him we'll <i>help</i> him with the Lemuria thing."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know if I want to piss him off. Anyone who knows about this stuff is—" She breaks off. <br/>
<br/>
"Is what?" you ask. "Do you know anyone who's into it? Except for, you know, your dad?"<br/>
<br/>
"There was nothing wrong with my dad," she snaps. Then she adds, "But I've got a pretty good idea what kind of creeps do get into this stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I didn't mean <i>you,</i> Will." She strokes your arm, once. <br/>
<br/>
"Look," she says, "let me just meet up with him tomorrow. Tonight was rough, rough for us, probably rough for him too. Tomorrow we'll all be calmer, we can talk about things rationally—"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you want me along or not?"<br/>
<br/>
She hesitates. <br/>
<br/>
"Let me try it alone with him. It'll just be talk, I won't make any decisions without you." Again she hesitates, then darts in to kiss you on the cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow when it's over." She hops from the cab and is scampering up to  her door before you can reply.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Back at your house you slump on your bed, thinking about Sydney and thinking about the stranger. Thinking about how the stranger was so openly and lecherously interested in her. Thinking about how, with his superior knowledge and his superior physical presence he is a much better match for her than you are.<br/>
<br/>
Why does Sydney want to meet with him alone? You hate contemplating the obvious answer.<br/>
<br/>
She'd be pissed if you showed up anyway. But you've got a mask of Caleb. She wouldn't have to know that you showed up to listen in on their meeting.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111111111112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Focus of Your Efforts
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Partners? You're doubtful. But there doesn't seem any graceful way to refuse. You take her hand and reply, "Okay, partners."<br/>
<br/>
And maybe it would work out. You'd like to hang out with Sydney anyway. There will be time later to decide if you're genuinely interested in being <i>partners</i> with her.<br/>
<br/>
You and she shake hands. You wonder if she's making the same calculations as you, and you can't help noticing that she makes the next move: "So what's this book you found, and how does it work?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa, hang on," you riposte. "I already told you a lot about it. What can you bring to this partnership?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
She's got some notebooks, she tells you, bequeathed to her by her dad, who belonged to some kind of occult secret society. She has been figuring them out since he died, and with their help she was on the verge of pinning down the focal point of a ley line that runs through the Masonic cemetery before she was distracted by your own raid on the graveyard. She hasn't time to show you—she has a "stupidly early curfew"—but you arrange to pick her up and take her out to the cemetery Thursday evening. You will also bring Caleb's mask, so that she will see how it works.<br/>
<br/>
"One more thing," you tell her before you part. "This partnership of ours. It's strictly a business partnership, okay? No mixing of business and pleasure."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney looks very amused by that, and assures you that she'll keep things strictly professional between you.<br/>
<br/>
Upstairs in your bedroom, as you lay on your back and probe at the dark ceiling with your eyes and your straining cock, you wonder why you sabotaged yourself so thoroughly by telling her that. Understanding dawns when you wake at three o'clock from a nightmare in which you made a pass at her, and with a raucous laugh she turned you into a frog. You told her you wanted things professional between you, you realize, so that <i>she</i> wouldn't be the one to insist on a professional relationship.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's also probably the reason you show up at her house the next night wearing Caleb's mask—so that it won't be <i>you</i> that she's distant and professional with. And she is distant at first, and draws back warily when she sees who it is grinning at her on the porch to her house. She's also shy about accompanying you out to your truck. "Kinda freaky, isn't it?" you tell her.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. It makes me wonder if this whole thing isn't just an elaborate prank that two guys are playing on me."<br/>
<br/>
"It's me, Sydney," you assure her in Caleb's most nasally honk. "Will Prescott. Go on, ask me anything about our date last night." So she does. Slowly at first, then with quickening energy—and something almost like anger—she quizzes you on what she and you said and did on Wednesday.<br/>
<br/>
"If that's a mask you're wearing," she says when she's exhausted herself, "can you take it off when we get to the cemetery, so I can see it's really you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, but let's wait till we're on the other side of the evening. It kinda knocks me out to put it on and take it off."<br/>
<br/>
It's a dark night, with a blowing wind and scudding clouds and falling temperatures. But it would have to be colder, and there would have to be fewer leaves on the trees, before October 2 would begin to feel like October 31. Still, it's a fit night to visit a graveyard.<br/>
<br/>
Everything, as Sydney had promised, is business-like between you. She has brought some of the instruments that her father left behind, and demonstrates their use. The first is a thing like a gyroscope, with a forked metal prong like a "Y" suspended between two spinning hoops of steel such that it bobs and floats freely in all three dimensions. "It's kind of like a dowsing rod," she explains, "only it finds ley lines instead of water. You set it spinning, and the stem points to any ley lines nearby. Well, 'nearby' is relative," she adds, "and if they're far off you have to drive all over the place and triangulate and mark all sorts of lines and angles on a map before you can start pinning down its exact location. And of course since it's a line and not a point you're triangulating on, it's even messier."<br/>
<br/>
You nod sagely at all this, for you've Caleb's brain to help you.<br/>
<br/>
With its help she has traced a line through the cemetery, and now she uses it to show it to you directly. She paces the grounds with the thing cupped in her hands, and the stem points first ahead of her, then dips to point at her toes. "Right here," she says, and taps at the grass with her foot. "It runs right through here."<br/>
<br/>
She drops to the grass with the second instrument she's brought, a thing like a sextant made of brass or of gold with strange figures and devices carved into the curved compass. After pushing two pencils into the ground to mark a length of the ley line, she lays down on the grass and sights through the telescope. "There," she says after fiddling with it. "You can see it now." She gets up. "Go on, take a look. It's like a phosphorescent line."<br/>
<br/>
You flatten on your stomach and peer through the eyepiece without touching the instrument. At first you see nothing but the dark ground. Then, as though your eyes were adjusting to the dark, a faint, bluish-green glow appears, stretching out in a thin line in front of you. "Does it have terminal points?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"It can, if it intersects other ley lines and you perform an anchoring ceremony at them. Otherwise they just peter out. But with the anchoring ceremonies you can make triangles, or squares or pentagrams, or just about any kind of geometric shape. The triangles and pentagrams are the most powerful shapes."<br/>
<br/>
"For doing what?"<br/>
<br/>
"For doing stuff I'm still figuring out," she says after a lengthy hesitation. She looks around. "What we need to find now are the focal points. The two spots that you bless so you can cast a ley line through them. That's where you want to do something if you're going to do something with the ley line."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stuff I'm still trying to figure out," she replies, and you say it with her. She gives you a playful shove. "You trace out the line," she tells you as she drops to the grass. "I'll tell you when you're off the beam."<br/>
<br/>
So you trudge across the cemetery, dodging head stones and following Sydney's shouted instructions when you deviate from the line. You've no idea what you're looking for, until all of a sudden you think you do. Sydney hurries up in answer to your shout.<br/>
<br/>
It's a mausoleum, built of white stone and shaped like a Greek temple, with solid walls under a slanted roof with two pillars in front. The ley line runs straight up to and through the middle of the door. Sydney casts the beam of the flashlight at the name etched over the door. "Keyserling," she murmurs.<br/>
<br/>
"Like the college?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess so." She looks around. "Yeah, this has got to be the focus."<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos it's a mausoleum?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, because its axis is all wrong. Graves are almost always oriented east to west, or north to south. But this thing is—" She swings her head around. "It's at least sixty degrees off the angle the graves are laid out on."<br/>
<br/>
"That's a hefty surveyor's error," you observe.<br/>
<br/>
"So it's probably not an error. The focus has to be in there."<br/>
<br/>
"So we break in? I didn't bring a crowbar."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney studies the door. "Let's go find the other focal point," she suggests, and that is fine with you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have a choice of looking for it north or south, and you choose south because that way leads away from town. It also leads into open country between the southern reaches of Saratoga Falls and the northern edges of Acheson, where there are plenty of open lots between houses. Between the detailed maps that she has printed out and plotted, the gyroscope, and the sextant, you are able to easily track the line across Orlando Road and into land that is still undeveloped. The line, to your delight, brightens in one empty field before vanishing through a high wall. Rather than scale the wall, you investigate the other side of the lot, and find it fading out again. "The other focal point is in there," Sydney says. "Figures someone would have built a house over it.<br/>
<br/>
You circle around the wall until you come to a gate made of iron bars. Through these you peer. It's too dark to make out the house—the exterior lights are off—but it's a good-sized thing at least two stories tall and shaped like a shoebox. At the northern corner low lights burn through heavy drapes.<br/>
<br/>
"That's funny," Sydney says, and she glances back over her shoulder before peering through the gate again.<br/>
<br/>
"What is?"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't reply right away, but continues glancing back and forth between the grounds outside the wall and the grounds inside.<br/>
<br/>
"The lawn in there," she finally says, pointing through the gate. "Except there isn't one. See? No grass." <br/>
<br/>
You peer between the bars, and confirm that she's right. The grounds inside the wall, as near as you can make out, are bare dirt. "Maybe it's a bad piece of land," you suggest.<br/>
<br/>
"But there's grass and weeds and all kinds of trash outside." She points, and again you see that she's right. Lush grasses run right up to the wall, breaking against it almost like a wave running up against an embankment. "I wonder why it's all dead inside there," she says.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Something to do with magic,</i> would be your suggestion.<br/>
<br/>
But your thought is interrupted by a rustling from inside the wall. At first you take it for dry leaves rattling in a hard wind. Then you decide it's more like the clatter of stones rolling down a tile roof.<br/>
<br/>
Then a different aural picture occurs to you: <br/>
<br/>
It's the sound of thousands of teeth chattering excitedly.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Hungrily.</i></span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111111113
author_id: seuzz
title: Deep Sabotage
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Okay, you got me," you sigh. "I'm not really into this stuff." You shove the astrology book away. "But Caleb isn't either, and <i>no,</i> he didn't put me up to this."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney cocks a skeptical eyebrow, but the smile still plays on her lips.<br/>
<br/>
"But you're into this stuff, right?" you continue. "You had a book on tarot with you—"<br/>
<br/>
"It's pronounced 'tarrow'," she corrects you. "Rhymes with 'arrow', not 'carrot'."<br/>
<br/>
You make a face. "Well, you had a book on <i>tarrow</i> with you the other night, when you were with Caleb, right? He told me you're into this stuff." She says nothing. "So I thought— Yeah, okay, you got me, I brought this thing along 'cos I thought maybe if I, you know, pretended like I was—"<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself getting angrier and angrier as you admit your deception. <i>Damn her for making you lie to get her attention!</i><br/>
<br/>
"It was Caleb's idea," you improvise. "He said, Take a book on black magic with you, or something like that, get her to think you have a common interest—"<br/>
<br/>
"So Caleb <i>did</i> put you up to this."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but he's not interested in this stuff either. Honestly, it's a real turn off to him. We've had conversations. He's into the science and engineering stuff, wants to go to work for NASA. He thinks the occult and metam— All that stuff's a bunch of bullshit. Really, you should hear him go off on it sometime."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." She sounds the opposite of convinced. "So why did he want <i>you</i> to pretend like you're interested in it with me?"<br/>
<br/>
"To get an <i>in</i> with you! Jeez, okay, I'm sorry! But that's sometimes what people do—!"<br/>
<br/>
"I know that's what people sometimes do, Will." She bites down on a smile, and her eyes dance. "I'm not mad at you. But honestly, I'm wondering—" She leans forward. "Isn't your friend interested in me? Why is he setting you up with me instead of himself?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Guuuuuuhhhh ...</i><br/>
<br/>
And then a totally unexpected set of words just fly out of your mouth: "Caleb's gay."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney stares at you. Then she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. "Really?" she exclaims with sparkling eyes when she has recovered herself.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, it happens! Just ask Charles Hartlein!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know Charles Hartlein. But I didn't get the impression when I talked to Caleb that he was gay." Her eyes sparkle.<br/>
<br/>
"When? When did you—? Oh, you mean your study session? Oh yeah." You can't believe the tsunami of bullshit you're about to unloose even as you dynamite the floodgates. <br/>
<br/>
"He was just trying to be polite with you," you tell her. "Don't take this the wrong way, Caleb's really a nice guy, but he's got a huge problem with girls. Because he's gay." Sydney's eyebrows go up. "They really bother him, and, like, the sexier they are the more he hates them. 'Cos, you know, they're like competition. And with you he was all, like, She's so full of herself, she was flirting with me hard. That's what he told me, don't hold it against me. And he was just leading you on. 'Cos he said he thought you were, um, kind of stuck up about yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's eyes have gone very wide, and from the way her lips are twitching you can't tell if she wants to burst into tears or burst into fits of gut-busting laughter. "There's nothing personal about it," you insist. "He's just weird that way. But he liked you otherwise, thought you'd be, like, a good match for me."<br/>
<br/>
"Really," Sydney says in a very faint voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. So, um—" You still your legs, which you now realize have been jackhammering beneath the table, and clasp your hands in front of you. "Can we talk about me now? Or you? Or anyone except Caleb who is, like I say, <i>gay?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Except that she's not really that interested. She doesn't seem angry or even put off by what you've told her. But she says that you've given her a lot to think about and that she wants time to think about it. "I don't know what you have to think about," you tell her, "except, you know, that I'm definitely interested in you."<br/>
<br/>
She smiles—and it seems like a very warm and sincere smile—and thanks you for your "interest," then excuses herself. You're left to jog your leg under the table as you try to come to grips with what has just happened.<br/>
<br/>
But there's an interruption first. Geoff and Lisa get up and brush past you as they exit, their eyes briefly meeting yours. Then, a few seconds after they've gone, Mansfield reappears at your table. "Hey," he says, and his lips twitch. "Is Johansson really gay?"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart jumps sideways in your chest. <i>The fucker was eavesdropping on you!</i> "Erp," you say. Mansfield's lips pucker into a smirk.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, it's a secret, okay?" you tell him. "He doesn't want to come out because he doesn't want Charles flirting with him."<br/>
<br/>
Geoff stares at you, then rubs the side of his temple. "Someone's crazy," he mutters as he turns away, "and it's either you or Caleb. Fortunately, I don't care which one of you it is."<br/>
<br/>
"Look," you shout after his retreating back, "just don't say anything, okay? Respect a guy's privacy and sexual orienwhatsits!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Looked at objectively, the evening was such a disaster that you really have no choice but to change your name and move to another country. Sydney probably thinks you're crazy, Geoff and Lisa have overheard your malicious lies about Caleb, you've outed a friend who never had a closet to <i>be</i>in in the first place, and when it all comes out you are going to have to find yourself a new set of friends (assuming your old set doesn't kill you). <br/>
<br/>
And yet, maybe because it was such a disaster, you find yourself not caring. There is so much shit that is going to hit so many fans that there doesn't seem any point in panicking.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you might be able to head off some of the problems. Like if you could stop Caleb and Sydney from talking and comparing notes ...<br/>
<br/>
At home you take out your cell phone and send Caleb a text: <i>ran into sydney mglynn at cofee shop tnite god what a bitch u r totally better off wo her.</i> When Caleb replies to ask what happened, you rattle off a list of the most stereotypical "bitchy cheerleader" behavior you can think of. You come real close to adding, <i>and she thinks u r gay</i> but worry that would actually convince Caleb that he should talk to her. When he texts back a simple <i>hm</i> you decide that you'll have to talk to him tomorrow to impress upon him how horrible she is and was.<br/>
<br/>
But do you need to also stop Sydney from trying to talk to Caleb? She seems weirdly fascinated by him for reasons that baffle you. Beyond the fact that he's so funny looking, she seems convinced that he's into the occult. Why is that?<br/>
<br/>
While puzzling it over, your phone dings with a text from Lisa. For half a second it's summer again, and you're dating her, and your heart leaps. Then it dives, and you make a face at the screen of your phone.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Hey Will is Caleb alright?<br/>
<br/>
sure y not?</i> you text back.<br/>
<br/>
There's a lengthy pause before her reply comes back: <i>He was always a friend and I worry about him sometimes. Is he really worried about coming out as gay?</i><br/>
<br/>
You're strongly tempted to tell Lisa that Caleb is not gay—it would simplify your life—but how would you explain the lie? So instead you reply, <i>y u ask? it's super private stuff.<br/>
<br/>
I understand that. But he shouldn't be afraid to come out.<br/>
<br/>
he's not afraid he just doesnt want to b treated like he's gay.<br/>
<br/>
I get that. But is he getting help?<br/>
<br/>
what help he just wants to be left alone dont tell anyone i shouldnt have told tha girl but it cam out<br/>
<br/>
I won't but if he ever needs help or someone to talk to please tell him he can talk to me.</i><br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. <i>You were never this supportive of me when we were dating—</i>and yes we were dating!<i>—you sentimental cow!</i> Instead you type: [i}thx will tell him but dont tell anyone and dont tell caleb i let it slip he ll kill me. and leave him alone!<br/>
<br/>
I won't. Good night and you're a good friend Will.<br/>
<br/>
You snort to cover your cringe. <i>Yeah, I'm a great friend. I ruined his friendships, stole the girl who he's interested in, and am going behind his back to tell people that he's gay.</i><br/>
<br/>
You try to put it out of your mind, but your guilt preys such that you're soon wondering if you should talk to him and confess everything. Tell him that all his recent troubles are due to a prank you were pulling that got out of control. Show him how you were doing it and offer to let him in on it. Maybe if you got together to prank some other people it would heal the rift between you.<br/>
<br/>
That reminds you that you've got a project to check up on, and though it is dark you drive out to the school to check on the fire.<br/>
<br/>
It's a good thing you went. While you're standing in the basement contemplating the fire, it winks out. Startled, you advance to examine what you've made. It appears to be nothing. Just the same dirt pile, although (and this might be your imagination) it looks a little smaller. But the book said the fire might go out and would need relighting.<br/>
<br/>
You're searching for the lighter when a thought hits you. With the fire out, maybe you could retrieve the book from under the dirt. You could make some more masks and metal bands. One of the latter, if placed on Sydney, could tell you why she's so interested in Caleb. And if you wanted to come clean with Caleb, it would help to have toys on hand that <i>he</i> could play with.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Coffee Date of Doom
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a finely judged thing: There's no time to change into Caleb's disguise <i>and</i> follow her into the bookstore, you deem. But as long as she's in the bookstore, you know you won't get caught making a change in The Crystal Cave, you duck into the coffee shop and—ignoring the baristas—run straight into the men's room, where you lock yourself in a stall and quickly unpack your disguise.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Lookin' good there, you sexy son of a bitch,</i> you congratulate yourself as you preen in the mirror some fifteen minutes later. You're in Caleb's best button-down shirt and his skin is clear for once. The light catches the angles of your borrowed face in a way that actually gives his beaky features some character. You wonder if your best friend is actually going to turn out to be a good-looking bastard once he finally sheds his larval high-school stage. <br/>
<br/>
Then you glance around and with a grimace decide it must be the angle of the light falling from the ceiling lamps. It figures you'd look your best in a public restroom.<br/>
<br/>
Actually all this self-flattery is just to boost your confidence for the date to come. Caleb is still a dork-faced buffoon, which leaves <i>you</i> a dork-faced buffoon for the evening. But as you shoot your cuffs and give yourself one last smile in the mirror before hoisting your backpack, you sweatily assure yourself that Caleb Johansson actually could be in Sydney McGlynn's league. You shove back the door to the restroom and swagger out.<br/>
<br/>
Then you stop hard. Carson Ioeger and James Lamont—the guys that you stole some money from while wearing Caleb's face—are sauntering out of the coffee shop's back room. They are just passing the baristas and are about to turn toward the front door when James glances over and does a double-take at you. His brow lowers.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Please don't let him stop,</i> you pray to whatever gods and demons they were that guided that grimoire into your hands. <i>Send him out the front door before Sydney comes—</i><br/>
<br/>
And he doesn't stop, but continues toward the front door.<br/>
<br/>
But before you can let out a sigh of relief, Carson pauses to pat at his pockets, and he sees you too when he glances up. "Hey man," he honks. "What're you doin' here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just stopping in." <i>Please don't let Sydney come in please don't let Sydney come in please don't let—</i><br/>
<br/>
"Oh, they let you use the restrooms for free?" He cocks an eye at the barista.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I was gonna do some studying."<br/>
<br/>
"We just got through with that," James says. His expression is pinched.<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome. Well, don't let me stop you."<br/>
<br/>
"Stop us from what?" Carson demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... From wherever you're going," you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
"Who says we're going?" Carson settles back on his heel and ignores the frown that James is giving him. <br/>
<br/>
Then he grins. "It occurs to me, Johansson, that you're trying to get rid of us."<br/>
<br/>
"I just know you don't like hanging out with me anymore!"<br/>
<br/>
"What makes you think that? We don't mind hanging out with you. Do we, man?" He nudges James, who rolls his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Christ, it's like dealing with The Molester or Seth Javits or any of the other bullies at school.</i> "Do whatever you want."<br/>
<br/>
Carson gestures at the dining room. "After you, man."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then bolt for the front door. You have to barrel past Carson and he chortles softly as you pass him.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Goddamned cocksuckers,</i> you mutter as you charge out onto the sidewalk and into the fumes of the downtown traffic. <i>It was all going to go perfectly except for them!</i> You glance back. Carson and James have followed you out and are watching you.<br/>
<br/>
That's when Sydney comes out of the bookstore, but she misses seeing you as she turns toward the coffee shop. She brushes past Carson and James without so much as a glance at them; the door to The Crystal Cave flashes in the evening light as she goes in.<br/>
<br/>
Carson holds your eye. Then he grins and pulls James back into the coffee shop with him.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Son of a bitch!</i> You kick the side of the building, then stomp around the corner into the parking lot. You hurl yourself into your truck and curl up into a tight ball of boiling fury.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You could have brazened it out. You could have kept the study date with Sydney even with Carson and James watching from another table. You've already "been Caleb" in front of them and lots of other people.<br/>
<br/>
But this time it would have been too weird, too obvious, too dangerous. Your other appearances were just pranks at Caleb's expense—weird sightings that could be put down to mistaken identity or people just being assholes. But your "study date" would have gotten too much attention, and people might start taking seriously the oddball sightings of some kind of Caleb-clone. Carson in particular is no dummy. If Caleb says he didn't take any money from people, and if he says that he didn't crash any parties, then it's because he's too embarrassed to admit to it. But if Caleb says that he didn't spend the evening tutoring a gorgeous girl like Sydney McGlynn—even with Sydney backing him up—then Carson would probably start to think that something really funky is going on.<br/>
<br/>
You take out Caleb's phone and toy with the idea of arranging for Sydney to meet him up at the library, like she was supposed to. But that would lead to other questions. Like, what would she say to him when she met him, about why he changed their plan to meet at The Crystal Cave?<br/>
<br/>
After chewing the situation (and your lower lip) for awhile, you send Sydney a text from Caleb's phone telling her that you (Caleb) got caught up in something else and will have to reschedule the tutoring session. Then you send Caleb a text (from his phone to yours) telling him you just got a note from Sydney saying that <i>she</i> will have to reschedule the tutoring session.<br/>
<br/>
With luck, you sigh to yourself as you start changing clothes, the whole thing will peter out. Sydney will conclude that Caleb is too busy to tutor her, and he will conclude that she is a flake who was never serious about the tutoring. And even if they do compare notes, maybe they won't compare them close enough to realize that each one supposedly cancelled on the other.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Naturally, you spend the next day trying to wheedle news out of Caleb about his situation with Sydney. But he tells you he's sick of your interference and that he can handle her just fine, thanks. The most he'll tell you is that he's set up another tutoring session with her, but refuses to divulge the time or place for it. "I did just fine talking to her, Will," he snarls. "And no, I didn't shit myself, set myself on fire, and run out into the hallway howling and beating myself in the head like an orangutan."<br/>
<br/>
So you're in a mood when you leave school. At home you pull the mask out of your lower dresser drawer where you shoved it last night and contemplate putting it on and going around town screwing with Caleb's reputation some more. But you force yourself to cool off before you can do something really stupid. Instead, you fetch an old board game from the old game closet that you and your family never use, dump the game itself into the trash, and hide the mask and Caleb's clothes inside the box, which you then put on a shelf in your closet. (A better hiding place than your dresser drawer, you deem.) Then after dumping your bedroom garbage into the outside bin, you drive over to the old elementary school to check on your project. You don't go inside, you only squat and press your face to the window. It's almost impossible to make out the interior of the basement, but you know what to look for, and you stand up with a sigh when you spot the purple flames. How freaking long is this going to take?<br/>
<br/>
"Hey!"<br/>
<br/>
You spin at the shout. A chunky Hispanic man in dirty blue jeans and a work shirt is glaring at you. His moustache is flecked with gray, but the long hair that spills out from under his trucker cap is still as dark as black coffee. "What are you doing?" he demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Just looking around," you stammer. "I live around here."<br/>
<br/>
"Community center's on the other side of the building."<br/>
<br/>
You flush. "I know! I'm just, like—"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that your truck?" he demands. "Move it to the other side of the building, there's a parking lot over there if you need to put it someplace."<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, I'll just go," you growl. "Jesus. You know, it's supposed to be open to the <i>community.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
The man—is he a maintenance worker? he looks like it—just glares as you clamber into your truck and start it. He watches as you drive away. You take it slow, watching him in the rearview mirror. You let out a sigh when he shambles off instead of checking the lock on the basement door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You still need to get in and out of the basement, of course, but your run-in with that guy has made you cautious, so it's not until Thursday evening after it's good and dark that you return to check again on your project. There's no glow from inside when you peer in through the window, so you tramp over to the door—<br/>
<br/>
And you freeze. The lock is gone.<br/>
<br/>
Numbly you fiddle with the hasp, then push the door open. You feel your way down the stairs and flick on a light. The pile of dirt is still where you left it, but it's been disturbed. Your heart goes into your throat as you dig through it.<br/>
<br/>
The grimoire, which was under the dirt pile, is gone!</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Ambush from an Unexpected Quarter
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So I'm asking about her," you tell Jenny, "because she came into our English class last period and tried to suck Caleb's face off."<br/>
<br/>
The lunch group freezes; furtive glances are exchanged. Carson rolls his tongues around in his cheek and stretches out sideways on the grass. <br/>
<br/>
"Are you telling us, Prescott," he says, "that Sydney McSexyButt is some kind of—" Jenny punches him in the shoulder, but he ignores it. "That she's some kind of xenomorph, and that she slithered into your classroom and sucked out Johansson's eyeballs and tongue and stripped the flesh off his face—"<br/>
<br/>
James guffaws while Paul looks sick.<br/>
<br/>
"—with an acid wash, then slithered back out again without Mrs. Gladstone stopping her? Because that would not only be sick-cool but would totally be what Johansson deserves."<br/>
<br/>
"Why would he deserve it?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
"Pff. That fucker," Carson sneers. "Christ."<br/>
<br/>
James bites down hard on an apple. "Has he stolen any money from <i>you?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't steal anything from you guys!"<br/>
<br/>
"You calling us liars?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I don't know <i>what's</i> going on with him, but— Look, it's like the universe is out to get him, but now he's got this Sydney girl—"<br/>
<br/>
"What exactly did she do?" Jenny asks. "And don't be cute about it, Will." She leans forward with a hungry expression.<br/>
<br/>
"She came into our English class and went up to him and said that she has calculus with him—"<br/>
<br/>
"She has calculus with James," Carson corrects you. "Johansson just happens to be exchanging carbon dioxide for oxygen in the same room at the same time." He and James exchange a high-five.<br/>
<br/>
"Then how come she isn't asking James for help with her homework?"<br/>
<br/>
"Who says she needs help with her homework?" James asks. "I hear—"<br/>
<br/>
"Wait." Carson rolls forward to give you all of his attention. "Are you saying Sydney McSlurpableTits"—he leans away as Jenny swings at him again, but catches her rebound on the back of his head without missing a beat—"asked Johansson for help on her calculus homework?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I'd be saying if you didn't keep interrupting me with smart remarks."<br/>
<br/>
"They <i>are</i> smart, aren't they? But go on."<br/>
<br/>
"That's all. She comes in, says she's got calculus with him, and can they get together so he can help her with her math 'cos she's having a hard time with it. Oh, and she gave him a card. You know, like a business card."<br/>
<br/>
"If she gave him a card it was a joker," James says. "That story is bullshit."<br/>
<br/>
"I was there!"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Her</i> story was bullshit. She's getting, like, a ninety-seven percent on her quizzes. I'm sitting next to her and I can see her scores when Mr. Kowalski hands our papers back."<br/>
<br/>
Carson scowls. "What are you looking at her test scores for instead of her tits?" <br/>
<br/>
"I'm looking at both, asswipe."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd be scoping out her legs if— You can cut that out now, Jenny," Carson sighs as she swings a third blow at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe she wants to start getting ninety-eights on her quizzes?" you suggest.<br/>
<br/>
James snorts. "Johansson was averaging a B-plus, last I heard. <i>She</i> should be tutoring <i>him.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"So it's making less than no sense," Carson observes.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, you guys are dense," Jenny says. "Obviously she's interested in him and this is her excuse for getting him on a date."<br/>
<br/>
Carson cackles. "Johansson? And Sydney Mc—?" He catches himself. "Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, Ashton. I'll believe in vampires and little green men eating little green Cheezits before I believe—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be an asshole," Jenny snorts. "I wouldn't be so quick if I was you to make fun of Caleb. You and him aren't so different and you're not so much more attractive."<br/>
<br/>
"Meh," Carson says, but he deflates. "Maybe you're right. But it's a real plot twist."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, this is what I mean," you say, "about the universe going crazy around Caleb. Stealing stuff, making an ass of himself at parties, and now with this supersex—" You shoot Jenny a wary glance. "This <i>super attractive</i> girl coming on to him."<br/>
<br/>
"Mm, maybe you're right." Carson rolls onto his back. Then he scrambles to his feet and stares up at the sky, shading his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you see?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, yet. I'm just scoping out the sky for dirigibles. You always see dirigibles when you've slipped into an alternate universe, right? That's what tells you you're in an alternate universe." You roll your eyes, but he muses on. "I wonder who won the battle of Gettysburg in <i>this</i> one."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Alternate universe or not—and maybe it is an alternate universe, seeing as how you've found an authentic magical grimoire—you let things proceed. Caleb is alert, chipper, and distracted first period on Tuesday; in fourth he almost falls out of his chair when Sydney looks into the room and waves at him. "Keep it together, man," you mutter at him as he vibrates in place. His eyes are feverish and he looks right through you when he turns to answer; his jaw works but he can't reply.<br/>
<br/>
You spend Tuesday night waiting vainly for a text or a phone call from him; Wednesday morning he flinches when you drop down next to him in Walberg's class. "Well?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what?"<br/>
<br/>
"How was your date? Dur!"<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't a date. It was a study session."<br/>
<br/>
You stare at him, then sit back in your chair. "Oh, is that why you're in a mood? It was a study session, and that's all it turned out to be."<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs. "It was fun. It was fine. She was ... really friendly." He squirms in his seat. "She, uh—" He gulps. "Catherine— You know Catherine Muskov? She's having a party on Friday and Sydney wants to go."<br/>
<br/>
It takes a moment for the penny to drop. "And she wants you to go too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." He chews his lip.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude!" You raise your hand for a high five, but he ignores it. "Last night wasn't a date, but Friday night <i>will be!</i> So why aren't you, like, bouncing off the walls?" you add, for Caleb's brow has furrowed.<br/>
<br/>
He hunches his shoulders and looks around. "It's like I'm waiting for asteroid to land on my head. This just doesn't happen!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Thursday passes and Friday brings Caleb to school already dressed up in his best shirt and slacks. "We're going over to Catherine's right after school," he tells you in first period. "Well, after she gets out of gymnastics practice. Did I tell you she has gymnastics practice?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but it sounds like you're going to be telling me lots about her," you grin. After the horrible run you gave him last week, it feels good to see him happy with his life.<br/>
<br/>
But he winces. "Jesus. I wish I knew what I was doing."<br/>
<br/>
"Just go with it. You must be doing something right."<br/>
<br/>
"I just feel like I'm going to look down at any moment, and it's gonna be like I wandered over the edge of a cliff, and then I'll fall."<br/>
<br/>
You snort. "Yesterday you were gonna get hit by an asteroid. Today you're gonna fall off a cliff. What are you gonna be worried about tomorrow?" When he shrugs, you lean in with a leer. "Hopefully," you whisper, "you'll be worried about catching an STD."<br/>
<br/>
He pales and jerks away.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Again, you spend an evening expecting a text from Caleb, and again you don't hear from him until the next morning: <i>u stil have key to old basement at school by ur house?</i> he asks.<br/>
<br/>
It was nine-thirty when he sent it, and as it is a Saturday you were still asleep when it came in. But it acts on you like a quintuple espresso. With trembling thumbs you reply: <i>not sur why?<br/>
<br/>
meet me at old school noon? bring key</i><br/>
<br/>
You quickly shower and dress and drive out to the school to give it a preliminary scoping out. You've been checking on the fire in the basement every day all week, and have been relighting it when it has gone out. This morning, as you peer in through the windows, you see that it has gone out again.<br/>
<br/>
But you don't go in to relight it. Instead, you return home and rummage through the garage until you find a key of the same make as the one for the lock you put on the door. That's the one you take when you drive back out to meet Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
You've been pacing nervously for fifteen minutes when an SUV pulls up next to your truck. Caleb is in the passenger seat; Sydney McGlynn is driving. "Hey," Caleb says in a very subdued voice when they've dismounted. "This is Sydney. Sydney, Will." You exchange greetings; she smiles brightly at you, which gives you a hard thrill. "You have the key to this place?" Caleb asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Got it here." You lead them over to the door. "But it's been a year since I've been out here. They might have—" You frown as you look at the lock, then slide the key in. "Yeah, this isn't my lock," you say as you jiggle the key in vain.<br/>
<br/>
But Caleb has to take a turn, and then Sydney does too. You catch her darting her eyes between you and Caleb. "What's up that you want into this place?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb kneels to squint into a window. He gestures Sydney over. "The fire's out," he says.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart nearly explodes. "What fire?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"We were out here last night." He gives you a pinched look. "There was a fire burning down in the basement.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit," you stammer. "That ain't good. But at least it went out."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," Caleb mumbles. "Anyway, we wanted to check it out again today. I told Sydney you had a key."<br/>
<br/>
"Not anymore."<br/>
<br/>
And you have to look away. Sydney McGlynn is giving you a very hard and penetrating stare.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Girl Who Likes Mischief
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So what's the deal?" you ask Caleb. "What were you doing out here?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb glances at Sydney. "We were driving around, looking for a place to hang out after we left Catherine's. We wound up here, walked around, talked." He keeps glancing over at her, as if gauging whether he's saying too much. "We happened to scope out the basement through the window—"<br/>
<br/>
"Happened to?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb shrugs. "I mentioned we used to hang out here, that you had a key to get in. We couldn't get in, but we looked through the window and saw there was a fire going."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. Well, I don't—"<br/>
<br/>
"Can I see the key again a minute, Will?" Sydney says. Her smile fails to connect with her eyes, and your hand feels hot as you fumble the key to her.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we were just sort of hanging out and chanced to notice it, is all," Caleb muses. <br/>
<br/>
But you're watching Sydney. She turns the key over and over between her fingers, peering at it. Then she marches down to the door again and slips it into the lock. She jiggles it, withdraws it, then studies it and the lock side by side.<br/>
<br/>
The lock is a dull silver, but the key is a grimy copper. Though it's the right make for the lock, it certainly doesn't look like it goes with the lock, and your breath shortens.<br/>
<br/>
But Sydney returns it to you with nothing more challenging than another chilly smile.<br/>
<br/>
"So are we all gonna hang out or something?" you ask around the lump in your throat.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb looks at Sydney. "I'd love to, sweetie," she tells him, "but there's some stuff I have to do this afternoon." She touches him on the arm.<br/>
<br/>
You catch Caleb by the elbow as he follows her back to her SUV. <i>Sweetie?</i> you mouth at him. He pales and jerks away.<br/>
<br/>
It looks like there's some kind of conversation between them after they clamber back in her SUV, and you wind up driving off first. You notice Sydney behind you, and after you're in your driveway you watch in the rearview mirror as she passes slowly down the street. You pull thoughtfully at your ear before going inside, and turn down a movie invite from Keith in order to ponder the state of things.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're back in the basement a few hours later, cleaning up and clearing out any incriminating evidence—except for the dirt pile, which you've relit—when your cell phone goes off with a text from Sydney McGlynn: <i>Hey Will I got done early with my things. Can we meet and talk?</i><br/>
<br/>
Your heartbeat quickens with anxiety and desire, but you answer, <i>Sure!</i> At her suggestion you drive out to The Crystal Cave.<br/>
<br/>
The Cave is one of the kookiest coffee shops in a town surprisingly full of kooky coffee shops. Each of the twelve booths in the main dining room is labeled with a sign of the zodiac, and each of the ten tables is decorated with a metal stand and card printed with an astrological symbol. You have heard that these are the symbols for the planets, and that the Cave uses these and the zodiac signs instead of letters or numbers to designate the tables, but collectively they give the Cave a really strong air of the occult. Which is undoubtedly why the owners decorated it that way.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney comes breezing in about ten minutes after you've taken a seat. You almost swallow your tongue to see her: She has wrapped herself in that same sheer, black one-piece that looks like it's woven of Kleenex and crepe paper, its hem riding high on her thighs. Her arms and legs are tan and toned, and shimmering highlights ripple through her hair. She's wearing strappy platform sandals and is carrying an overlarge bag. She smiles at you—and this time it's a bright, gleaming smile that enwreathes her whole face as she slides into the booth opposite you.<br/>
<br/>
"So hi again," she says and puts out a slim hand. "Caleb didn't really let us introduce ourselves, did he?"<br/>
<br/>
"Um, that's okay," you gasp as you put your numb hand into hers. "I mean— Nice to meet you! Uh, I'm Will."<br/>
<br/>
Her mouth splits into an open-mouthed grin. "I'm Sydney. We don't have any classes together, do we? I think I'd have remembered you."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" You feel the fear showing in your eyes. "I mean, no, we don't. I'd definitely—" You gulp.<br/>
<br/>
Her glance travels up to your cap. "I like your hat, Will. It suits you."<br/>
<br/>
You're still not sure she's paying you genuine compliments, for your sloppy white ball cap is a couple of years old and has gone through the wash and the dryer so many times it's lost almost all its shape. You tug at the brim and mutter, "You're dressed nice too."<br/>
<br/>
Her smile turns just the tiniest bit glassy, but she brushes the awkwardness away by folding her hands and leaning over the table. "So tell me about you and Caleb. How long have you been friends for?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a tough talk that follows, probably harder on her though. What can you say about you and Caleb, except that—?<br/>
<br/>
You've been friends since middle school, that you hang out together and go to movies and play games on your consoles together and drive around and do stupid random stuff with your other good friend, Keith Tilley; that he gets better grades than you (just as you get better grades than Keith); and that while you and he are probably not at the absolute bottom of the high school pecking order you are much closer to the bottom than to the top.<br/>
<br/>
But she looks fascinated and alert as she pulls these and other answers from you. You try asking about her, but she only tells you that she moved to Saratoga Falls from Kansas City at the start of summer. Otherwise, you talk about the classes she is taking, with which teachers, and with which friends and other students. She asks you your opinions of these guys and girls too, though you have to admit that you don't know most of them very well. "So it's just you and Caleb and Keith," she says with a sly smile. "The three musketeers."<br/>
<br/>
It all sounds quite innocuous, and the only really strange thing is that she really does sound and talk like she's trying to get to know Caleb's friends because she might she interested in getting to know Caleb real good. But you're not so lulled into complacency, though, that you're shocked when she broaches the subject of the old elementary school.<br/>
<br/>
"You guys really aren't all that innocent, are you?" she says after (for about the twelfth time) you emphasize that you and your friends don't ever really get into trouble and that you don't even have any interesting hobbies. "Like that 'clubhouse' you made down in that school basement last year. Breaking and entering is a pretty serious thing."<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't like we were stealing stuff," you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"That doesn't matter. And you got drunk down there one time?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just for Halloween." You feel your face redden. "And getting drunk is, like, nothing."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." She cups her chin in her hands and leans halfway across the table, twinkling at you. "You know, I kind of like to get into trouble too."<br/>
<br/>
Your throat constricts. "Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not <i>trouble</i> trouble, I don't like to get caught. But you know, doing mischief." She wrinkles her nose over her smile. "Having fun doing stuff that you really shouldn't be doing."<br/>
<br/>
You don't know how to respond to that. It's like she's trying to lead up to something, but you have no idea what. "Yeah, well, um—" You shrug.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you?" she says. "Don't you like doing stuff you really shouldn't because it's fun?"<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a deep breath. This girl was already out of your and Caleb's league when you didn't know anything except what she looked like. Now she's talking and acting like she has a taste for danger beyond your comfort zone, and certainly beyond Caleb's.<br/>
<br/>
"We can't really afford to get in trouble, Caleb and me," you tell her. "My dad's a real hard-ass about that kind of thing, and Caleb— Well, you know him and his mom are the only ones in his family, and if he's gonna get into a good college he can't, you know—"<br/>
<br/>
"He can't go breaking into an abandoned school basement and setting fires?"<br/>
<br/>
You feel your jaw slacken and your cheeks pale. Sydney holds your eye.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh," she says after a long pause. "I think you just gave the game away, Will."<br/>
<br/>
Your heart beats hard. "Gave what away? I don't— We never—"<br/>
<br/>
"Cards on the table, Will?" she says. She grabs your hands in hers, and you almost levitate.<br/>
<br/>
"I think you and Caleb are up to something in that basement," she says. "I think one of you guys started that fire, and that one of you guys went back to relight it this afternoon after we left. Because it's burning again. I went out to look before I came back."<br/>
<br/>
Her smile widens. "I think that wasn't the right key you brought out to the school this morning. I think that Caleb called or texted you before we went out there, and he set it up for you to bring the wrong key and pretend it was the right one so that we couldn't get in. I think you're up to something, Will. You and Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
She squeezes your hands, and your protests die in your throat.<br/>
<br/>
"I want to help out too," she says. "I want it to be the three of us. Or the four of us, if your friend Keith's in on it too.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you say?"</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111221
author_id: seuzz
title: How to Create a Convincing Backstory
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>You just gave the game away, Will.</i><br/>
<br/>
That's what Sydney said, and she's right, isn't she? You can feel the guilt on your own face, and you wouldn't be surprised if she came right out and told you that she knows all about everything you've been up to.<br/>
<br/>
<i>You've been using an ancient grimoire to make magical disguises and get your friends in trouble, haven't you, Will?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Okay, look," you stammer. "I really can't go into it all, uh, now. I mean, it's really complicated—"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit. Now you really </i>have<i> blown everything wide open.</i> You put your face in your hands.<br/>
<br/>
Then Sydney herself comes to your rescue.<br/>
<br/>
"You want to talk about it with your friends first, don't you?" she says. You peek out at her between your fingers. She's smiling. "You really should," she goes on. "I'll stay out of the way until you do.<br/>
<br/>
"But, uh, Will?" She reaches across to pry your fingers apart, giving her a better view of your face and expression. "I really do want to be friends with you and your friends." Her fingers gently brush against yours.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you've bought yourself a little time, but a little time to do what? To figure out a new bluff for Sydney? To figure out a way to tell her what you've been doing, and how, and why? To figure out how leave town and lose yourself in a strange city?<br/>
<br/>
It's when you remember how she credited the stuff to "you and your friends" that you finally stumble onto a semi-profitable train of thought. She frightens you, but she'd be a lot less frightening if you had friends to back you up. If it was you and your friends who were letting her into your club, where you were all in control.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, your friends don't know anything about this, so you'd have to tell them first—like Sydney suggested—and that would be really weird. But you did come close early on to telling them about it all.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, you decide, you'd be happier if you had Caleb—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i><br/>
<br/>
You've been pranking Caleb! You used his face to get him in a lot of trouble at parties! And to steal money from his friends! <br/>
<br/>
If you tell him what you were doing, he'll kill you!<br/>
<br/>
And you can't tell Sydney without telling him, can you? Because she's practically started dating him and for some reason she thinks that he's the one that's running things!<br/>
<br/>
Still, maybe if you only told Keith ....<br/>
<br/>
Keith ...<br/>
<br/>
You're at home, and before you can change your mind you shoot Tilley a text telling him you're on your way over to his house.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Dude!" Keith exclaims when he answers his front door. "I texted you, I can't hang out."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you can, and you better," you retort. "It's important."<br/>
<br/>
"I got company! My aunt and uncle—"<br/>
<br/>
"Are they here to see <i>you?</i> Are you in charge of the entertainment? They gonna break out razor blades and start cutting themselves if you take off someplace without them?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith gapes at you. "Dude, what's your fu—?" He glances back into the house. "What's your deal?" he hisses.<br/>
<br/>
You grasp your number-two friend by his scrawny bicep. <br/>
<br/>
"Keith, man, I got something super important to talk to you about, about you and me and Caleb and that girl he's seeing."<br/>
<br/>
He snorts. "Johansson!" he sneers. "That cocksucker can—" But then catches himself, and his eyes narrow. "What girl?"<br/>
<br/>
"See? That's the thing we need to talk about. Well, eventually. But something a lot more important than that first."<br/>
<br/>
Keith looks dubious. "Yeah, well, my aunt and uncle just drove into town, we're supposed to have supper with them. We're going to Olive Garden," he adds, as though that explains anything.<br/>
<br/>
"Forty-five minutes," you retort. "Give me forty-five minutes to get you interested. Can you take off with me for that long?"<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme a minute," he says, and leaves you twitching on the front porch as he goes in to check.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I gotta be back by five-thirty," he says when he returns. "We're going to Olive Garden," he repeats.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll find an excuse to blow them off," you assure him, "after I give you my show and tell."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
On the drive out you start by telling him about Caleb and Sydney McGlynn—a topic that he snorts derisively over—then switch to that book you found and what it can do.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus, dude," Keith moans when you break off. "I don't even <i>like</i> my aunt and uncle. But coming out with you to listen to this shit? At least with them—"<br/>
<br/>
That's as far as he gets. You're parked at Potsdam Park, next to the river, and you're already unzipping your backpack. Before he can finish his thought, you yank out the mask of Caleb and smash it into his face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Come on, you're not trying!" you holler at Keith.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, Will!" he hollers back. "I think I'm doing a pretty goddamned good job of <i>being Caleb Johansson!</i>" He touches his face.<br/>
<br/>
Well, Caleb's face. That's the face now attached to the front of his skull, and it's with Caleb's fingers that he touches it. His eyes are still bulging in an alarming way as he studies himself in his cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
Slamming the mask onto him was the quickest way of convincing him of the truth of what you'd been telling him, and after half a minute of panicking Keith had come round to accepting the idea that you weren't totally full of shit when you told him all that stuff about masks and disguises and burning things over sigils. He accused you of "hypnotizing" him, and he probably still half-believes that it's all an illusion he's suffering. But at least he's stopped screaming.<br/>
<br/>
Now if only he could start <i>acting</i> like Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
"Think!" you order him. "When's Caleb's birthday?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sometime in March?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not even close. Name some of his relatives. What's his locker combination? Something, Tilley, God damn it!" <br/>
<br/>
But Keith numbly insists that, even in the mask, he doesn't know anything about Caleb that he didn't already know.<br/>
<br/>
"What's it matter?" he grumbles. "You want me going out, pretending to be him in front of other people? Like you did with me? Cocksucker."<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, you told him what you did with that mask, to him and to Ioeger and Lamont, and at those parties. At least he doesn't seem mad about it, and when you told him you'll pay him back when you have a chance, he just shrugged and told you to forget about it.<br/>
<br/>
"I wanna know how much trouble I'm gonna be in with Caleb when I tell <i>him</i> what I got up to," you explain.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you're gonna be in a shitload of trouble," Keith assures you. "I don't need to know nothing more about Johansson than what I already know to tell you that. Anyway—" He turns back to the cell phone and frowns at the image on its screen. "Why don't you just put the dingus on and find out yourself? If you really can read his mind with it?"<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. "Because I wanted to practice on you. I wanted to practice telling him by telling <i>you</i> what I did."<br/>
<br/>
"Why can't you do that now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because you're not Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
"I am totally Johansson right now," he insists. "Hey, let's go find that skirt you were telling me about, get him in trouble with her, like—"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus! Get him in trouble? You just got through yelling at me about that!"<br/>
<br/>
"That was different, that was when you were doing it."<br/>
<br/>
"And now it's different?"<br/>
<br/>
"Totally. This time it would be me fucking things up for him."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Fortunately, you have an excuse for cutting him off: He has to get back home so he can go to the Olive Garden <i>(eye roll)</i> with his family. You pull the mask off him, and wake him up again when you're parked in front of his house. "I'll text you when I get back," he tells you as he scrambles from your truck. "Then we can, like, go get in trouble and shit."<br/>
<br/>
You grunt and drive off. But instead of going home, you drive around the city, thinking.<br/>
<br/>
Keith took the thing pretty goddamned well. Better than you probably would have taken them. He not only swallowed without straining the story you told him about the mask—which he would, considering that you set up a very practical demonstration—but he also accepted what you did with the mask and was actually up for doing some more of it. That bodes well for making the reveal to Caleb, particularly if you promise to help him set things right with Carson and James.<br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, Caleb was the victim, and you pranked him pretty severely. Even if he came in on it with you and Keith, and agreed to show the stuff to Sydney, you might have damaged your friendship with him so badly that things will never be right between you again. You might only be setting yourself up for a lot of horrible—and, with magic involved, even dangerous—conflict with him.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you could convince Sydney that Caleb doesn't actually know what's going, that it's just you and Keith.<br/>
<br/>
And, after that thought occurs to you, you start to regret the panicked way that you confessed things to Tilley.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111112212
author_id: seuzz
title: Making a Magical Second Impression
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've made your decision by the time Keith texts you to say that he's leaving Olive Garden. You tell him to meet you at the old elementary school, so you can show him the rest of the stuff you've been making.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, when we meet up with Sydney," you tell him as you're unlocking the basement door, "we're going to say to her that it's just us playing around with this stuff. Caleb's not into it, he doesn't know anything about it."<br/>
<br/>
"How come's that?" Keith asks. "Why don't we get him into this?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be a dumbass. I was pranking him. You told me I'd be in a shitload of trouble with him if he finds out what i was doing."<br/>
<br/>
"So we're cutting him outta this? That's cold, man!"<br/>
<br/>
"This is the way we're doing it." But you pause halfway down the stairs. "You really think we should tell Caleb?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith shrugs. "Makes sense we don't. Anyway, leaving him out leaves more of that skirt for us."<br/>
<br/>
It's dark on the stairway, so Keith can't see the glare you shoot him.<br/>
<br/>
But he's right.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have church the next morning, and then lunch with your family, so it's nearly two before you're able to meet with Keith and Sydney. You send them to the elementary school, and you get Keith out there first so you can go back over the story that you set up last night. "Yeah, I get it," he snorts. "It's not hard, cocksucker. You were in charge of everything, and I was just your Eye-gor."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney is all smiles when she arrives fifteen minutes later. "So where's Caleb?" she asks as she climbs out of a gleaming SUV.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, he's not here," you tell her. Your heart hammers in your chest. "You haven't been talking to him, have you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I was texting him this morning. I thought I'd see him here."<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself paling. "But you didn't tell him you were going to meet up with him here! Did you?"<br/>
<br/>
Sydney gives you a look. "I didn't know we were going to meet here, Will." She glances at Keith. "Are you okay?"<br/>
<br/>
You whip off your hat and wipe your forehead. "No, I'm fine. It's just— Look, Sydney, here's the thing. Caleb doesn't know about any of this."<br/>
<br/>
She rolls her eyes. "Uh huh. Pull the other one, Will, it's got bells on it."<br/>
<br/>
"No, he doesn't! Look, just come down with us—" You turn, and bump hard into Keith. "Oh, uh, Keith knows about it all, though."<br/>
<br/>
"'At's right." Keith waggles his eyebrows at Sydney; surreptitiously, you punch him in the ribs.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney is wearing a gnomic smile as she follows you down into the basement, and she listens with a tolerant amusement as you point to the burning pile of dirt and confess to setting it up and lighting it and looking after it. "And what's it for?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you confess. "I've got this book, I found it in a used bookstore. Er, I'd show it to you, except it's under all that dirt."<br/>
<br/>
"But it's not burning," Keith chimes in. You step on his foot.<br/>
<br/>
"The thing is," you explain, "the book, it's weird, it tells you what to do, but it doesn't tell you what it makes. Not until the thing is done."<br/>
<br/>
"Why, is it written in invisible ink or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Look, it's complicated."<br/>
<br/>
"I've got all afternoon." Sydney leans against a bookcase. She's still smiling, but it is starting to show some strain. "So far you haven't told me anything I don't already know."<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, then here's something you don't know about. It's pretty important. Er, don't freak out." It irritates you when she just turns on that same indulgent smile. <i>Maybe I hope you do freak out,</i> you catch yourself thinking. "Keith, lay out there on the table."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like we did the first time we tried the thing out," you explain to him through grinding teeth.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Right. Like the first time when we tried the thing out," he says, and hops onto a dusty table that must have once decorated a conference room. "Yeah, that was pretty freaky," he adds as he lays back on it.<br/>
<br/>
From beneath the table you draw out the mask of Caleb, and show it to Sydney. "This is one of the things I made with the book. The first thing I made with it, actually." She nods. "It's a mask." She nods again. You bite your lip.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, get on with it," Keith says. You give him a dirty look.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, if you'll come up here close," you tell Sydney. "And watch—" You stumble back as she steps up close to you. <i>God, she's so gorgeous,</i> you think. "Alright," you stammer. "Um, presto-chango. Except you don't actually have to say—"<br/>
<br/>
The mask slips from your fingers as you turn it over to set on Keith's face. Your friend just has time to flinch as it falls onto him, before his face vanishes and Caleb's appears. He relaxes all over, his eyes go vacant, and his mouth falls open. You hesitate, then shake him lightly. But he's unconscious.<br/>
<br/>
You look up at Sydney. With arms folded she is frowning down at Keith. For the longest moment she says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Then she says, "It's Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
"It's Keith," you correct her.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean—?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a disguise. A full-body disguise. When he wakes up—it'll take awhile—he'll  look like Caleb and he'll sound like Caleb. He'll even be able to tell you stuff that only Caleb knows. Totally perfect imitation."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney sucks in her upper lip. "And the real Caleb?" You're staggered by how well she's taking it all.<br/>
<br/>
"He's home. Or wherever he is. It doesn't have anything to do with him. It's just a disguise."<br/>
<br/>
Sydney's chin wobbles. Maybe she's nodding—it's hard to tell. "And he doesn't know about this?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I, uh, copied him without him knowing about it. You have to get the mask onto someone first, for it to copy them. Then— Well, then you have to do some other stuff to seal it up, but then you can wear it. I— We— Keith and me, we, uh, didn't tell him we did it to him. We haven't told him about any of this."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" Still she stares down at Keith, and still her tone and expression are amazingly composed. <br/>
<br/>
"We were pranking him. Getting him in trouble while pretending to be him."<br/>
<br/>
She grunts, and a sudden thought comes to you: "Did you see him someplace?" you ask. "Is that why you think that he knows all about this stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
Now she does give you a sidelong look. "When were you out pretending to be him?"<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a deep breath. "At a couple of parties last weekend, last Friday. That's all."<br/>
<br/>
She holds your eye. "That's all?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Did you see him at any of those parties?"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't answer right away, and when she does she is staring past you at the burning dirt pile. "Tell me about that stuff over there again. Did you set it up before or after you went around pranking your friend?"<br/>
<br/>
"After." You stiffen. "That was also last weekend. Oh, I was also wearing Caleb's mask when I did that."<br/>
<br/>
Her interest quickens. "Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"I had to get the dirt out of the cemetery. I didn't want to be the one who got in trouble if I got caught."<br/>
<br/>
Again she holds your eye. And then she visibly relaxes.<br/>
<br/>
"I see," she says. "That was pretty clever of you, Will. And, uh, of Keith. Was he pranking Caleb too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, he was helping me." You puff out your chest. "I'm the one in charge, though." <i>Fuck Keith if he thinks he's going to impress this girl more than you're going to.</i><br/>
<br/>
"So why don't you tell Caleb about it all now?" she asks. "I mean, if he is your friend."<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tell Caleb about all this," she repeats. "Isn't he your friend?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"So why don't you share it with him?"<br/>
<br/>
You grimace, and look down at the still-unconscious Keith. He looks just like Caleb, so you flinch.<br/>
<br/>
"It would be hard to," you mutter. "He'd be pissed."<br/>
<br/>
"Because you were pranking him?"<br/>
<br/>
You hang your head. "Worse than that. I stole some money off some guys while pretending to be him."<br/>
<br/>
You expect Sydney to react harshly to that. To your amazement, though, she steps up close and clasps you about the waist.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," she says, showing deep dimples. "You <i>are</i> a bad boy, aren't you, Will?"</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111122121
author_id: seuzz
title: A Third Masketeer
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The moment with Sydney is interrupted by a groan from the table; to your chagrin, she releases you and steps back.<br/>
<br/>
Keith raises his head. "The fuck?" he says. He rubs an eye, then adjusts his pants.<br/>
<br/>
"Caleb?" Sydney says.<br/>
<br/>
The person on the table doesn't answer. "Yo, Tilley," you bark.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Remember who you're supposed to be."<br/>
<br/>
"Fu—?" Then, even in the dark, his face lights up.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, yeah, Johansson here," he says in a honking imitation of Caleb's voice. "Yo, someone got some calculus homework they need helpin' with?" He sits up, and swings his legs off the table. You fight the urge to face-palm.<br/>
<br/>
Sydney steps up close to him, putting her face almost right up to his. Keith flinches, then catches himself and grins. "Like what you see?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
"It's perfect," Sydney replies after a moment's hesitation. She raises her hand, hesitates, then pinches his nose. "It feels real, too!"<br/>
<br/>
Keith rubs the enormous nose he's inherited from Caleb. "Yeah, feels real on this end, too. Feels real all over, if there's something else you'd like to manhandle." He waggles his eyebrows.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you jump in before things can go too far, "we showed her it works, how it works. You can take it off now, Keith."<br/>
<br/>
"No, this is fun," he retorts. "Let's go out and do something." To Sydney: "We can, like, go out do whatever you and Johansson like to do."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have any more masks?" she asks. "Of anyone else?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, just Caleb. Come on, man," you tell Keith. "That's enough."<br/>
<br/>
"I just got into it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Can I try it out?" Sydney asks.<br/>
<br/>
"What?" The exclamation comes from both you and Keith, simultaneously.<br/>
<br/>
She returns you both a knowing smirk. "I want to try it out," she says. "Or is this something only you guys get to do?"<br/>
<br/>
You can only stammer incoherently—"You, you, uh, guh?"—but Keith has greater presence of mind.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," he says. "Lemme just get out of it— Um." He sucks in his lips and gives you a look. "I need your help getting out of it, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whuh? Oh. Yeah." You sidle up. "Just lay back." He shuts his eyes as you grasp him by the brow and pull.<br/>
<br/>
Your fingers slip off. "It's kind of tricky," you tell Sydney, and grab Keith again. This time, at least, you remember that there's some funky words you have to repeat three times fast as you pull, and this time the mask comes away in your hand, returning Keith his regular features.<br/>
<br/>
"What language was that?" Sydney asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Latin or something. Whole book's written in it." You gesture at the burning pile of dirt. "I'd show you, you know, but I don't want to mess up the spell that's workin' out over there."<br/>
<br/>
"Mmm. What else are you going to do with it?" She reaches out to take the mask from you. "What else does the book show you how to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"So far nothing. I mean, there's lots of steps to making a mask. Like, there's making the mask, and there's another spell for sealing it up, and this thing here?" You point to the metal band attached to the inside of the mask. "That's the thing that's got Caleb's memories and stuff in it. You can make it up separately, wear it separately without turning yourself into, you know. Then there's another spell that—" You trail off as Sydney studies the inside of the mask closely. "You know, you don't seem really freaked out by any of this," you observe with a stab of candor that surprises even you.<br/>
<br/>
"Were you freaked out by it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck yeah. I mean," you hastily add as she dimples at you, "I got used to it pretty fast, now it's all like, you know." Your heart, which is beating in your throat, seems to be interfering with your tongue. "But I'm really impressed that you didn't scream or nothing when I showed you."<br/>
<br/>
<i>OH GOD OH GOD YOU DID NOT JUST TELL HER THAT YOU EXPECTED HER TO SCREAM OR SOMETHING!!!</i><br/>
<br/>
But she only laughs. "I don't scream for anything, Will. I do fine with snakes, for instance."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh wow. 'Cos I don't like snakes."<br/>
<br/>
"Most people don't."<br/>
<br/>
That's the end of the small talk—<i>thank God!</i>—and she asks you a lot of business-like questions about each spell and how each one is useful on its own. You explain, for instance, how you can get someone else's memories and personality inside the metal band just by wearing it alone without changing your appearance, and how you can make up a new physical form by merging different people into a mask before sealing it. She asks questions of her own—like, is it possible to read another person's mind while wearing one of the metal bands, and where a person's own natural parts disappear to while wearing a mask.<br/>
<br/>
She's asking about medical procedures—"Like, can you have your appendix taken out while you're wearing a mask? And will you have your own appendix still when you take the mask off?"—when Keith stirs and wakes. He grimaces sleepily at the two of you, then says, "Thought one of you was gonna put the dingus on."<br/>
<br/>
"We were talking," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll need a change of clothes," Sydney says. "Can I put on some of yours?"<br/>
<br/>
You and Keith exchange a glance. Keith says, "Um," but it's your turn to think quickly. "I live just around the corner," you say. "I'll run get some of Caleb's things. The ones I was using when I was, um—"<br/>
<br/>
Only after you're in your truck do you realize you left that dazzling girl alone with Keith.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you make it a fast trip home. Once you're back you thrust Caleb's clothes at Sydney, then haul Keith upstairs and outside so she can have some privacy while changing.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude!" he wails. "That's the whole reason I wanted her getting into and out of that thing! So we could see her with her clothes off!" He bends next to one of the windows, but you yank him back. <br/>
<br/>
"What did you talk about while I was gone?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothin'. I told her you were running things, that I was just helping out. Fuck, I wish you'd'a explained it all to me better so I didn't have to be the derpy guy. Anyway, she was asking all, like, about stuff we could do with the masks, if we were gonna do anything except prank Johansson. Which we should totally get up to, you know." He regards you over a lifted chin. "You don't got the imagination for this, Will. Or maybe the cojones."<br/>
<br/>
"So what would <i>you</i> do with these masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"I 'unno." He jerks his shoulders, then gives you a sidelong look. "Actually, I can think of one thing we could do, and it's the other reason I wanted her putting that thing on." He shudders. "And it sure wasn't 'cos I was missing Johansson."<br/>
<br/>
"Just cut to the chase, man."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the way I see it, she owes us one. You know." He rolls his tongue around in his cheek and nudges you. "We be lettin' her put on a copy of our friend's body. She should be lettin' us put on a copy of one o' <i>her</i> friends' bodies."<br/>
<br/>
You have to stare at his smirk for a couple of seconds before you get what he's saying. "You mean one of her— Her <i>girl</i> friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, Will," he retorts. "One them hairy jocks she's probably sucking off. Course I mean one o' her girlfriends. Jesus!" He mimes fondling a set of prodigious breasts that are invisibly attached to his chest. "Just 'magine having a couple of jugs to play with, a pussy to finger. We should totally tell her she has to score us a copy of one of her friends. Make it her initiation fee."<br/>
<br/>
You're too preoccupied with balancing two conflicting reactions to the image Keith has given you—<i>Whoaw!</i> and <i>Ewwww!</i>—to immediately catch his last words, but you do a double-take at him when you catch up. "Initiation fee?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. She's gonna be hanging out with us after this, right? Helping us out? Pfft! You don't think she's just gonna go home and forget about this, forget about <i>us.</i>" He nudges you again. "Maybe we should think about bringing in some other chicks as club members. Yeah! Make it their fee they have to copy two of their friends to get in."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think anyone else is going to be as cool with this as Sydney is."<br/>
<br/>
"No tellin' if you don't try."<br/>
<br/>
"No, let's just keep it the three of us. I don't want word of this getting out. I mean— Fuck! Can you imagine what would happen if, like, the CIA found out about this? Or the Russians or the Chinese or—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you'd be totally hosed."<br/>
<br/>
"No shit. I— <i>Me?</i>" you shriek. "<i>I'd</i> be hosed? What about you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Forget it, Will, we'll keep it close if you want to." He wheels toward the basement door. "Come on, we should check to see if she's ready to go yet. I hope she isn't."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's Caleb again on the conference table, still asleep though already dressed, so Sydney must have changed clothes first. She soon wakes up, though, and fights her way through the clutter to a dusty mirror in the corner, where she studies herself with boggling eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"So we're letting you take a test drive of our guy's undercarriage," Keith says with blunt nonchalance while you're still trying to figure out a way to broach the request. "Can you score us a copy of one of your friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?" The girl-who-now-looks-like-Caleb glances back at you. "Oh, sure. I can do that. Who do you want?"</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311111222
author_id: seuzz
title: A Need for Red Herrings
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>You just gave the game away, Will.</i><br/>
<br/>
That's what Sydney said, and she's right, isn't she? You can feel the guilt on your own face.<br/>
<br/>
But that doesn't mean you have to confess to everything.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I don't know what's up with Caleb," you tell her. It comes out as a stammer, for you're improvising desperately. "But yeah, the thing with the key was a trick we cooked up. Well, that he cooked up. You're right, he called me ahead of time, told me to bring the wrong key and pretend it was the right one. Um—" You squint at her. "You have any idea what it's about, since I don't?"<br/>
<br/>
She puts her chin in her hand and returns your squint with a squint of her own. "Are you sure you don't?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Seriously, I don't," you insist. "Caleb's gotten kind of weird lately. He's pissed some of us off, his friends, I mean. It's like he's in some kind of trouble but he's not telling anyone what it's about. So, you know—" You fix her with your most sincere look. "If you can tell me something about what's going on with him—"<br/>
<br/>
Then you break off. "Uh, <i>are</i> you seriously interested in him?" you ask. It's a very blunt question, but you're baffled by the fact that this ex-cheerleader has been paying Caleb so much attention.<br/>
<br/>
"Why wouldn't I be?" she parries. "But you don't know anything about that basement?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just what I told you."<br/>
<br/>
"Does he have a key to it?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, not knowing where the best answer lies. "I don't know. I don't think so. It was my lock and my key. But, you know, he might've got the key off me and got a copy made. I wouldn't know or remember." You squint at her again. "You think he's got something to do with that fire down there?"<br/>
<br/>
She settles back in the booth and gives you a very long, very steady look.<br/>
<br/>
"But you do have a key to that basement, right?" she says. "Do you mind going out there with me and looking around?"<br/>
<br/>
Too late do you now see the cul-de-sac that you led yourself into. You can only shrug and say, "Sure. But," you add, rallying to secure yourself some kind of profit, "can you tell me what's going on?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So I guess that settles it," Sydney says, pointing at the flaming pile of dirt. "Caleb does have a key to this place, and he came back here and set it on fire again."<br/>
<br/>
You'd be staggered, except that her words are just the punctuation mark on everything else she shared with you on the ride out to Acheson.<br/>
<br/>
She caught him at it last Saturday night. Or more accurately, though she doesn't know it, she caught <i>you</i> at it last Saturday night. She saw you out at the cemetery, filling bags with dirt, and followed you out to the school where she watched you set the pile on fire and stick your arm in it, up to your elbow. But because you were wearing that mask of Caleb, she thinks it was him.<br/>
<br/>
And what was <i>she</i> doing out at the cemetery? She refuses to say.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't know what's going on here," you tell her. You've put yourself between her and the fire, so that she won't get too good a look at it. "Maybe it's some kind of secret science project?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's <i>some</i> kind of project," she agrees.<br/>
<br/>
"Is it any of our business?"<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a look. "Do you like your friend keeping secrets from you?"<br/>
<br/>
You flush. "Well, it's not like I tell <i>him</i> everything I get up to!"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! Like, do you want me telling him about me meeting up with you? About us coming back out here and breaking in?"<br/>
<br/>
She sucks in her upper lip. "Do you think he'd tell you what was going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why are you so interested?"<br/>
<br/>
She darts you a brief glare, and tenses all over.<br/>
<br/>
Then she relaxes. "I'm just a snoop, I guess," she says, but her laugh sounds forced. "And I like guys who get up to mischief. Do you, uh, <i>mind</i> that I'm so interested in Caleb and his projects?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, no. It just seems kind of—"<br/>
<br/>
"Kind of what?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno." You glance around. "Maybe we should get out of here before we get caught."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The afternoon's twists leave you feeling faint with anxiety. You knew there was a risk of getting caught. You're glad it wasn't someone from the community center, but the fact is that one of your classmates knows that there's something funky going on in the basement. That she is trying to pin it on Caleb means that things aren't as bad as they could be. But it's going to be bad enough if she keeps trying to get Caleb to come clean about something that he's not involved with.<br/>
<br/>
Before parting with Sydney, you tried to get her to lay off Caleb by telling her that you would discreetly probe him to find out what was going on. She agreed, but late in the afternoon you find out what her promises are worth when you get an angry phone call from Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
"God damn it, Will," he fumes. "Why are you trying to fuck things up for me with Sydney?"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart tries to squirt out the front of your chest. "How am I trying to fuck things up?"<br/>
<br/>
"You met up with her this afternoon and told her some bullshit story about— Something to do with the key to that fucking school basement!"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? What did I tell her?"<br/>
<br/>
"You tell me! Something about how I told you to bring the wrong key out there this morning. Jesus, Will, what are doing?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Damn you, Sydney!</i> "Oh, that. Um." You twist on your feet, grabbing at any stray idea that zips across your mind. "I was just, you know, trying to get her interested in you. Make you a man of mystery, or something."<br/>
<br/>
"By <i>what?"</i> He sounds strangled on his own outrage.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, um, did she tell you she met me up at the Crystal Cave? Yeah, um, she accused me of bringing the wrong key when we met up out there. Like, on purpose. She said she thought you called me up and told me to bring the wrong key."<br/>
<br/>
"Where the fuck did she get <i>that</i> idea?"<br/>
<br/>
"Beats me, man! You'd have to ask her! But that's what she told me and I thought, well, fuck it, I'll tell her that's what you did, make you out to be, like, secret agent man, or something."<br/>
<br/>
There's a very long pause on the other end of the line. "Hello? Hey Caleb, you th—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you in a fucking special ed program for dipshits or something? What kind of a—? Keith! That's the kind of mindfucking stupidity I'd expect from Tilley! But from you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, it got her interested in you, didn't it? She's fascinated by you, isn't she?" You feel yourself getting hot all over. "She thinks you set that fire down in there, she thinks you got secrets and are, like, into mischief and stuff. She likes that, she told me. She <i>likes</i> guys who are into, like, fucking stuff up."<br/>
<br/>
"Then she should be into <i>you!</i>" he hollers. "'Cos—!"<br/>
<br/>
Then he catches himself.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, just don't try to do me any more favors, okay? My life is weird enough lately without you trying to help!" The line goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
But he's not done with you, and a minute later you get a text: <i>wtf she thinks i made that fire? who gave her that idea?</i> You tell him to forget about it, then send Sydney a text of your own: <i>just leave caleb alone ok u freak him out w questions.</i> Her reply (when it comes an hour later): <i>Ok I'll leave it in your capable hands, Will.</i> You scowl at her text, unsure if she's being really sarcastic or <i>really, very, ultra-</i>sarcastic by applying the word "capable" to you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There are no more tremors that day, or Sunday morning. But you're in no mood to deal with any more shit involving Sydney or Caleb, so you deliberately leave your phone behind when you drive into town to get away from things. Keith is busy with some kind of extra-credit assignment for Mr. Hawks's class, so it's you and you only who hit a couple of comic book shops before making your way up to the mall. You're cruising up and down it, trying to decide where to go to next, when you hear your name shouted. It's Carson Ioeger. And, as ever, James Lamont is with him.<br/>
<br/>
"Supply run," Carson says when you ask what they're doing up at the mall. "You?"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "Supplies for what?" you ask. "School project or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"Something," James snaps. His glance is unfriendly.<br/>
<br/>
But Carson's glance has turned appraising. "Are you a gambling man, Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
James says, "No," so you snap out a "Maybe!"<br/>
<br/>
"How are your acting skills?" Carson asks.<br/>
<br/>
"If he's going to do this," James says, "don't tell him what it is."<br/>
<br/>
"What is it?" you can't help asking.<br/>
<br/>
Your classmates exchange a long look. "Mischief," Carson finally says. "Come find us tomorrow if you're interested in some risk-free mischief."<br/>
<br/>
He won't tell you any more, though, and you're left glaring at his back as he and James saunter off.<br/>
<br/>
The word <i>mischief</i> is echoing in your head, though, which gives you a really wild idea.<br/>
<br/>
Carson and Caleb have the same basic build, and you could almost believe that someone who didn't know them well might mistake them for each other. And Carson has a well-known taste for <i>mischief</i> that Caleb doesn't.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you could distract Sydney—set her on a false trail—if you told her that it was maybe Carson, not Caleb, that she saw in the school basement last weekend.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311112
author_id: seuzz
title: Your Friend, Who Is More Responsible Than You
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The lights are off in your house, but you sneak in anyway. You're halfway across the living room when a lamp snaps on. You stifle a shriek.<br/>
<br/>
"Just because you got home an hour early last night doesn't mean you get to come home an hour late tonight," your dad says with deadly calm. Then, before you can put your tongue in gear, he sniffs the air. "What's that smell?"<br/>
<br/>
You took Caleb's mask off before coming in, thank God, but you're still in his old clothes, which now have sweat, grime, and cemetery dirt caked inside them along with the ghosts of whatever horrible things were floating in the river the other night.<br/>
<br/>
"That's why I'm late," you blurt out. "I was about to come home, but some guys caught me and threw me in the river."<br/>
<br/>
"You were at the river?" he asks in a sharp voice.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oof.</i> "The river" means "girls" and "beer" and "drugs" and "worse" to you, and as your dad is a Saratoga Falls native it probably means the same to him.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. We had a late cookout." You sniff at your sleeve, and gag. "You can still smell the smoke, underneath the, uh, other smells."<br/>
<br/>
Your dad makes a face. "Okay, just get out of those things, get a shower, and get to bed. And dump those things in the garage. We'll wash them before we give them back to Caleb."<br/>
<br/>
Again, you wonder that your dad is sharp enough to recognize and remember where you got the clothes you're wearing. You'll have to remember that the next time you try fooling him with one of your hare-brained schemes.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You forgot you had church on Sunday, and all through the tedious services you're irritated with yourself for not doing more spell work last night when you had the chance. It's almost two-thirty in the afternoon before you are able to get back to the elementary school to pick up where you left off.<br/>
<br/>
At least you're able to do some sustained work. You bring some kitchen scales with you, and a pencil and notebook—<br/>
<br/>
—which makes you wonder if some of Caleb's personality has begun to wear off on you, for by bringing the latter to record the precise weights of each bag of dirt before you empty it onto the floor you are being far more diligent than you are prone to. Usually you have the patience of a rabbit when doing these things.<br/>
<br/>
When you're done you have measured out just a little more than four hundred pounds of the stuff. Four hundred pounds and twelve ounces, to be precise. (You check the numbers a second time.) You would scoop out the twelve ounces, but you figure it's best that you give yourself a margin of safety.<br/>
<br/>
Next come the rest of the ingredients: fuels and powders, mostly, but also a hank of your own hair, which you scissor off with some shears you brought along for that purpose. This last bit you tuck into the earth, so that it won't blow away accidentally. Then you light a match and—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> You blow it out. All this stuff is supposed to be set on the sigil that's in the book. You glance between the book, which is resting open on the table by your hip, and the pile of dirt.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you're not going to move that whole pile just to get the book underneath it. Nor are you going to take a chance on blowing up the book by putting it under a pile of dirt that's basically been soaked in rocket fuel. You chew your lip.<br/>
<br/>
With a shrug you return home, taking the book with you, and prop yourself up in your bedroom to copy the sigil into a drawing pad that you have left over from that spectacularly unsuccessful art class that you took a few years back.<br/>
<br/>
As you work—and it's much easier than you'd supposed it would be; the complex figures and curves seem to flow out of your pencil onto the page—you call Caleb. "So I talked to some people about Friday night," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"Gee, thanks," he says in a very bitter tone.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I'm sorry. But they're all pretty sure they saw you at those parties."<br/>
<br/>
"I know," he says. "I talked to some people too."<br/>
<br/>
"Did they call you, or did you go looking for them?"<br/>
<br/>
"I texted around." His voice tightens. "I told them I was in a bad mood that night."<br/>
<br/>
"What were you in a bad mood about?"<br/>
<br/>
He flares. "I wasn't in a—! Look, never mind, man. I don't want to talk about it any more."<br/>
<br/>
"Want me to tell Keith to lay off you?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause. "What's he laying onto me with? The fuck are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, yet. But you know Tilley. Dumbass'll open his mouth and say the wrong thing to the wrong person."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, for God's sake don't give him any ideas about saying anything! Just let it all, uh, you know. Go away."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Is it going to go away?</i> you think gleefully to yourself. <i>Is it going to stop?</i><br/>
<br/>
"If I can just get through tomorrow without anyone killing me I'll be okay," Caleb continues. "I don't think anyone'll kill me. I wasn't much more than a— I mean, it doesn't sound like I was more than just a jerk." His breathing sounds in your ear. "I already texted an apology to Stephanie Wyatt."<br/>
<br/>
The phone slips from your ear as you jump in surprise.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb is taking responsibility for something that you did while pretending to be him? Part of you feels a little guilty; mostly you feel astonished glee at the opportunities for mischief this opens up.<br/>
<br/>
"—which was pretty decent of her, I guess," Caleb is saying when you get the phone wedged back next to your ear.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, whatever," you say. "How are you explaining it to people?"<br/>
<br/>
You didn't mean anything by the question. You were just wondering how Caleb was squaring his knowledge of his innocence with the guilt that everyone else was assuming. But the question seems to cut Caleb the wrong way. It's a moment before he replies, and there's a very sharp edge to his tone.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not explaining anything, Prescott. I'm just dealing with it and taking responsibility. I don't know what the fuck is going on—" His voice rises as you try to interrupt him. "And I'm just glad the weekend and all this shit is done!" He hangs up.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The weekend is done,</i> you think to yourself, <i>but that doesn't mean your troubles aren't just beginning!</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Actually, you have no firm intention to keep screwing with your best friend. Deep down, you're pretty sure you've gone far enough and maybe just a little bit too far. <br/>
<br/>
Besides, you've got this job to finish up.<br/>
<br/>
After completely copying the sigil, and checking to make sure that it's scrupulously accurate, you return to the school and carefully scoop out a trench in the berm of earth you've constructed. There is no way you can pile all the earth within the confines of the sigil, but you're pretty sure the book understands that, so you just lay the copied sigil on the floor and pile over it the dirt you'd removed. You're still shy about lighting the stuff up, though, so instead of flinging a match at it, you puzzle over ways of getting it lit remotely. The only solution you can come up with is some kind of cord. <br/>
<br/>
You don't know anything about such stuff, but you know someone who does. <br/>
<br/>
So you crawl back into the mask and mind of your best friend.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
One of the benefits to having a large military base like Fort Suffolk nearby is that the city gets to have a couple of kick-ass military supply stores. Black Falls Military Surplus is right across the street from your dad's work and, still wearing Caleb's mask, that's where you go.<br/>
<br/>
You catch the clerk—a tall, paunchy man with a dome-like crown shaved as smooth as a bowling ball, and a beard down to his breastbone—eyeing you closely as you set down the smallest reel of fuse cord you could find. "Playing with fireworks?" he asks in a deep, gruff tone as he looks the box over.<br/>
<br/>
"Rockets," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Really," he says. "Big ones?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, just models."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't need this stuff if you're setting off model rockets."<br/>
<br/>
"No, but it's more fun and dramatic this way. Besides, I've got my little cousins to watch out for, and I want them to learn to be really careful."<br/>
<br/>
That last lie seems to you like too desperate an improvisation to sell, but it seems to make all the difference to the clerk, for he rings it up. You're whistling under your breath as you saunter out—<br/>
<br/>
—and slam directly into three of your least favorite people in the world.<br/>
<br/>
Joshua Call is an acne-scarred dropout-to-be with short, dark hair that shines like an oil slick, and eyes that are empty of pity or humanity. Jeff Spencer, who is prematurely balding despite being less than nineteen years old, has the bestial stare of one who is more intelligent than an ape, but less intelligent than a man. Lester Pozniak, of course, is the hulking, pink-skinned soccer goalie that you and your friends know as "The Molester."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey guys," you honk out as confidently as you can. <i>Don't show fear don't show fear don't show fear,</i> you chide yourself as a sudden gush of sweat breaks out all over your body.<br/>
<br/>
The Molester's laugh is like a gurgle. "The fuck are you here for, Johansson?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Picking up supplies for a school project."<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme see." He grabs your bag from you and pulls the box from it. "Hey lookit this!" he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
Call grabs it from him. "Sweet, I got a use for this."<br/>
<br/>
"They got lots more inside," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"I got this one, and I'm outside," he says. He lifts his chin, and his eyes shine.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Well, things could have gone badly, but the clerk was watching, and he steps out a second later, and your purchase is returned to you. But now you have more possible victims of mischief in mind.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Burning Issues of the Day
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've got enough money left over that you can swing by a couple of stores to pick up the few things you're short of for making more masks, and that's what you do. Then you return to the school basement.<br/>
<br/>
You prep the cord for the bit that's to follow, using enough that you can light it from outside. You keep inside Caleb's mask as you do, for you don't want anyone to see "Will Prescott" running from any kind of subsequent explosion. (Being inside Caleb's mask, and directly knowing what he knows, also gives you a much sharper appreciation of the risks you are running.) After checking to see that there won't be any places where the flame might get snuffed, you light it up and book it like a son of a bitch to the edge of the school grounds where you've parked your truck. You crawl under it, and warily watch the windows of the basement.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb's brain tells you not to be too impatient while you wait, and you decide to give yourself four minutes of nerve-racking anticipation before going in to check if there winds up being no explosion. But you don't have to wait nearly that long. A purple flash lights up the windows, and you don't realize you've been holding your breath until you expel it when there's no follow-up blast—as there really ought to be—and not even any sound. You have to wonder if there's been a misfire. You dash back to the basement door, but are very cautious about entering.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes briefly smart at the sight inside. The room is lit by a swirling, purple-tinged fire that has engulfed the berm of earth. You stare at it a moment with slackened jaw—Caleb's instincts tell you that something like this is <i>not</i> supposed to happen given the ingredients you used—and you tentatively approach it and peer into it before sticking your hand out.<br/>
<br/>
Then you stick your hand directly into one of the flames, and let out a whistle. <i>No heat!</i><br/>
<br/>
You check back over the book. It says to leave the pile burning until it cannot be relit—so the thing might go out from time to time, it looks like—and then must be polished. You make a face as you think of the work that that might entail. That earth pile is a hell of a lot bigger than a mask.<br/>
<br/>
But speaking of masks, you have the makings for some, and that will give you something to do while watching the fire. You remove Caleb's mask, and after waking up again you run home fast enough to gather up the stuff that you need.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
By nine o'clock (after a break at home for supper—pizza!) you have finished polishing two more masks—giving you a total of five—and have cast and are working on another. As for what you're going to do with them ...<br/>
<br/>
Well, maybe you're just nursing old grudges, but you fantasize about getting them onto some of those guys at the ammo place just for the sake of mayhem. If not Call or Spencer or the Molester, at least onto guys who are like them. There are more than enough such assholes at school who deserve worse grief than you arranged for Caleb. Joe Thomason, George Mendoza, Brophy Maddox, Tanner Evans. And those are just scum. Gary Chen deals drugs inside the school, and David Kirkham just wanders around looking for people to torment. You've been somewhat lucky in your high school career that the really top-notch thugs—the Gordon Blacks and Steve Pattersons, the Dominic Kleasons and the Roy Nelsons, the Dalton Douglases and the Kevin Halls—have mostly left you alone.<br/>
<br/>
No, wait, there's one of those guys who doesn't leave you alone. Seth Javits. He's a basketball player, which makes him one of the guys up near the top of the heap. Mostly he sticks to tormenting your friend Keith—who is going to need psychological counseling one of these days, probably, to deal with the aftershocks of Javtis's bullying—but when Keith isn't around Seth has settled for knocking you or Caleb around, apparently on the principle that anything he does to you will rebound onto Tilley.<br/>
<br/>
You jot yourself a special mental note to think especially hard about making Seth a project.<br/>
<br/>
But of course, no matter who you tackle, you have to figure out a way of getting a mask onto them. No way any of them are going to oblige you, the way Caleb did. No, you'll have to <i>ambush</i> one of the cocksuckers.<br/>
<br/>
Physically, you're not built for ambushing. Neither is Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
But some of the guys have pilot fish swimming about them. Not the Gordons or the Seths, of course; they're so mighty that only other, lower-ranked bullies can act as pilot fish for them. But there are a couple of guys more your size that you've seen hanging about Joshua Call and his thugs. You could ambush one of them, then impersonate them to get close to the bigger bullies.<br/>
<br/>
And use the bigger bullies to get to the biggest ones?<br/>
<br/>
You'll just have to wait and see about that.<br/>
<br/>
The fire shows no signs of abating, so when you feel your energy starting to flag, you pack up your stuff and return home.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your heart leaps the next morning when you stop by the basement on your way to school and find the fire has gone out. But it relights, and with a grimace you leave it for the day to continue doing its thing.<br/>
<br/>
Your run in with the Molester and the others on Sunday has left you feeling much less enthusiastic about tormenting Caleb. He seems like a small and unworthy target, and he is your friend besides, and you are feeling a little more shame about what you did to him. So you don't ask him about the weekend when you see him before first period. He looks like he was expecting you to bring it all up again, though, for he is noticeably tense all throughout first period.<br/>
<br/>
You broach the topic with Tilley in Mr. Hawks's film class, though. "Heard he made an ass of himself Friday night," Keith says. "What burns the fuck outta me, though, is— Hey!" He slaps you on the arm. "Were you with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't call you up and ask you to ride shotgun on his drive down Jerkwad Highway?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes at the typically Tilley-esque metaphor. "No."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, why the fuck not? He didn't call me either!"<br/>
<br/>
"Why would you want to—?" You roll your eyes again. "Ride shotgun with him on his drive down Jerkwad Highway?"<br/>
<br/>
"Wouldn't. But if the asshole's feeling sassy and wants to hit a couple of parties, how come not ask us along?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, Keith," you sigh. "I thought you were mad at him 'cos he stole some money off you."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah!" Keith snaps his fingers. "Fuck 'im, then." <br/>
<br/>
You feel a little more trepidation at the end of third period, when Carson Ioeger texts to ask you to ditch Caleb and eat lunch with him and James instead. When you see Caleb in fourth period English, then, you diplomatically tell him that you want to eat lunch with Carson and James. He only shrugs. "Thing is," you say, "I thought you and them were pissed at each other, on account of that thing last week."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine," he says with a stony expression. "I'll eat with Tilley."<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing personal," you mumble, and keep your trap shut about the way Keith might not want to eat with Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
Carson summons you over with a quick wave when he sees you approaching after fourth. As usual, he and James and Jenny Ashton and Paul Davis are lounging on the quad in front of the school. Carson and James don't shift their long shanks to make room for you, and you plop onto the edge of their little group. "The fuck is wrong with Johansson these days?" Carson honks at you.<br/>
<br/>
"You mean that x2z stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"x2z, lifting people's shit, being a fucking liar about it."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think he's being a fucking liar." Your own words surprise you, as does the heat you feel behind them. "If Caleb says he didn't do any of those things—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, he did the x2z shit," Carson says. "Got 'im on camera an' everything. That's the only reason he's going around apologizing to everyone. Son of a bitch got caught."<br/>
<br/>
"And he took our money," James says.<br/>
<br/>
"No doubt about that either," Carson says.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I believe him," you say with a persistence that actually kind of bothers you. "If he says he didn't do it—"<br/>
<br/>
"He got caught," Carson says firmly. He has yet to take a bite of his sandwich, though he's got it completely unwrapped. "I like that you're being loyal to him, Prescott. Loyalty's underrated these days. But he needs to get himself fixed before he makes himself really unpopular."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I believe you guys too," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"You can't believe both of us," James snaps. "Him and us. We say he did, he says he didn't. One of us is lying."<br/>
<br/>
"And it ain't us," Carson says. "And it ain't Tilley, and it ain't any of the guys who saw him slinging his shit around town last Friday night. He's gone off his meds and he's too fucked up to admit it. That's why we're asking what the deal is. 'Cos until last week, <i>you're</i> the one I'd'a pegged as likely to flip out."<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Me?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"Skip it. But we're his friends too, that's why we want to help, and it's how come we're asking you. What is his fucking deal lately?"<br/>
<br/>
Still you defend Caleb, though it feels against your interests. Carson and James only sigh when you suggest, as you had to Caleb, that there's a doppelganger on the loose.<br/>
<br/>
And that's when you get the idea that maybe <i>these</i> fuckers need to meet a doppelganger of themselves.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Good Little Foot Soldier
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>When the lunch bell rings, you follow Jenny inside, and ask her opinion about what's going on with Caleb. "You think he's really gotten himself in trouble?"<br/>
<br/>
She shrugs. "All I know is he's managed to piss a lot of people off lately," she says. "It's nothing huge, except for the money thing." She hesitates, then pulls you aside. <br/>
<br/>
"Are things okay with him at home?" she asks. "Are him and his mom having money problems? Because I know things with them are sort of, you know—" Her face crinkles in an expression of worry and embarrassment.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. He hasn't said anything to me."<br/>
<br/>
She squints at something in the distance. "Well, do you think you could tell people that they're a little, you know, <i>stretched?</i> It would probably make things easier for him until he gets his issues sorted out, whatever they are. It could be money issues, couldn't it?" she blurts out. "Caleb's not the kind of guy to just take stuff that doesn't belong to him, you know—"<br/>
<br/>
"Caleb wouldn't just steal money."<br/>
<br/>
"I know." Jenny's frown deepens. "That's why I'm thinking it could be money problems at home. He'd be way too embarrassed to ask for help, so if he's desperate enough to— Well, it must be really bad. God, he probably feels <i>terrible.</i> That could be why he's acting out, too."<br/>
<br/>
You tell her you agree, that Caleb's money woes, if he has any, could be behind his strange behavior. But you remind her that Caleb has also recently got a job—"Where my dad works"—and that if he and his mom are having money issues, it could be a short-term thing, until his first paycheck comes in. "You could mention that to Carson and James, tell them that, uh, maybe in a couple of weeks, they might find they've gotten their cash back." Your voice deepens. "As mysteriously as it had vanished." You raise your eyebrow meaningfully.<br/>
<br/>
"Mm-hm," Jenny says, though she sounds skeptical. "I'll mention that."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your talk with Carson has done this much: It's cured you of the desire to torment Caleb anymore. And it's given you a project: Get some replacement money so as to restore fellow feeling all around. But where to get the cash?<br/>
<br/>
That's another project for the masks, and you can think of some deserving victims.<br/>
<br/>
If you can get close to them.<br/>
<br/>
But the next few days pass slowly and without incident. You hoard what money you have left, in case you need it for whatever spell comes after the present one, and content yourself with finishing up a sixth mask. You've enough extra material to chisel out three more of those metal bands, though, and time enough, for the fire in the basement continues to burn. The earth is metamorphosing within it, tightening up into a compact mass, and coming to look more like a cylindrical  block than a loose pile. You worry a little when a couple of rents open up in it, as though it is cooking unevenly, and you grimace at the thought of having to make another trip out to the graveyard if this experiment goes south. If you do, you decide, you'll wait until you have a mask of someone big and strong and mean, so that you'll have a better set of muscles.<br/>
<br/>
As it happens, both project come to fruition simultaneously. The fire is out again on Wednesday morning, when you check on your way in to school, and again on Thursday afternoon. On Friday afternoon you find it again extinguished, but this time it won't relight, no matter how many matches you set against it, or where. You step back to examine what you've made.<br/>
<br/>
You hope the thing is not malformed. It is about six feet in length and about two feet across at its broadest. A rent up the middle has cloven it in twain, and two smaller rents on either side have separated out long, arm-like splinters. "Arm-like" seems an apt description to you as you study it. They do look like arms resting by the torso of the heap. And that other rent has created two legs. You eye flicks to the opposite end. There's a bulbous mass there, like a head.<br/>
<br/>
It's with a thoughtful expression that you pick up the book and flip to the spell. The page doesn't come away, though, but with a hopeful frown you lay the book on top of the heap, count to five, then try again.<br/>
<br/>
This time it easily flips.<br/>
<br/>
With the help of your cell phone and an internet translator, you work out the explanation for what you've made. It's a servant, according to the book. If you set a mask on it, it will take on the image and mind of the person within the mask and obey your commands.<br/>
<br/>
You let out a low whistle. That could be really useful. Fuck, it could have been really useful the night you got the dirt to make the damn thing.<br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately you have to "polish" it before it's done. You make a face at that. The thing is enormous, and is white in just the way the masks are. The car buffer is at  your house, but you strip off your shirt and start wiping at it.<br/>
<br/>
It only takes you a few minutes to realize that the thing does not need polishing the way the masks did. A thin film of dust comes off it, but when you rub at it more firmly the underlying material begins to gleam almost instantly. It doesn't change color, but the highlights off it already give it a "polished" effect. Hope rises in your chest, and after you've rubbed the dust from it all over, and given it a slightly deeper scrubbing, you take a chance on activating it. Caleb's mask is in the basement with you, so you scramble over to retrieve it. After just a moment's hesitation, you place it on the "face" of the thing.<br/>
<br/>
It's like dropping a dish into a pool of water. It vanishes, and you almost fancy a ripple runs through the "pedisequos," as the book has dubbed it. But you've no time for such fancies, for suddenly you're not looking at a stony, vaguely man-shaped blob, but into the face of your best friend.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb Johansson lays there, and before you can suck in a breath, his eyes snap open and lock onto yours. "Oh God," he exclaims. "How did you get out there?" Then he sits up. "And what the fuck did you do with my clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
Naturally he'd ask, because he's completely naked.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The conversation that follows is pretty tricky, for you and he—it?—are more than a little freaked out. At the same time it goes much more smoothly than you'd have feared, because fake-Caleb actually has a fairly good idea of what's going on.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know what you've been up to," he says in the exact, sour honk that Caleb uses when he's pissed at you. "Fucker." He's huddled up in a corner, his bony knees up under his chin, and he glares at you. "How fucked up is my life these days?"<br/>
<br/>
"You tell me," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't know. He only knows his own life up to the moment that you slapped that metal band on to the real Caleb's forehead, and the stuff you were doing when you had the mask on. So he remembers being an ass at all those parties, and he also remembers digging up all that dirt—"Jesus, you could've at least stolen a backhoe while you were committing grand larceny all over town!"—and buying the fuse and starting the fire. "You should'a blown yourself up," he says. He is also aware that during those last episodes it was really you inside him, for he has memories of taking his face off, and infers that it was you doing these manipulations because you were at your house or in your truck or reading the book while inside the mask.<br/>
<br/>
As for what he—it?—is deep down, he has no idea. He doesn't know how he got into the basement, or anything about this "pedisequos" spell. He is "Caleb Johansson" all the way through, but that is all that he knows. His personality is totally Caleb's too, and there is no "robotic" quality to his voice or movements, and no lack of luster in his eye. He can even produce saliva that he can spit out on command.<br/>
<br/>
But really, that's all you need. He doesn't need to know what kind of thing he is so long as he knows he has to obey you, and he confesses that he gets a funny feeling inside him—"But not funny that way!" he snarls—when you tell him to do things, like spitting or walking or slapping himself. After reading through the spell with you, and checking the translations online, he declares that the best description for what he is, is "lackey."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you going to do with me now?" he asks mournfully as the evening light is waning. You answer by telling him to lie back down. You grasp his face, mutter the formula, and pull. The mask comes away in your hand, and Caleb reverts to a featureless, stony lump. You assume that for him it will be like going to sleep.<br/>
<br/>
You look at the next spell. Like the previous ones, it only gives you a sigil, some ingredients, and directions for combining them. You've got plenty of stuff on hand for executing it, except for one thing. <br/>
<br/>
It calls for a human being.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you yourself are a human being, but you're not going to use yourself in a spell. You have a suspicion that your lackey (you like the word) won't count as human. That means you'll have to go find someone.<br/>
<br/>
You look at the pedisequos. There would be two of you, now, to take down someone like the Molester. You could make more of them, though that would take a lot of time.<br/>
<br/>
Or you could make do with what you have, and ignore the next spell in the book.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311112111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Abduction of Jeff Spencer
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You don't know that sacrificing someone in the next spell will harm the victim. It might even give them superpowers.<br/>
<br/>
If so, that would be a pretty solid reason not to use the next spell on someone you don't like.<br/>
<br/>
But you'd bet that it's going to do them no good, and you can think of some people who you wouldn't mind hurting in a good cause.<br/>
<br/>
You also know where to find them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Eight o'clock. The corner of Borman and Hoover Roads.</i> <br/>
<br/>
It has been a drizzly day, and the wet roads glisten under the streetlights as you pull into the McDonalds at the corner of those two very busy thoroughfares. The parking lot is mostly full, and a line of half of dozen vehicles, their brake lights forming a glowing trail, wind around from the drive-through window. You back into a space from which you can watch the door to the restaurant. The rain has at least stopped, and it's still a reasonably warm evening, though it is the first week in October, so you roll the window down as you settle back. All your supplies from the school basement are in the back, under a tarp.<br/>
<br/>
You're here because of a conversation you overheard in third period. Jeff Spencer is in that busywork class—Career Planning—and though he rarely attends, that morning he'd popped in long enough to confer in a low tone with Nicholas Horner, one of the "pilot fish" that swim around him and the others. You kept your eyes off them, but your ears were open as Spencer muttered plans with Horner about meeting him and some other guys at the McDonalds at eight o'clock.<br/>
<br/>
You have no idea what you're going to do and how you're going to do it. Everything that comes next is going to be purest improvisation.<br/>
<br/>
The caper starts a little after you arrive, when you see Spencer loping into the restaurant. After a two-minute wait you go in yourself, to order a small, second supper, and you're still in line when Spencer, Horner and Joshua Call collect their food and retreat into a back booth. You get yours to go, and sink down behind your steering wheel to munch your fries while waiting for those guys to reappear. Some possible plans coil and uncoil slowly in your head.<br/>
<br/>
At a little after eight-thirty, the three come out. Call and Horner go off in one direction, but Spencer with his head ducked walks toward you. He's just veering off to the side when, on a sudden hunch that <i>this</i> is the moment and <i>this</i> is the way, you hop out. <br/>
<br/>
"Hey Jeff!" you call. "Spencer!" He stops, and even in the dark parking lot you can see the droop of his lower lip as he gapes at you. (Spencer always looks like he's about to start drooling from the effort of trying to think.)<br/>
<br/>
"Hey man, I'm glad I ran into you," you say. "Can you do me a favor?" He says nothing. "I'm supposed to meet some guys here, but I need to drop my wheels off over at the soccer fields. If I gave you ten bucks, could you drive my truck over there so, uh, Jessica Garner can pick it up?" <br/>
<br/>
You're not sure even you understand what you've just said, so it's no surprise that Spencer just glares dully back at you. "Help me move my wheels?" you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"Ten bucks?" he says, as though trying to dimly recall something he may have heard someone say once upon a time.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. My truck." You point. "It needs to go over to the soccer fields. You know, by South Creek Park? But I have to wait here. Could you move it? I'll give you ten— No, twenty bucks, if you drive it over." You pull a bill from your pocket.<br/>
<br/>
Still, he eyes you warily. Or maybe he still hasn't fathomed the offer, for after a moment he blinks and says, "Jessica Garner?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah!" You're glad you improvised one of the cheerleaders into the lie. "She's waiting over there. She can give you a ride to wherever you need to go."<br/>
<br/>
He blinks again. "Jessica?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. Jessica. Twenty bucks." You point to your truck again. "You drive my truck over to the athletic fields by South Creek while I wait here."<br/>
<br/>
"You wait here?" An actual expression—one of puzzlement, but still an expression—wrenches itself onto Spencer's face.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes. I'll wait here while you drive my truck over to—" Twice more you have to explain it while he grunts over the details. <br/>
<br/>
Then, to your immense alarm, he grins. "Sure," he says in a soft, guttural chortle.<br/>
<br/>
"Awesome." You fight down a shiver. If this was a bona fide favor, you're sure you'd find your truck in the river when you went looking for it. (And that would be a best-case scenario.) "Let's get in and I'll show you a few things."<br/>
<br/>
So Jeff Spencer gets behind the wheel of your truck with you standing next to him. <br/>
<br/>
"There's a little trick to getting it started," you tell him. "Oops, hang on, let me get the fuckity-what." You half hoist yourself into the bed of the truck, and from under the tarp pull out one of the blank masks, into which you've glued a mind-band. "So, this thing," you say after you've hopped out and are leaning back into the cab, "we have to put here." You slam it into Spencer's face.<br/>
<br/>
Thank God his reflexes are as slow as his thought processes. You catch him as he falls out of the truck, then push him into the cab and over into the passenger's seat. "Don't touch my fucking shit," you mutter at him as you haul yourself up behind the wheel.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was sheerest improvisation, but now you've got a victim, and you've even got a place to dump him, at least temporarily. You are also anticipating what comes next as you hightail it down Borman to the municipal sports complex. The athletic fields are dark and empty, and with a hard jolt you jump the curb of the parking and drive out onto one of the grassy fields. You wait.<br/>
<br/>
But not for long, and after catching the mask as it falls out of Spencer's face, you reach across to open the passenger side door and push him out. There's a heavy, squelching noise as he hits the wet ground. You pull the door shut, and with a roar of the motor fishtail away. In the rear view mirror you see him already sitting up as you peel off across the parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
God save you if you ever meet up with him again.<br/>
<br/>
You park in the South Creek Shopping Center, in a corner where you're not likely to be seen, and from under the tarp retrieve the next thing you need: a brush and the sealant. The name JEFFREY CARL SPENCER stabs you in the eye as you paint the inner surface of the mask. You work quickly, even though you dread the next part of the still-evolving plan.<br/>
<br/>
If you're going to know where to recapture Spencer, you're going to have to know where he lives and is likely to hang out this Friday night. And in order to learn that ...<br/>
<br/>
Your stomach is heaving up on you a little as you blow the mask dry. In order to put off the inevitable a little longer, you drive around the city, looking for a dark, quiet, safe place to make the transformation. Eventually you give up on finding someplace new, and yield to the obvious by driving back into Acheson, to the elementary school. You park and turn off the motor and sit back with a sinking heart as you look over at the mask. You buy yourself a few more seconds by loosening your pants and pulling them halfway off your butt, for you're sure that Spencer is huskier than you. Finally, after rubbing your eyes deeply, you snatch up the mask and put it to your face before you can dream up another way of procrastinating.<br/>
<br/>
The mask seems to grab and drag you under head first.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There is no moment of waking. There is only the consciousness of being awake, and of being behind the wheel of a truck. This strikes you as significant. You sit up and clutch it. <i>Vroom vroom,</i> you think. <br/>
<br/>
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and rub deeply. Your fingers slide up into your hair.<br/>
<br/>
You freeze. There's not as much there as you're used to, and it's farther back on your scalp.<br/>
<br/>
You groan. <br/>
<br/>
That's right. You're Jeff Spencer now.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Well, how bad can it be?</i> You settle back with a sigh, and wait for the memories to come.<br/>
<br/>
And you wait and wait.<br/>
<br/>
And wait.<br/>
<br/>
You know you put a metal band in it when you made the mask. You stared at the name while you sealed the mask, so you know that "Jeffrey Carl Spencer" is inside the mask, and so he's got to be inside you now, too, just the way Caleb had been when you were wearing his mask. So where are the memories? <br/>
<br/>
Maybe if you closed your eyes and relaxed, tried to forget that you're Will Prescott ...<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's like a slowly swelling wave of hot tar, and once it starts creeping up you and over you and into you, there's no resisting it even as you frantically try beating it back. For Spencer's mind is sticky and suffocating, and soon, like some prehistoric brute flailing in a mire, you are dragged into it, and under it, and are permeated by it ...<br/>
<br/>
... until you are nothing more than the fossilized bones of Will Prescott, suspended inside the mind and personality of Jeff Spencer.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You pull up your pants, turn on the motor, pull into the street.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Find Jeff. Smash with rock. Where?</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Coming of Jeff Spencer
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's instinct, not thought, that pulls you toward Jeff's man-made cave. <i>Home</i> is the instinct that consumes you, and, preoccupied with that single instinct of <i>Home</i>, you suck in your lips and steer through the still-busy thoroughfares of Saratoga Falls. Vaguely it occurs to you that you really like this truck, and wish that you had one like it ...<br/>
<br/>
That's the first tiny little thought that eventually nudges you out of your trance-like stupor. <i>I want a truck like this</i> twists into the truculent conviction that this <i>is</i> your truck, or it <i>should be,</i> and that gradually transforms into the conviction that you <i>are the kind of person</i> who owns this truck. After that, you grimly set out to puzzle through <i>what kind of person that would be.</i><br/>
<br/>
Does this sound absurd? You don't worry about absurdities, even when you notice them. Once you have an idea you don't stop working it out to its logical conclusions, even if it means you have to hit the world with a metal pipe until it conforms to your ideas.<br/>
<br/>
"They" don't like it when you do that, but you can't help it. Pipes and bats are good ways to change things, to make them better. It doesn't matter that "they" tell you the hitting is why they keep moving you from one home to another. You're just as happy hitting things in the new place as you were in the old.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually it comes over you that you are a "Will Prescott" type person. The vague thought comes with no flash of insight. But it leads to a further thought, that "Will Prescott" shouldn't be having such a hard time thinking. You didn't always have such a hard time of it, did you? This feeling like the stuff in your brain is made of massive granite blocks, and that you have to strain and grunt to move them around? Back when you were Will Prescott—<br/>
<br/>
That's when you abruptly you fall out Spencer's mind and back into your own. It's like falling into the vacuum of space after being encased in glass.<br/>
<br/>
But such freedom!<br/>
<br/>
You almost ran a red light when you remembered yourself. You pull into the parking lot at Panera to have a good think while you figure out what the hell is going on with you. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Because, really, what the hell was that? Gingerly you probe at those weird, slow, absurd thoughts you were having. They are like something out of a dream—one of those dreams where you're trying to run but you can't, only in this case you were trying think but only nonsense would come.<br/>
<br/>
The masks copy bodies, but the metal bands copy memories and personalities. Does that mean that they copy the brain? Was that Jeff Spencer's brain you were thinking with? You explore the insides of your skull, the way you explore a cavity with your tongue.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, there is another brain here with yours, all around you, like a gummy tar coating the inside of your skull. Touching it—<i>licking it,</i> almost—gives you the memories. Some you search for, like the bedroom where Jeff Spencer sleeps; others, like the memory of a broken cat batting feebly at the air before falling still, come unbidden.<br/>
<br/>
This will never work if you have to impersonate Spencer. Not that you're planning to, but you might still run into some of his friends before the night is done, and you want to be sure of fooling them. Better that than hitting them with a pipe or a bat after they realize you're an imposter.<br/>
<br/>
You grit your teeth and press your own mind into his. It overwhelmed you like a living tar as before, but now it is still and dead. But it yields as you push deeper into it, and you cover yourself with it again. <br/>
<br/>
You pull out when you feel your mind dulling again. You've no desire to get caught inside his brain the way you were before. As insurance, you tap a memo to yourself into your phone—<i>You're really Will Prescott</i>—before setting back into your seat to resume the merger.<br/>
<br/>
You're more alert on this second attempt, so that you can almost <i>smell</i> the change as it comes. It's like a tang far up in your nostrils, tickling the base of your brain. It is faint, notional, the illusion of a scent. But is, unmistakably ... Jeff Spencer.<br/>
<br/>
But now that you have a scent, you have something to chase. Deeper you push into Spencer's mind, wrapping yourself under the skin with its scent and with the tarry slime of memories that come with it. A muzziness steals over you, like when you're falling asleep. Random thoughts begin to chase each other: <i>Jeff Spencer, smelly clothes, smelly house, crap storage, Mr. Wilson, Mrs. Martinez and her chintz and her cats and the cat food you tried eating when you were a kid and the hamster pellets at Walmart that Call caught you staring at and he dared you to eat some ... </i><br/>
<br/>
Now Jeff Spencer's mind closes over yours, and now you're stuck inside it, like an ant that has been sucked down into a bowl of gummy Jell-O. But you were ready for it, and now you're also sucking it inside yourself, until you're an ant inside the Jell-O and you're also the Jell-O that is inside an ant. It's a paradox that would puzzle you, but Jeff Spencer just accepts it—<br/>
<br/>
And that's when your mind snaps into a new shape. A Jeff Spencer-like shape to go with the memories. But you've your own memories too, and your own speed, and you smile grimly as you open your eyes.<br/>
<br/>
You know exactly how to act and think like Jeff Spencer. For you <i>are</i> Jeff Spencer. <br/>
<br/>
If you want to be. Because you're also Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
You restart the motor and pull back into the street.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Jeff Spencer crashes on the north side of town, in a set of crummy apartments on Buchanan Boulevard, just a few blocks from the Warehouse. (That's one reason he's often to be found there.) Spencer's guardian actually owns the complex, and he boards Jeff in a studio apartment over some communal storage units. <i>Storage units?</i> They're converted tractor trailers, stripped of wheels and bolted to the asphalt. Jeff's apartment sits over them, on stilt-like supports, at the top of a flight of rickety steps.<br/>
<br/>
Jeff likes living alone, insofar as he likes anything. Certainly he feels no affection for Mr. Wilson, his guardian, who took him in when Jeff's previous guardians returned him to the state so they could flee overseas. Mr. Wilson feeds him and buys him clothes (neither of high quality) and pays him a small stipend to do odd jobs around the complex, but otherwise pays no attention to him. In return, Jeff pays no attention to Mr. Wilson, and returns to the complex only to collect the occasional junk-food meal, to do the odd, paying chore, and to pass out on the mealy mattress on its broken bed frame.<br/>
<br/>
The lights are on in Mr. Wilson's own apartment, but you ignore them and park behind the storage containers where your truck won't be spotted. Gripping your still unbuttoned trousers with one hand, you spring up the swaying wooden steps to the in front of the door. It's locked, and you don't have Spencer's keys, but that's okay. The window by the door is covered in cardboard, and you punch through it with your elbow, reach in, and unlock it from the inside.<br/>
<br/>
Jeff punched the window out a couple of months ago when he couldn't find his keys, and he never fixed it, and he executes this same maneuver at least once a week.<br/>
<br/>
Inside, you flip on the lights and look around. Against one wall is a small counter and sink with a dorm-sized refrigerator perched at the end. A cabinet sags off the wall above it. On the other side is the bed and the wardrobe with Jeff's clothes in it. You open it, strip off your own clothes, and pull on his—crummy jeans, a sweatshirt, and ankle socks. You push over the pile of school books moldering in a corner to retrieve the aluminum bat. You clear a space in the floor, and from under the sink pull out a roll of duct tape; from this you tear off a couple of strips, and hang them from the frame of the bathroom door. Then you relock the door, put the cardboard back over the window, turn off the lights, and flop onto the bed with the bat.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've got your hand down the front of your jeans—cradling your balls and rubbing the underside of your dick with a dull thumbnail and wondering in a vague way if you've got time to jack off—when you hear footsteps on the outside stairs. You spring over and hide behind the door. A key rattles in the lock, and the door swings open and the lights come on. A figure with broad shoulders steps in and closes the door.<br/>
<br/>
You swing the bat, and Jeff Spencer pitches face-first to the floor. He's still conscious but writhing slowly as you bind his wrists and ankles with the duct tape.<br/>
<br/>
Then you spring down to the truck and haul up your supplies. You whack at Spencer until he's still, then soak him in the stuff for the next spell. You slip the sigil—the second one you've copied out of the book—under him, and set a match to his shirt.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111211111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Lackey with Two Faces
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It was luck, managing to catch Jeff Spencer at a vulnerable moment at the McDonalds; then animal cunning, once you were inside his mask, that brought you to the present point. Spencer—the real Jeff Spencer—is stretched on the floor of his tumble-down apartment. But it's as another Jeff Spencer that you stare down in horror at what is left of him.<br/>
<br/>
Well, okay, it doesn't look <i>that</i> bad. Sure, it looks like you've turned him into a pedisequos, like the one you left back in the school basement. But it's not horrible to look at, for unlike the first one you made, this one looks almost human even without a mask. In fact, it looks a lot like Spencer himself.<br/>
<br/>
He has the stony pallor of the thing back in the basement, and when you press your finger to him he has the hardness and texture of pumice, though there is the slightest rubbery "give" under pressure. But his shape and all of his features, right down the crinkles in his lips and the zits breaking out under his retreating hairline, are preserved in miniscule detail. Even the hair has the texture of strands that have been fossilized into place.<br/>
<br/>
The fire that consumed him didn't last long, maybe a few minutes. Whatever polishing he might need is accomplished by simply removing his clothes. Spencer's own instincts are strong enough that you can regard his petrified junk with a dull, direct interest. <br/>
<br/>
Then your hand is down the front of your own pants, feeling for balls and shaft so as to make a comparison, almost before you realize it.<br/>
<br/>
You'd have to take Spencer's mask off in order to test it on him, and that would involve knocking yourself out, and you don't want to do that. But so complete were your preparations at the basement, even to the point of combining all the dry ingredients, including a second hank of your own hair, that you've got Caleb's mask down in the truck. You thunder downstairs to retrieve it.<br/>
<br/>
As in the school basement, so here: The mask vanishes into Spencer's stony visage, and Caleb Johansson appears. He does a horrified double-take at you, and scrambles back. But before you can reassure him, he squeaks out a terrified, "Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you grunt. "How'd you know it was me?"<br/>
<br/>
He makes a face. "Just a feeling I got. Every time I wake up naked"—he squints down at himself—"you're close by."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm wearing a mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Really. That's why you're looking like Jeff Spencer? I wouldn't have guessed." He looks around with curling lip. "Is this Spencer's place?" He picks up a sock, fingers it with a frown, then hurls it away when he realizes what it is stiff with. "Where's the real guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you know where?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"How would I? Until a few seconds ago, I was back in that basement where you conjured me up." He glances around. "And speaking of which, shouldn't there be a magic circle or something around me? I bet this is what demons feel like when they get yanked into the real world."<br/>
<br/>
You yourself would snicker, at least a little, in appreciation of his attempted wit. As Jeff Spencer, though, you want to swing that bat in his face. You compromise by giving him another grunt.<br/>
<br/>
"I got rid of him," you say. "Put him out of our misery, I guess you could say." You point at Caleb. "He's inside you."<br/>
<br/>
"What, like my conscience?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I turned him into one of those things, a lackey thing." Even though you're thinking clearly, it's like Spencer's tongue doesn't want to wrap itself around the words you're giving it. "Like back in the basement, I told you, I made it and I put the mask on it and you popped up. The next spell in the book turned him into one of those, and I put the mask on it, and now here you are again. So he's inside you."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb's expression has acquired a green hue during this explanation. "So if I vomited hard enough, could I hurl him up?" he asks. "Because I feel like I'm going to." <br/>
<br/>
You just grunt again. "What am I going to do now?" you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Is this a quiz?" Only with Caleb's reply do you realize you spoke aloud. "We're not going to spend the night here, are we?"<br/>
<br/>
You could. Jeff Spencer is out of the way, and you're in his apartment, in his clothes, in his body, and you were only a minute or so away from filling one of his socks with your (his) cum when the real guy came in. But you have your own home and bed to get back to.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on," you tell Caleb. "We're going back to the elementary school."<br/>
<br/>
"For what?" he asks as he scrambles to his feet. "To get me some clothes so I don't have to go around naked?"<br/>
<br/>
You point to your own discarded clothes. "Put those on. We're going back to the school."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you're a fucking brilliant conversationalist," he mutters as he picks up your old underwear.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's no car downstairs, for Jeff doesn't have a car. He gets rides from people, or he walks or he takes the bus. Vaguely you wonder how he got home and what he was doing in the meantime. But not until you're at the school basement, and you've stripped "Caleb" of clothes and mask, do you hunch over and consult the phone you picked up from next to his petrified corpse.<br/>
<br/>
The last text from his account is a profanity-ridden tirade to Josh Call about some "fucker" who left him at the soccer fields. Only the fact that you have Spencer's brain allows you to decipher the truncated, typo-riddled, ungrammatical text. How Call figured it out, you don't know. He couldn't come pick up Jeff because he was working at the Warehouse, but in his reply he said he was sending Horner to pick Jeff up. So you have to assume that's who dropped Jeff off at his apartment.<br/>
<br/>
As for what to do now— <br/>
<br/>
You're back in the school basement, and you've taken Caleb's mask off the Jeff-shaped pedisequos. After scratching at your pits awhile, you decide to test Spencer's mask out on one of the pedisequoses. You're too worried that putting the mask on the original Spencer will bring him back in full force, so after wrenching the mask from your face—and waking up cold and disoriented and really, really grossed out—with clammy feelings of dread and slightly chattering teeth, you set Spencer's mask on the lumpy thing you made earlier in the day.<br/>
<br/>
This time Jeff Spencer appears.<br/>
<br/>
He frowns when he looks at you, though his eyes remain dull. "I know you," he mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"You're my lackey," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is that?"<br/>
<br/>
"It means you have to do what I say."<br/>
<br/>
 His chest heaves a little, and he sits up. "Huh," he says.<br/>
<br/>
The meaning is ambiguous enough that you test him out, as you did Caleb. He performs the tasks you set him—standing, walking about, picking up the end of desk, and hitting himself—in a perfunctory way, but by the time you order him to suck your balls (which you countermand at the last moment) he is staring at you with eyes that are bottomless wells of hatred.<br/>
<br/>
The world, in your opinion, is not improved by the presence of Jeff Spencer, but it would be best if he didn't go missing, so after confirming that he is now your lackey, you tell him to dress, and after dressing yourself you summon him out to your truck so you can drive him home.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't tell anyone about being with me," you instruct him. "Tell them you went home, and you went to bed. You never saw me tonight."<br/>
<br/>
You can sense him staring at you, but he only says "Huh" again. You have no idea if that means that means "Okay" or "I don't understand" or merely "Huh." It's with a sinking feeling that you wonder if he's actually understood you and can therefore follow your instructions, or if he's just humoring you by agreeing to do stuff he doesn't understand.<br/>
<br/>
Then he startles you with a pertinent observation: "I been in this truck," he says. "I was driving."<br/>
<br/>
"That's right."<br/>
<br/>
He mulls this. "There was this cocksucker in it with me. He wouldn't shut up."<br/>
<br/>
That was Caleb. He's remembering the drive back to the basement. "Forget about him," you tell him.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh."<br/>
<br/>
Another long silence.<br/>
<br/>
"There was a guy in my apartment. I hit him with my bat. Then I set him on fire."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't tell anyone about that either," you hastily instruct.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not a fucking moron," he growls. "But the guy looked like me. He was in my clothes."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you don't have to worry about him anymore. I'll take you home, you'll go to bed, you'll get up in the morning, and you'll act normal, like tonight didn't happen. What's your name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jeff Spencer," he says, like a kid giving the rote answer to a multiplication problem.<br/>
<br/>
"Right. That's why you don't have to worry about that other guy anymore."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You get him back to his place then return to the elementary school to offload the supplies from your truck. You keep back one of the blank masks, though, and the sealant and the book.<br/>
<br/>
It's because you're not a stinking mess this time, you suppose, that your dad lets you off with only a warning even though you're almost twenty minutes past your curfew as you come inside. Upstairs you make preparations for bed, then sit down with the book. The next spell, now unlocked, resembles the earlier spells by using the same ingredients and a fire. But it uses even less of them, and there's no call for a human being. It looks like it will be easy to execute.<br/>
<br/>
But it's the blank mask you brought back that preoccupies you. You could copy yourself into it. Then, if you put it on the petrified Jeff Spencer that is in the basement, you would have a lackey who looks and acts just like you, who could take your place at home and school as you concentrate further on the book and the spells.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311112111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Coffee and Unwanted Company
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's Saturday, but you're late getting over the elementary school because your dad decides that this is a day that the house should be cleaned. Thank God it's still drizzling outside, or he'd have you working outside too!<br/>
<br/>
But by one-thirty you and your brother have cleaned your rooms and the upstairs and downstairs baths and vacuumed everything except your parents' room, and after that you're finally able to get away.<br/>
<br/>
A cold front has moved in with the rain, and you shake the raindrops off your windbreaker once you're down in the basement. You look around with a sour expression. The place is starting to get a smell. It's not a smell you can identify, though, and after concentrating on it, you decide it's just a combination of lousy weather, damp earth, and a slightly bad conscience about last night's events.<br/>
<br/>
There is still an ample chance that you will make a mask of yourself, to use either for shenanigans or to cover for yourself the next time you don't want to go to school or get caught for chores, but for now you curl up with the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
After a few minutes you look around with wrinkled nose. The rain is patting softly on the windows, which should be a comforting sound. But it's very cold down in the basement, and this seems like the day for a fire and a hot cocoa or hot coffee, and you've got neither one. Maybe that's why you don't like the scene.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe—you dart a glance over your shoulder—it's that petrified Jeff Spencer in the corner, gazing off to the side with blank, unseeing, half-lidded eyes. You don't like glimpsing it out of the corner of your eye, but still less do you like having your back to it.<br/>
<br/>
Well, the thing to do is to keep busy. Having reacquainted yourself with the process for the next spell, you start gathering the materials. You've got more than enough stuff left, for it doesn't require much. Only a handful of cemetery dirt, for instance, and you've still got half a bag of that stuff, along with the rest of the chemicals. And you've got plenty of hair; in fact, while you were cleaning house your dad growled at you about needing to see a barber.<br/>
<br/>
Into a bowl you mix everything but your hair, running your finger around the sigil each time that you add something. Then you set a match to the black, smelly liquid it makes up. It burns very purple and very bright for a few seconds, then goes out, leaving a much thicker kind of paste behind.<br/>
<br/>
It's supposed to be painted on the inside of a mask, and since by this point you don't especially care if you ruin the mask you made of Caleb, you paint the inside of it. Strangely, Caleb's name continues to hover over the surface of the mask, even though the mind-strip has been completely covered over. Into the mask you lay a hank of your own hair and set it on fire. The entire interior of the mask catches fire for an instant, and goes out. The hair is gone, and the interior of the mask is now a mottled gray—the same color as a golem.<br/>
<br/>
You set the mask onto the book, then lift it. The page turns, and—<br/>
<br/>
Something somewhere in the basement goes <i>clack.</i><br/>
<br/>
And that's enough for you. Probably the noises are just the building settling as the cold air seeps into it, or the drip of water leaking in through the ancient roof and rafters. But whatever, you don't care. You grab up the mask and the grimoire and flee for happier precincts.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was probably a foolish move, taking yourself and your book to a public establishment, particularly one like the Koffee Kauldron, which is one of the innumerable kooky food-and-drink places near the university. But its polished walnut tables and gleaming brass fittings appealed to you on this gray, cool, drizzly day, and it has a fireplace in the back room. That fire was crackling merrily when you arrived, and as the place is largely empty you were able to secure a booth not far from it. With your dwindling stash of cash you have bought yourself a foamy latte and are bending over the book with your cell phone and a notebook and pencil close at hand.<br/>
<br/>
You've not been at work long when you're interrupted by a pair of pale, thin hands that drop onto the book and drum it. "Prescott," a clipped voice says, and you look up into the face of Christian Knouse. "What are you doing here, you uncultured motherfucker?"<br/>
<br/>
From certain angles Christian looks like a rabbit, while from other angles he looks like a fox. He has sharp eyes and slightly pointed eyebrows, and a very pointed nose over a small mouth. He is pale all over, except for the massive mole halfway along his right jaw, and his soft, blonde hair floats about his head in a cloudy wisp. He has an undernourished build, one not disguised by the oversize sweaters and slacks that he favors. But his blue eyes glitter like ice cubes behind his glasses, and his lips twist like he's holding back a witty remark until the right moment to drop it. <br/>
<br/>
A rabbit or a fox? Or a half-elf, half-orc in the tabletop RPGs that are his passion and the passion of his friends?<br/>
<br/>
"Hey man," you reply. "Just hanging out here with a good book." You lay a proprietary arm over the grimoire. "What are you doing here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fueling up. God damn it," he exclaims. His voice is thin, but penetrating. "You'd think Eric could at least keep some fucking pastries in stock, but no, it's all perishable meats and moldy vegetables." He drops into the seat opposite you and rakes his hair with long, thin fingers. "At least he's paying for the food run."<br/>
<br/>
"Eric?" you ask. "Eric who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kim. King Kong Komics," he says, and now you attach the name to the triple-wide Korean-American owner of a comic book shop a few blocks over. "Yeah," Christian drawls. "You ever eat at his sandwich shop, the one in the next-door annex?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think so."<br/>
<br/>
"No one has." He raises a slim hand. "I swear to God I will blow anyone who can prove to me that he's bought and eaten anything from that shop. But that's where we're running our campaign today—well, fuck, it's where we run it almost every day—and 'cos Eric can't be assed to stock his place with stuff that actually keeps, me and Braydon gotta make a food run down here so we can at least keep nourished. But like I say, at least Eric's paying for it. Hey, whatcha workin' on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, just a thing. Is Braydon here?" you glance around and don't keep the worry off your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Pickin' out the shit up front. I drove, he can carry. What's the thing?" He hooks his hands around the book.<br/>
<br/>
Briefly you resist, then relent and let him pull it over toward. His eyes sparkle and his eyebrow work.<br/>
<br/>
"Whew!" he whistles. "Goddamn Latin. You taking Leavey's class?" He stabs you in the eye with a very barbed lift of the eyebrow. You shake your head, and brush your phone to indicate you're using an online translator. "Looks pretty hardcore. Handwritten. How old is this thing? And what is it?" He flips back through the earlier pages.<br/>
<br/>
"Just a thing I found," you say, and reach over to take it back.<br/>
<br/>
But Christian keeps ahold of it. "Hey Braydon!" he yells, and his friend looks around the corner from the next room. "C'mere!"<br/>
<br/>
With gritted teeth you watch as Braydon Delp, wannabe-warlock, saunters over. Like Christian, he is of slight stature and scrawny physique. He dresses all in black, even to daubing his lashes with black eyeliner. Also, like Christian, there is something very soft in his manner, though in Braydon it comes across as melancholia. He nods vaguely at you, and concentrates on his friend.<br/>
<br/>
"Lookit this," Knouse says. "Look like something you'd be interested in?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon bends over the grimoire, and you hold your breath. His eyebrows go up in a peak, and his lips pout into a slight frown. "Interesting sigils," he says, and lays a white, worm-like finger on one of them. "What is it?" he asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Just a book I found at Arnholm's," you say. "It's not even real, it's like a stage prop," you quickly improvise. "See?" You reach over and try to flip the back pages without success. "Not real."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe the pages are glued shut," Christian says. "You should try steaming them open. What's it called? We could use something like that as a MacGuffin in one of our campaigns, especially if it's got evil spells in it. It's got evil spells in it, hasn't it?" That eyebrow goes up again, and the whites of his eyes show. "Tell me it's chock full of evil spells. Tell me you're turning into a fucking warlock, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
He holds your eye, then with an obscene cackle pushes Braydon out of the way and gets to his feet. "Later!" he calls back as he struts off.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon remains behind. His glance holds a speculative gleam, and for a moment you think he's going to say something.<br/>
<br/>
But he just chucks his chin at you, smiles, and oozes off after his friend.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The latest spell, when you decipher it, is very interesting. It allows you to "hide" someone by putting them under the face of an obedient lackey. But the description is sketchy. You think you will probably have to test it out, on a couple of different people in a couple of different ways, before you can be confident of knowing how it works.<br/>
<br/>
You've already prepped one mask with the stuff: Caleb's.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121111124
author_id: seuzz
title: A World of Possibilities
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've already run into two people by sitting out in public, and thereby exposed your secret grimoire to scrutiny. But you persevere, and hunch back over it again after Christian and Braydon have left.<br/>
<br/>
You can deal with the last spell later, and turn your attention to the next spell. Alas, it proves a frustration.<br/>
<br/>
At first, all goes smoothly. The book apparently still does not like for you to write down the ingredients it decrees for each item, for with this spell as with all the others, pens and pencils fail to write and electronic devices glitch if you jot anything substantial down. (So it's very strange that the book let you copy down its sigils—twice!—for those seem like they're an even more powerful magic than the ingredients for the spells.) But with a little translation work and memorization, and then some comparing and contrasting with earlier spells, you discover that this list of ingredients is identical to the list of ingredients for making the metal bands that copy memories and personalities.<br/>
<br/>
The instructions for assembling them differ, though. Below the list of ingredients is but a single line of Latin; translated, it seems to say "My use is my solution."<br/>
<br/>
That makes little enough sense, but when you read further ...<br/>
<br/>
At first you think something must have gone wrong with your eyes, and then in a panic you think you must have gotten the book wet in the rain and that the ink has all run. The bottom half of the page is consumed by a great block of text, but the letters and words are blurry and unreadable.<br/>
<br/>
But as you stare in horror at the ruin, you notice something funny about the mass of letters. They are blurry, but they are not blurry in a fixed way. They seem to shift and alter. Whenever you fix your eyes upon a spot the words stick in place like a blob of ink that has run, but when your eyes look away, the ink seems to come alive and to dance and run liquidly.<br/>
<br/>
Then you notice a further oddity. If you fix your attention on a spot, the words just in the periphery of your vision seem to resolve themselves into legible words. You could almost read them and write them but for the fact that they won't stay quite still, but will slither into superficially similar arrangements of letters. <i>menimissc</i>, for example, will shift subtly into <i>nieminissc</i> and then into <i>mciimnsse.</i><br/>
<br/>
Not until you peer very closely at the page do you discover—so you have to suppose—the reason for all this. There's a faint, fuzzy line across the middle of the page, just below the last bit of Latin, and you feel a raised bit when you run finger along it.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Of course!</i> you think, at first with excitement, and then with despair. <i>The bottom half of the page has been torn away.</i><br/>
<br/>
Close inspection confirms it. That fuzzy bit is a neat tear running from the margin of the page inward, and when you pull the book apart slightly you find the tear continuing down the length of the spine to the bottom. The page with the ingredients you'd translated? That's the top half of the page. The bottom half, which would have the rest of the instructions and the sigil, has been torn out.<br/>
<br/>
The fuzzy ink you're seeing is the next spell. You're not supposed to be able to read it, however, until you execute this other spell. And so the book, it seems, is responding to the damage by making the words unreadable.<br/>
<br/>
Until you find the rest of the page, you will be unable to complete the spell, and will be unable to proceed.<br/>
<br/>
But of course <i>you</i> didn't rip the book, so who the hell knows where the rest of that page went.<br/>
<br/>
So you're at a dead end.<br/>
<br/>
After slowly finishing your latte while staring into the fireplace, you close the grimoire, tuck it under your jacket, and go out to your truck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Sunday afternoon, after church.</i> To your astonishment, you weren't struck dead by lightning on entering the sanctuary. In fact, the rain has stopped and the clouds have mostly cleared, though a heavy train of them is still lumbering across the sky. You're over at Caleb's, having called and asked to come over. You've left him alone, for the most part, at school over the last week. Now you want to check in on him.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fine, I guess," he sighs when you ask him how he's doing. "You didn't come over here to hold my hand, did you?" he asks. "I'd rather you held my cock."<br/>
<br/>
You smile mirthlessly. "No, uh, weird stuff last Friday, or yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
His expression remains sour. "No, and thanks for reminding me about it all." He slouches in the chair at his chair. "It's ancient history now. Almost."<br/>
<br/>
"Why 'almost'?"<br/>
<br/>
His expression tightens. "I still gotta pay Ioeger and Tilley back their money."<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to register what he's saying. "Wait. Dude. You swore to me you <i>didn't</i> take it."<br/>
<br/>
"And I didn't!" His hands explode into the air, and a flush explodes into his cheeks. "I swear to fucking God, Will, I did. Not. Take. Their. <i>Shit!</i>" Then he slumps again. "But I spent all <i>fucking</i> week telling other people I was sorry for shit I <i>did! Not! Do!</i> at their fucking parties, so now I feel like I gotta make things right with the other fuckfaces just so I can put it all behind me."<br/>
<br/>
"Dude!" His plight strikes you to your core. "You shouldn't pay for something you didn't—"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, Prescott," he snarls, and shows you the bird. "Just shut up about it. I'm doing it but I don't want to talk about it! First three bloody paychecks blown to fucking hell is all."<br/>
<br/>
For the second time in a week you are almost moved by remorse to blurt out an apology and explanation, but the fit passes. <i>Maybe later,</i> you tell yourself. Instead, you agree to make the subject taboo. You distract him with talk of games instead, then invite him back to your place to play some on you system. That turns into an invitation to stay for dinner. Caleb isn't exactly joyful when you part that evening, but at least he doesn't seem preoccupied with resentment and confusion.<br/>
<br/>
After you drop him off at his house, though, you go by the elementary school to do some thinking.<br/>
<br/>
The petrified Jeff Spencer is still in its corner, to your relief.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's dark outside, and dark inside the basement. You brought a spare desk lamp in on one of your earlier forays, though, and after putting some old, collapsed cardboard boxes against the windows to shield the light, you turn it on and sink into a chair.<br/>
<br/>
You have been balked by the book, and your talk with Caleb has reminded you that you had some goals that had gone into eclipse while you were waiting for various spells to complete. What have you got, and what do you know how to do with it?<br/>
<br/>
First of all, you've got masks that you can use to copy people. You've got five blank masks now, and three of those metal bands to go with them.<br/>
<br/>
With masks you can copy a person's body without their mind, or with it. With those metal bands you can copy and wear their mind—their memories and personality—without looking like them. You can even, you recall, mix different faces into a mask before sealing it in order to create "original" people.<br/>
<br/>
You also have these lackey things, both the generic kind and the ones that use people as an ingredient. One of these is wandering around under a mask of Jeff Spencer, while the other—the transformed bully-retard himself—is standing in the corner.<br/>
<br/>
You also have the last spell you could unlock. It puts a special layer into a mask, like a folded-up pedisequos. As near as you can tell from the description, if you put one of these masks onto a person, it turns that person into a copy of the person inside the mask. But more than that, it turns them into a lackey. So you already put some of that stuff in the mask of Caleb. If you put that mask on, say, Keith Tilley, it would turn Keith into a copy of Caleb, but you figure it would be a lackey-Caleb, like you got when you set Caleb's mask on the pedisequos.<br/>
<br/>
What would happen if you put Caleb's mask on the first pedisequos? What if you put it on Jeff Spencer over there? What if you put it on yourself? You've no answers to those questions, and they seem pretty goddamned important. But for now you muse on what you could do with them.<br/>
<br/>
You could make a mask of yourself. Put some of that stuff inside it. Set it on (again, you muse) Keith Tilley. It would turn him into a copy of you, but a lackey, who would obey your commands. There'd be two of you, and zero Keith Tilleys. Well, the world would benefit from more of you and less of him, you tell yourself with a small smile. But if you made a mask of him first, and put it on ... Why, then you'd be Keith Tilley, and he'd be Will Prescott, but you'd be the master and he'd be the lackey. No one would notice there had been a switch.<br/>
<br/>
You could take over someone else's life while leaving a lackey to live out yours.<br/>
<br/>
There's nothing attractive about taking over Keith Tilley's life, still less Jeff Spencer's. But the principle is sound. You'd just have to figure out whose life you want.<br/>
<br/>
If you want one.<br/>
<br/>
But the lackeys could be useful even if you stay as yourself. Turn the Molester, and maybe Joshua Call, and maybe other assholes into lackeys. Then they wouldn't bother you. You could use them to bother other people. You need to get money for Caleb. With a gang of thuggish lackeys, that wouldn't be a problem.<br/>
<br/>
Or you could make a bunch of pedisequoses, and get a bunch of masks, and make doppelgangers torment some of the assholes who, unlike Caleb, really deserve it.<br/>
<br/>
Or you could try to find a way past that torn page. Braydon claims to know something about magic. Maybe there's someone at the university you could contact. Or you could just do an internet search.</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111211111241
author_id: rugal
title: Scouting For a Scout
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You enter the school early in the morning and in fact you're here far earlier than you've ever been. You'd woken up earlier than normal too and your parents were certainly surprised to see you. You'd given them the excuse that you had some places to go before school started... though of course you didn't tell them that place <i>was</i> the school itself. But it wasn't just your needing to be here early that got you up and it wasn't even the fact you went to sleep a bit earlier than normal to compensate. In fact you'd actually had trouble falling, and then staying, asleep.<br/>
<br/>
You've been too excited about what's going to happen.<br/>
<br/>
You'd tried a for a good twenty minutes to puzzle out that ripped page and just what the hell "use me to solve me" was supposed to mean and though you'd thought you might have had it once or twice it was ultimately fruitless. So you decided to abandon any dreams of moving further in the book at least for the time being and thought hard about just what you'd wanted to do. Tormenting assholes like Call with magic-robot doubles sounded and there was certainly something intriguing about the idea of having an army of thugs but very quickly you'd soured on both of those ideas.<br/>
<br/>
For one, to make more of those lackeys without basically killing someone would mean having to dig up a lot more graveyard dirt which was not an enticing prospect, even if you could just get Lackey-Spencer to do it for you. That's to say nothing of the time you'd have to wait for the fire to burn and, well, you'd already started getting impatient.<br/>
<br/>
You weren't sure how many of these robo-lackey things you could have either because it stood to reason that as old as this book is with a spell like this, how come nobody's used it to conquer the world? And if there <i>is</i> limits did you really want to waste valuable spots on your team for people like Jamie Rennerhoff?<br/>
<br/>
The memories of what you'd done as Caleb were still fresh in your mind. Even if you felt bad over how harried he's been because of your actions you can't deny it wasn't fun pretending to be somebody else. Even someone like Spencer, as uncomfortable as it was, was exciting because of how powerful being him made you feel. With this new spell you could replace someone practically risk free... a very enticing prospect and one you decided was too good to pass up.<br/>
<br/>
The only issue was one that you weren't sure who to be. Who would have a life worth swapping with? Who would get you the most? Who just plain seemed fun? As you are you wouldn't be able to get anyone particularly interesting. Your friends and family? There wasn't much difference compared to where you were now. You'd want to improve your standing by swapping after all. You definitely weren't interesting in being one of the scumbags you could get as Spencer either. No, to really get someone interesting you'd need to be in a position where you'd have access to lots of people fairly easily.<br/>
<br/>
That's when you were struck by an idea that you couldn't help but think of as pretty clever. It's an idea that's taken you up to the doors of the school, unlocked as there are plenty of people who need to use the building before school officially begins for the day. People like teachers.<br/>
<br/>
Because if you wanted access to students, if you wanted a place to observe and carefully pick your real target out what better place to scout from than the very people who are supposed to look over them?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's not a lot of people inside the actual school building this early in the morning. You've seen cars in the parking lot and you know well enough that largely the ones coming in an hour before school starts tend to be the members of the different athletic teams -- the basketball and swimming teams and such -- that hold their practices before first period. But there are some who come to talk to teachers about work, study in the library and such and you don't think anyone wouldn't think that's why you're here. They'd sure as hell never confuse you for an athlete at any rate.<br/>
<br/>
But if you wanted to be a teacher then who? Even if it was just for a short time, no more than a day or two, you don't want to be on the older end of the age spectrum so that rules out a large portion of them. You'd also need to be someone the students like; easier that way to convince one to come to a private chat so you can pull off a switch. In that respect one name stood out to you immediately so it's to your great disappointment when, making your way over to F-wing you find the door to Mr. Hagerman's classroom closed.<br/>
<br/>
You curse your luck at that. He's young, handsome and amiable; well-liked by male students see him as someone who totally gets them and adored by female students who give him looks of longing and lust. Getting a student as him would've been very easy and hey you might have even liked the idea of being a nice looking young guy yourself. In fact you'd been so fixated on him that you hadn't really thought of any alternatives.<br/>
<br/>
You're left to wander around the halls hoping nobody questions you <i>and</i> that you can find a teacher who fights your (now shortsighted you realize) criteria. You're about ready to give up when you get to B-wing and notice that there's a classroom with both its light on and door open. Some classrooms have had lights but closed doors indicated the teachers didn't want to be disturbed and the ones with open doors weren't quite what you were looking for.<br/>
<br/>
You walk by the class and take a look in as you do. You see Ms. Simeon sitting at her desk looking over some papers. You don't really know her beyond the fact that she's one of the younger teachers and that she's newer; you think she started your sophomore year though you can't really be sure. Beyond the fact that, given the wing she's in, she's teaching math you don't really know anything else including what grade she's teaching.<br/>
<br/>
You're also not too sure about becoming someone of the opposite sex. Not so much if you'd want to do it but if it's even possible to become a female with these masks. Still this is the closest person to the criteria you've laid out and it'd make for a good test. So taking a moment to reassure yourself you step up to her classroom, reach in the doorway and give the door a good knock.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The question of whether or not you could become a female is definitively answered.<br/>
<br/>
The door's closed and you're sitting at Ms. Simeon's desk, staring at her face in the compact's mirror as you use her brain to reapply the bit of makeup she'd put on before leaving home. Turns out the masks don't copy things like that but they sure do copy everything else as you're becoming intimately aware of.<br/>
<br/>
After getting Ms. Simeon's attention you'd made up a story about having a brother in her class who was out sick and that you'd needed to pick up any schoolwork he'd need to worry about. When she'd brought you some, you'd opened your backpack and, while placing the work in, grabbed the blank mask you'd made last night and shoved it on her face. You'd caught her and laid her down before closing and locking the classroom door.<br/>
<br/>
You took out another mask you'd made last night, this one of yourself with some of that paste applied, and when the first mask emerged you put the second on her. You watched as she transformed very quickly into a double of you and, re-confirming that he had to listen to you, you'd ordered him to strip while you did the same. You then ordered your doppelganger out of the room and after quickly locking the door once more you'd sealed this new mask and placed it on your face.<br/>
<br/>
Once you came to you were still aware that you were really William Martin Prescott, a seventeen-year-old high school senior. Yet in your mind you were also aware that you were Elizabeth Louise Simeon, a twenty-five-year-old teacher of freshman math at Westside High School. Your body certainly supported the latter over the former.<br/>
<br/>
And what a body! Ms. Simeon, Elizabeth you correct yourself, seemed to think she might need to lose a little bit of weight but you saw nothing wrong as you dressed. You liked the way the gray slacks clung to thighs with just a bit of meat and an ass that was wonderfully round and pillowy. The way your new figure curved in above the hips. Her breasts are bigger than you'd have thought though hidden behind loose fitting blouse and cardigan.<br/>
<br/>
And as you finish applying the makeup you can't help but think your face looks rather cute with a nice, welcoming smile. You tie your brown hair back and put on the black-rimmed glasses you'd set down. You wonder why you'd never really paid much attention to her? Probably because you're not a freshman. She has a very cute nerd thing going on though and you actually feel just a bit down that you'll be out of her so soon.<br/>
<br/>
By tomorrow you'll have picked out your target, made up a new mask and you'll be off in your new identity. For today though you'll make the most out of being Elizabeth Simeon.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311112111112411
author_id: rugal
title: The Student Teacher
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Sinking into Ms. Simeon's personality is not very hard at all, especially not after your little adventure as Jeff Spencer. It's a much more comfortable personality too, Where Spencer's felt dark and suffocating, like slowly sinking into a tar pit, Ms. Simeon's is bright and light, like being surrounded by nice, pink cherry blossoms. She's smart as a whip as you're able to explain to students math problems and concepts that are on the verge of escaping you normally. But at the same time her demeanor, that you're affecting, is friendly and sincere.<br/>
<br/>
It becomes obvious as you go through the morning that she's certainly well-liked by her students which is definitely good to know... even if her students are freshmen. Not that that's a bad thing however as there are two girls in her second period class that stand out immensely. One is Daniela Ramos, a girl who reminds you more than a bit of Kim Walsh: helpful to other students in class, hyper-organized, hyper-competent. The type of student who certainly has big things in her future.<br/>
<br/>
Then there's Taylor Smith. A girl who plays not just in the orchestra but, as far as Ms. Simeon is aware, in the chamber orchestra. To play in it is considered highly desirable as only the best of the best get invited and for Taylor to earn that spot as a freshman speaks volumes of her talent and dedication.<br/>
<br/>
There's other impressive students in other classes that you teach that morning as well. Students like Elijah Denton or Mason Hosey who you can't help but notice the girls stare longingly at and who look like they could probably clean up on any athletic team they wanted. Or girls like Addison Ricci and Shelly Nolan who, though different in personality, hold undeniable charisma.<br/>
<br/>
You had no idea about who any of the freshmen even were before this morning and you wonder if your own impression is being colored by the persona you've adopted that can't help but think that every year the kids coming up from middle school get a little stronger and a little smarter... a bit of rationalizing her own worries about perceived inadequacies. But even still, a lot of these students seem like they'd make for pretty good lives to jump into.<br/>
<br/>
But would you want to become a freshman and have to essentially start high school over again? That seems to be the only students that Elizabeth would interact with on a regular basis. Interactions that can be frustrating at times too as even a liked teacher like Ms. Simeon is going to have a hard time keeping the attention of a bunch of fourteen and fifteen-year-olds.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You look like shit Liz," Jennifer says as she starts her car. It's lunch and the two of you are headed off school grounds for a food run.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just tired," you groan as you slump in the passenger seat. "I just had a hard time getting going this morning and then one of my kids in third decided today would be the best day to be an ass. Oh shut up, Jen," you grumble as she titters, "unlike me <i>you</i> get the students that want to be there."<br/>
<br/>
Elizabeth can't help but feel a bit of small envy for Jennifer Willett. Her students always seem a little more enthusiastic. Then again she's young -- the same age as Elizabeth and in fact the two were in the same sorority and were even roommates their senior year -- and very pretty so it's no real mystery why she gets so many eager teenagers signing up for her classes.<br/>
<br/>
"No it's just that... that's not really any different from any other morning," she replies and her tone of voice becomes much more teasing. "You so had a late night with a guy didn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh god don't remind me," you groan more. "The dry spell's still going."<br/>
<br/>
"Really? I thought went out with that cute guy from the bank last week," she states.<br/>
<br/>
"We had dinner but it didn't work out," you tell her. "He was such a douchebag and just talked about himself a lot. Also I'm not just going to tell you every time I sleep with some guy. I'm not like Cathy."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh god," Jennifer busts out laughing, "I don't think I could deal with you if you were like her."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I mean, she's not <b>bad</b>..."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh I know but I mean this morning she couldn't stop telling me about how strong Thomas is and did you know that Thomas can just go and go?" she says as she continues to laugh. "I'm glad one of us has a healthy sex life."<br/>
<br/>
"How long are you going to keep shooting down Rob?" you ask referring to Mr. Hagerman, your original choice for a teacher. "He's really obvious with his flirting."<br/>
<br/>
Jennifer sighs at that though it's more a sigh of frustration. "I know but I dunno," she says. "Hannah was telling me that he was flirting really hard with her too and she seems a lot more into him. He's always struck me as a playboy, you know? Not really my type if I'm looking for something long term."<br/>
<br/>
"I get it," you reply with weariness born from Elizabeth's own frustration at her current romantic situation.<br/>
<br/>
"We should go out tonight Liz, just the two us," states Jennifer. "Go to a club or something and just find some nice guys you know? Get all that frustration out of our systems."<br/>
<br/>
"Have fun with that," you reply in a tone that's both friendly but completely dismissive of the idea. "You know that's not my thing. Besides I've got plans after school."<br/>
<br/>
"Another date?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hardly," you laugh, "I'm just getting some coffee with Maggie. She finally got some free time and we haven't talked in a while."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh jeez, Maggie? I don't think I've talked to her since the end of last year. Is she still..."<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, I don't think she's the partying type anymore. She didn't seem like it last time we talked anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"Color me shocked," Jennifer retorts. "Ah well, I'll enjoy a quiet night in myself then. So whaddaya wanna get? Personally you can call me Cathy because I'm totally craving Mexican."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my god, stop being so catty!" you exclaim but can't hide your own laughter. "But yeah, La Cocina sounds really good right now."<br/>
<br/>
It's an enjoyable lunch and you find yourself really enjoying the time with Jennifer. By the end of the day you feel like you've settled in nicely. The freedom of being an adult is very liberating and you start to feel like plan or no you could get very used to being Elizabeth Simeon.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Dunn Brewin' is not the fanciest or most unique of the surprising amount of coffee shops that dot Saratoga Falls and it's for that reason that it's the one Elizabeth likes best... even if she some times feels a bit weird about having to go onto Keyserling's campus. She's a few years removed from college at this point so she can't help but feel a bit self-conscious. But so many of the other places are these weird ones like Flying Saucer or, like Milagro, attract that pretentious type of crowd that can be annoying.<br/>
<br/>
Dunn Brewin' is no frills and affordable and since it's connected to Keyserling that means some of the money goes back to the school so Elizabeth can at least claim she's doing a little bit of community good in supporting it.<br/>
<br/>
Thankfully today you don't need to feel awkward, both because you lack Elizabeth's hangups and because you're going to be here with someone very connected to the university herself.<br/>
<br/>
"Maggie, it's good to see you!" you exclaim, getting up to greet a green-shirted woman.<br/>
<br/>
"It's good to see you too Liz," she says, returning your greeting and embracing you in a friendly hug. "We haven't seen each other since, what, the summer?"<br/>
<br/>
Maggie, that is Margaret Alba, is another of Elizabeth's former sorority sisters and one of the ones she had been closest too. Though where Elizabeth and Jennifer went into teaching Margaret, who was something of an infamous party girl, seems to have settled down post-graduation as a grad student doing work as a T.A. while going for her master's. It's that work which has kept her busy and prevented the two friends from meeting as regularly as they'd like.<br/>
<br/>
"And it's not just the research which is killing me," she grumbles, "but Blackwell was being a problem too."<br/>
<br/>
"What's been going on?" you ask with concern. "You're not getting, like, <i>stalked</i> by some creep are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not stalked but he <i>is</i> totally creepy," Maggie shudders. "No, he's just a co-worker kind of. Professor of arc--wait, you didn't have any classes with him when you were attending." You shake your head so she continues. "Anyway, yeah he's in the archaeology department. He'd asked me for help a few months back on some book he found, I guess because my focus is Reformation era Central Europe and this book I guess fit the time and place."<br/>
<br/>
"That sounds pretty neat," you admit. "So you helped him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't have the time to but he wouldn't stop pestering me about it," she explains. :Just to shut him up I put him in contact with a girl from one of the classes I T.A. and I guess she's been helping him organize his library, translate stuff, all that. Ugh, I feel bad for her though. The guy's really eccentric."<br/>
<br/>
"How so?"<br/>
<br/>
"He just has this weird obsession with magic and stuff," she states. "I've been over to his place and it's nice but really creepy. The whole thing just gives me the chills."<br/>
<br/>
Though it might creep Maggie out, it's piqued your interest. A professor who's into magic? Maybe he'd know of the book or have resources you could use to help your own research, especially in getting past that ripped page. Though you had a plan and though you're already getting comfortable as Elizabeth, you wonder if switching with someone connected to university -- Maggie or this girl working for him or even just another student in general -- to get close to this professor might in fact be the best course to take.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121111124112
title: Being a Teacher
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You remove your keys from your purse and unlock the door to Elizabeth's 2nd floor apartment. You are quickly greeted to "Kit" Elizabeth's cat meowing while rubbing against your legs. You feed him some canned food then kick your pumps off, set your purse down on the coffee table and then crash your body on the living room sofa just to close your eyes for 30 seconds. After your meeting with your former sorority sister today after your shift you had to head back to your class room after hours and grade a few papers but it was surprisingly easy to get through them all. With Elizabeth's keener sense of mathematics and experience grading papers it only took you about an hour and a half but they were papers that needed to be done as they were already past their return date. <br/>
<br/>
Though you quickly realized its much better to be grading papers then actually doing them which your beta probably is still doing now. So you smile then make your way to the kitchen and grab one of the Salmon meal-preps from the fridge Elizabeth prepared for her dinners a few days ago. You normally hate Salmon but it smelt delicious heating up in the microwave. You also poured yourself a half glass of her favorite white wine to go along with the meal. You then sat down and turned on her favorite housing shows on Netflix. As you finish up your appetizing meal you unwind into the couch sipping on your wine. <br/>
<br/>
While today was definitely stressful for you, teaching in front of a classroom full of rowdy freshmen, and keeping up with work and personal obligations of Elizabeth you couldn't help but enjoy the entirety of the day. Ever since she was little Elizabeth always wanted to be a teacher and she generally enjoys teaching and helping her students, thus you had felt happy and content with helping her students today throughout the lesson. It was also even enjoyable getting looks from the hot headed boys in your class too staring longingly while you taught in front of class or quickly looking at your bust while you bent over to answer some of their questions on papers. You couldn't help but enjoy the attention today and the girlfriends you hung out with too.<br/>
<br/>
But is this a life you want to stay in? You think to yourself examining your cutely decorated one-bedroom one-bathroom apartment. It really is nice having a place to call your own, no parents, no siblings, just you and your cat. The whole purpose of the masks was to get into a better life but it would be weird to call it quits so earlier...would it? You then finish down the rest of your wine and walk into the bedroom. <br/>
<br/>
You then stare at yourself in the vanity mirror, Ms.Simeon is a cute woman definitely, but what does she think of herself? Well she hates her "thunder thighs" and slight pot-belly stomach, her memories tell you. So wanting to get a better examination you strip out of your cardigan and work polo, your hose and dress skirt, then your unclip your wire bra and pull down your panties. You were only naked once as her this morning and you had to quickly get dressed too so you are able to take a closer look at Elizabeths body fully this time for a closer inspection. You did use the bathroom a few times at the school but you didn't want to do anything unprofessional there.<br/>
<br/>
 So looking into the mirror you examine herself from her point of view. Her breasts a C cup hang slightly when out of her bra, her belly juts out a little bit from the added weight she gained after her last breakup, her vagina is hidden behind a curly dark bush from the little sexual activity she has had recently, and turning reveals some slight cellulite on her ass checks. <br/>
<br/>
While you start to panic at these flaws you realize you are only focusing on the things she hates about herself, but your Will mind sees a rather attractive lady staring back nude in the mirror. Her skin in a bit pale sure but it is highlights her dark long hair. Your face is definitely a round one buts its cute. You would have no trouble attracting many male suiters you realize, something Elizabeth doesn't realize. Which comes to why she has been feeling kind of down recently, she wants to date again. Thats when you feel the all to familiar (familiar in her mind) feminine flush, something inside your quivers, "your vagina wants good dick" her memories tell you.... <br/>
<br/>
You could easily get her a partner and experience the joy yourself you think, or you could just swap into another student as you originally planned </span></div></div>


path: 111131131111211111242
author_id: seuzz
title: A Gang of Your Own
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You drive out to Spencer's apartment, but the lights are out in his windows, and no one answers the door when you batter at it. You've forgotten everything you knew about him when you were under his mask—thank God!—except that his guardian is also his landlord. You knock at the downstairs door.<br/>
<br/>
The man who answers is even more repulsive than Spencer: fat and unshaven with a tangle of dark, wispy hair on his balding head, clad only in a muscle shirt and boxers. He glowers at you. "I'm looking for Jeff Spencer," you stammer at him. "Can I leave a message?"<br/>
<br/>
He glowers some more at you.<br/>
<br/>
But when you pat at your pockets and come up empty, the man withdraws with a growling sigh and shuts the door. A moment later he returns with a grimy scrap of paper and a little pencil like they have at the miniature golf course. You scrawl your cell number on it along with the note "Call me -- Your boss."<br/>
<br/>
"Can't guarantee he'll get it," the man mutters at you, and shuts the door before you can reply.<br/>
<br/>
You weren't sure what you were going to do if you found Spencer, but you had the two completed masks in the truck with you, and that proves a blessing as  your lackey texts you just as you're pulling up to your house: <i>whostheis<br/>
<br/>
Ur boss r you at home?<br/>
<br/>
dontgotbos<br/>
<br/>
are you at home?</i><br/>
<br/>
No reply. You turn the truck around and drive back up to the bombed out neighborhood where Jeff Spencer hangs his underwear up.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The lights are on in Spencer's apartment when you pull up, and there's a red car parked in front of the storage trailers. It's probably cherry colored in the day; now, at night, it looks the color of dried blood. <br/>
<br/>
You've got all your masks and supplies in the pack on your back as you mount the squeaking wooden stairs. You're still not sure what you're going to do, as you don't know who is here, or how many of them there are. Even worse, you're not sure you're in control of the lackey. Spencer seems barely smart enough to understand the concept of "obey", and not even intelligent enough to obey more than just the most basic sorts of commands. On top of that, the way he refused to answer your texted questions or to acknowledge your "bossness" leaves you wondering if something more serious has gone wrong with the magic.<br/>
<br/>
You pause outside his door, and listen. There are no sounds from inside. You hold your breath and put your ear to the door. After a few seconds you hear hoarse mutters, as of people talking in low tones.<br/>
<br/>
It's impossible to tell how many are inside.<br/>
<br/>
Taking your courage in one hand, and a blank mask in the other, you bang your knuckles on the warped and faded door.<br/>
<br/>
The floor on the other side groans under heavy footsteps. The door opens. Jeff Spencer peers out at you with a dull expression.<br/>
<br/>
Then his eyes widen with recognition. "Who am I?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"Nng-ghn," he says. The tip of his tongue seems stuck between his teeth, but he steps back.<br/>
<br/>
You don't follow him in, not yet. "Am I your boss?" you say.<br/>
<br/>
His jaw falls open a little, and a gleam that could almost pass for intelligence comes into his eyes. "Yeah," he says.<br/>
<br/>
Then another figure steps into view. It's Joshua Call. There's a pale, fell light in his eyes, and he raises his chin at you. His meaty hands bunch up into loose fists.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't say anything though, not even when you put your head through the doorway to take a quick look around the apartment. Except for these two lowlifes, it's empty.<br/>
<br/>
So you point at Call and look Spencer right in the eye. "Grab him," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Nghuh?"<br/>
<br/>
"Grab him!" You mime a football tackle.<br/>
<br/>
Call just has time to let a look of alarm wash over his face before Spencer grabs him around the chest. The two lunkheads, who are built like slabs of beef, stumble backward and bang into a refrigerator. You fly at them, and smash the mask into Call's face. He slumps.<br/>
<br/>
But Spencer hangs on to him until you tell him he can let go. He glances between you and Call with a puzzled expression as you shut the door, but says nothing even after you've crouched on the floor by his friend and started to unpack.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Thank fuck <i>you're</i> smart enough to get it at least," you mutter at Joshua Call a quarter-hour later. Unlike his fellow lackey, who has to concentrate when asked to pick his right foot up off the ground, lackey-Joshua responds quickly and accurately.<br/>
<br/>
You just wish he didn't stare at you quite so balefully.<br/>
<br/>
It worried you, at first, when you put his fully treated mask back onto him. After it came out, you had sealed it, then had added a layer of that new paste—the kind that uses a few chemicals, your hair, and a pinch of graveyard earth—to its inner surface. Would it work as promised? Would it work at all? Would it make a difference that you were putting a mask of Joshua Call back onto Joshua Call?<br/>
<br/>
So you had Spencer sit on him before you placed the finished mask on him. After he barked a "Get the fuck off me!" you'd entertained yourself by ordering him to slap himself. Then, content with that performance, you'd put both lackeys through a set of easy warming-up exercises—lifting left feet and right feet, left hands and right hands—before administering the ultimate test: Ordering Spencer to take his cock out and ordering Call to suck it. It was an utterly disgusting spectacle, and you quickly cut it short—the spectacle, not Spencer's dick, though that was awful as well—but you are now convinced that these two assholes are completely enslaved to your will.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb needs at least two hundred dollars if he's to pay back the guys you victimized, so you start by ordering Spencer and Call to hand over all the cash they have on them or in the apartment. It comes to fifty-four dollars between them. In a series of angry grunts, Call admits to having more money at home. "You got any pay checks?" you ask. "Cash in a bank? Use your ATM card to bring it all out here," you order him. "Leave twenty in the account."<br/>
<br/>
Call departs. Spencer collapses onto his bed while you slouch in a broken-backed chair, your leg hanging over the arm, and cruise the internet on your phone while waiting for the lackey to get back. But in the back of your mind you're contemplating your next steps.<br/>
<br/>
When Call returns he has a further one hundred and three dollars with him. "You know the Molester?" you ask Call as you sort out the money. "Pozniak," you clarify when he frowns. "Does he know where this place is? Then text him, tell him you want him out here. Tell him there's a poker game getting started, so he needs to bring all his cash." Call's jaw muscles work as he taps in the text. "Is he on his way?" you ask after there have been a couple of back-and-forths. "Then this is what I want you guys to do." You outline to your lackeys how, as soon as Pozniak comes in, Spencer should grab him like he grabbed Call, and how Call should jam the blank mask which you give him into Pozniak's face.<br/>
<br/>
They prove quite adept, and you don't even stir from the chair as they take the Molester down for you. After Spencer lowers Pozniak to the floor, you snap at the gum you're chewing—your host had a few extra sticks laying around—then saunter over to peer down at your long-time tormentor. You wish you had a nasty little quip to hand that you could murmur over him, but you don't, and content yourself with kneeling beside him and slapping his piggy cheeks a couple of times while snickering.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Alright, you assholes have paid your dues," you tell your "three Fucketeers" after you've got their money—two hundred and thirty-three dollars—counted, sorted, folded, and shoved into the pocket of your cargo shorts. "Tomorrow you start collecting, to pay yourselves back and to kick some up to me." You grin. "I want five dollars a day, minimum, from each of you." They glare murder at you. <br/>
<br/>
Five dollars a day is nothing. You could easily get ten or maybe even twenty a day off each of them as they went around shaking victims down. But that might get too much notice, and you're not greedy. Five dollars a day from these three clowns will give you four-hundred and fifty a month, which would be more than you know what to do with.<br/>
<br/>
But if your tastes get expensive, you'll think about upping your quota, or adding to the gang.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't do anything that'll get you expelled," you continue. "Just get the cash. And leave Caleb Johansson and Keith Tilley alone. You don't touch them."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?" Joshua asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind." You fix the Molester with a hard stare. "You know who they are. Lay off them. And lay off <i>me."</i><br/>
<br/>
You can tell that the Molester would like to say some very bad words, but when you ask if he understands, he only mutters, "Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Monday morning. Student parking lot.</i> You spot Spencer loping across, and after glancing around to see if the coast is clear, you trot over to him. "Where's Call?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
He blinks at you, then takes out his phone and sends a text. He blinks at the reply and shows it to you: <i>dunjuns.</i> "Where's that?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Spencer sucks his lip, then gestures you to follow him.<br/>
<br/>
To your alarm, he leads you into the gym, past the practicing basketball squad, and into the changing rooms. Down a corridor behind the showers he lopes, past a maintenance closet, and around a corner into a dead end. You're puzzled until he kneels and pulls a heavy metal grate out of the floor, exposing the top of a metal ladder embedded in the sides of a manhole.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311112111112421
author_id: seuzz
title: The Dunjuns
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The manhole is narrow and dark, but faint light spills across the floor at the bottom. You judge it to be about twenty feet down. <br/>
<br/>
Spencer pushes you aside and wriggles his way down. You peer after. When he's at the bottom, Spencer turns his moon-face up at you.<br/>
<br/>
You suck on your upper lip, then twist around to follow him down the ladder.<br/>
<br/>
You come to a stop in a narrow hallway with a low, arched roof. The floors and walls are concrete, stained with green and brown patches. In the ceiling, inside a little metal cage, shines a bare light bulb. From somewhere nearby you hear the echoing plop of slowly dripping water.<br/>
<br/>
You're standing at a dead end. Spencer lopes down the other way, and you trail cautiously behind. He's only gone twenty feet or so before he comes to a folding metal gate. He shoves it open with a clank, and gives you a dull look. When you hang back, he passes the gate, slides it shut, and clomps off deeper into these "dunjuns."<br/>
<br/>
After he's gone, you move up to examine the gate. The metalwork is smooth and oily in the dim light, and looks in good repair. In good repair too is the lock, and when you experimentally slide the gate shut, the lock clasps shut with a heavy clank of metal. When you tug it, it doesn't open.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, so you've managed to lock yourself out of the "dunjuns," which isn't a great loss. And if Spencer and his friends are locked inside? If they get desperate, they can always phone the police.<br/>
<br/>
You climb out the manhole and slide the heavy metal grate back into place. This piece of work too you closely examine. With the massive screws at the corner, it certainly <i>looks</i> bolted down, which may be why nobody except Spencer and his friends ever goes down them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You've certainly never heard of these "dunjuns" under the school, and your curiosity is piqued. <br/>
<br/>
So before first period you ask Caleb if he's ever heard of any tunnels under the school. He shakes his head, as does Keith when you ask him in second. But during lunch, which you take out front with Carson and James, Jenny and Paul—<br/>
<br/>
"You don't want to go down there," Carson tells you in a clipped tone. "You seriously do not want to go down there, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"What—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not if you don't want your ass raped," James says.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you want to get your ass raped?" Carson asks. He grunts when Jenny punches him in the shoulder. "Imagine Jenny raping your ass," he says, "only it's not Jenny, it's fuckers like Brian Heath, and they're not doing it to flirt with you, like Jenny does when she rapes your ass—" He grunts again when she gives him another wallop.<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>are</i> they?" you ask. "That's all I want to know."<br/>
<br/>
"They're places of ass-rapery," James says, "that you stay out of if that's not your thing."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh just tell him already!" Jenny hollers. "Cut it out with the—"<br/>
<br/>
"They're maintenance tunnels," Carson says. He flops onto his side and fishes some chips out of a bag. "Utility tunnels. Steam, electrical, water—"<br/>
<br/>
"Ass-fuckery," says James.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Which is why I hear," Carson says, "that even the maintenance staff doesn't like going down into them."<br/>
<br/>
"Have you ever been down into them?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Because I'm not into—" Carson pauses as Jenny readies her fist. "Into that kind of utility work."<br/>
<br/>
"So how do you know about it? Who else knows about it? Is it like the fuck room?" That's a room above the gym, where the top athletes hang out and do the kind of stuff that gives it the nickname "the fuck room" around the rest of the school.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!" Jenny bursts out. She scrambles to her knees, grabs up her lunch and her things, and skedaddles off toward the library.<br/>
<br/>
Carson watches her go. Once she's out of earshot, he says, "Good, we finally got rid of her. To answer your question, Prescott—"<br/>
<br/>
Except he doesn't, not all of your questions, anyway. He just has time to tell you that the tunnels might or not have once been a hangout for popular kids, but that they long ago became the lair for the most reptilian school elements. <br/>
<br/>
"You ever notice how come you don't ever see guys like, um, Joshua Call around?" he says. He grows visibly uncomfortable at mentioning the name. "Not even out at the portables? It's because, um, when they're not skipping, they're—"<br/>
<br/>
He falls into an embarrassed silence, and his eyes drop. James, too, you notice, has suddenly gotten very interested in the interior of his sandwich. Paul turns his back to you and becomes fascinated by the traffic flowing down Borman Avenue.<br/>
<br/>
You have the sudden sense that there's someone behind you. You flop onto your back and peer up.<br/>
<br/>
And you almost shit yourself when—speak of the devil—you find Joshua Call glaring balefully down at you. You swallow hard.<br/>
<br/>
He holds out his hand. "Here," he grunts. "You wanted this." He's pinching something green between his fingers.<br/>
<br/>
Tentatively—for though you've recovered your initial fright, and have remembered that he's now your lackey, habits of terror are hard to break—you reach up to take the item from him. It's a tightly wadded, very grubby, five-dollar bill. Call, his eyes alight with a cold fire, gives you one last glare, then turns and stumps off back toward the school.<br/>
<br/>
You turn back over, to face Caleb and the others. They watch Call's retreating back with wary interest. <br/>
<br/>
Finally, Carson lets out a hefty breath. "What the fuck?" he says. "What did—? Gimme that!" He snatches the bill from your hand.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey!"<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck is Call giving you money for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Payment for ass-fuckery?" James suggests. He looks as shocked and surprised as Carson, but clearly his wit (what there is of it) hasn't deserted him.<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme that—!" You grab bill back from Carson. "He owed me five and he's paying me back. That's all!"<br/>
<br/>
Carson honks with laughter. "I've heard of Call 'borrowing' but never 'paying back'. What'd you <i>do</i> for him, Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
"Some guys I know owed me a favor," you improvise. "They talked to Call."<br/>
<br/>
James snorts. "Guys you know? What guys do you know that could get <i>Joshus Call</i> to pay you back a loan? They have nukes?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just some guys," you repeat. "Big guys."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have any friends who are 'big guys'."<br/>
<br/>
"Who says?"<br/>
<br/>
"It really looks to me like payment for services rendered," James tells Carson.<br/>
<br/>
"I do so have friends who—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Call wouldn't have paid," Carson tells James. "He'd have 'made'!"<br/>
<br/>
"I got more friends than you guys! Bigger, too!"<br/>
<br/>
"And the eight magical reindeer they own," Carson says, turning to you, "are they your friends too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck you. Jenny had the right idea." You lurch to your feet and grab your stuff. "You know, the only reason I came out here to eat with you was so's you could tell me about the dungeons, and you didn't even—"<br/>
<br/>
"How do you know they're called the dungeons?" Carson asks, sharply.<br/>
<br/>
"—tell me all that much about them!" You wheel and stomp off.<br/>
<br/>
Only after you've cooled off do you wonder if you accidentally let something important slip in front of Carson, when you called the tunnel complex beneath the school by the same name that Call gave them when he told Spencer where he was.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Mostly, though, you preoccupy yourself with Carson's taunt: <i>You don't have any friends!</i><br/>
<br/>
Okay, that's not exactly what he said, but his jeer that you don't have any "big" friends—friends who count, friends capable of making Joshua Call pay you back a loan—bites at you. <i>You're a nobody, Prescott,</i> is what he was saying.<br/>
<br/>
You could taunt back that he's a nobody too. He and James don't have "big" friends either. But Carson would probably just grin and retort, <i>Yeah I know, so what?</i><br/>
<br/>
Or (an even worse possible retort, which occurs to you during math class): <i>I don't need 'big friends', not like you say you do, Prescott.</i><br/>
<br/>
But you do have "big friends." Now. Joshua Call and Jeff Spencer and The Molester. Okay, they're not "friends," but they are lackeys. Only, they're not people you really can afford to be seen with. They're not guys you want to hang out with. You don't want them to be "friends."<br/>
<br/>
So how could you get some? If, hypothetically, you wanted some.<br/>
<br/>
Well, obviously, the same way you got some lackeys.<br/>
<br/>
But what <i>kind</i> of friends?<br/>
<br/>
Cooler friends? Richer friends? Smarter friends?<br/>
<br/>
<i>Girl</i> friends? <i>A</i> girlfriend?<br/>
<br/>
Later that afternoon, during study hall, as you're engaged in a lot of tedious daydreaming, a wrinkle occurs to you: If you want to make yourself a set of friends, why do they have to be at Westside? There's other schools you could "recruit" them from.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121111124211
author_id: seuzz
title: Friendship Is What You Make of It
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You spend your seventh-period study hall in a distracted state, playing with the idea of getting yourself a new set of friends by using the "lackey" spell. You depress yourself by reflecting that fake friends would be no friends at all, then cheer yourself back up when it occurs to you that not all of your new "friends" would have to be lackeys. By replacing just a few key people at school—members of one or more social circles—with fakes, you could get yourself an "in" with those groups. <br/>
<br/>
Then you get yourself really good and depressed by wondering if your new social status would be all that convincing. Would it be really believable, even with the help of lackeys, if you started hanging out with football players, or drama people, or kids who played in garage bands? Maybe there's a reason you don't have all that many friends at school, and maybe it has everything to do with you and not with them.<br/>
<br/>
But—and you sit up very straight when the thought occurs to you—there are other schools in town. If you made got yourself some new friends at Eastman High School or at ... Um ...<br/>
<br/>
The Christian school? Ugh, no.<br/>
<br/>
Okay then— if you made and then got yourself some new friends at Eastman High, then how could anyone tell if you-plus-them equalled "one really weird scene." Same over at Eastman.<br/>
<br/>
The more you think the idea over, the more you like it. <br/>
<br/>
The only big problem would be ... How do you get in contact with someone from Eastman? And how would you know who to "recruit"?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Molester catches and delivers his tribute to you on your way out the door, but Spencer fails entirely to find you. Still, the ten dollars you collect are a welcome first payment from your lackeys. You tuck the bills away in a special envelope that you hide in your sock drawer—money you are earmarking to repay Caleb for what you stole while using his face.<br/>
<br/>
But you wind up spending it that night, after you text Caleb to see if he'd be up for getting together to study. You stop at a 7-11 and buy a couple of large sodas and a big bag of chips.<br/>
<br/>
"You know anyone who goes to Eastman?" you ask in a carefully, casual tone of voice after you've been working on your math for nearly an hour. Caleb is sprawled on his bed while you hunch over his desk.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," he replies, and rattles off a lot of names that you don't recognize.<br/>
<br/>
"Are they cool?" you ask. "I mean, are they worth hanging out with?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a look. "If they were worth hanging out with," he says, "don't you think I'd be spending a lot more time hanging out with them and less time hanging out with you and Tilley?"<br/>
<br/>
He's still in a bad mood—a hangover of the nasty prank you played on him, you suppose—so you forgive him the gibe. "So who are these people?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "Just people I went to middle school or elementary school with. They probably don't even remember me."<br/>
<br/>
"But you remember them."<br/>
<br/>
"What's this about, man?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I just kind of got into it with Carson and James today," you explain. "And I got to thinking‚ well, we need to start hanging out with a better class of asshole."<br/>
<br/>
"I've thought that for a long time. So do we take Tilley out to the country and abandon him there, or pack him up a big box with some air holes and mail him to—"<br/>
<br/>
"I wasn't talking about Keith," you retort. "And what's wrong with Keith?"<br/>
<br/>
"Aside from the obvious?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, sure, he can be a bit much, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"I say the same thing about you, you know—"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"And I assume you say the same thing about me."<br/>
<br/>
"No I don't!"<br/>
<br/>
"Really?" Caleb's face lights up a little. "'Cos I was sure—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck you! If that's what you really think of me—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just giving you shit. But if you're talking about Carson and James— Oh, and Keith <i>can</i> go fuck himself, for all I care, the cocksucker hasn't been talking to me since, well—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know, you don't want to talk about it. But I was just thinking— Well, it wouldn't do us any good when we're at school. But if we had some friends over at Eastman, we could—"<br/>
<br/>
"If I wanted new friends, Prescott," Caleb says in a very clipped tone, "I could find them at Westside."<br/>
<br/>
"Really?" You affect surprise. "Where? Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Around."<br/>
<br/>
"See, that's what I was telling Carson, that I got friends he doesn't know about—"<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't start with me, man. That's how I got mad at Carson and decided I wanted some new friends!"<br/>
<br/>
But you talk some more, particularly about the people at Eastman that he used to know. Most of them, it sounds like, went on to be come the kind of people you don't have much use for: football players or worse. But a couple of them, he's pretty sure, turned out decent. And one of them, he says after turning thoughtful and melancholy, he knows for a fact is a cheerleader over at the other school.<br/>
<br/>
"God, I had a crush on Ann back in the fourth grade," he says, though that isn't exactly what you had asked him. He rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "She was the cutest red-head. Probably still is." He chews on his lower lip, then snaps his finger at you to hand him his phone from the desk. He taps and scrolls at the screen, then stares for a very long time at it before turning the screen to show you.<br/>
<br/>
It's a picture of girl with long, bright-red hair in an EHS cheerleader uniform. She is perched on a set of bleachers and her smile is tight and bright. She's pretty, but not a knockout.<br/>
<br/>
"She looks great," you tell Caleb with about twenty-five percent exaggeration. "But that's just what I mean. Why aren't you hanging out with someone like that on weekends?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean instead of with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we could <i>all</i>—"<br/>
<br/>
"There's no point, man."<br/>
<br/>
"Why is there no point?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because it's not going to happen."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it isn't if you just mope around like this!"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a very pinched look, and insists on getting back to his school work.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you keep badgering him over the course of the week, and by the time Friday rolls around, you have succeeded in breaking down his resistance. It turns out that he still has Ann Sibley's cell phone number buried in the recesses of his contact list, and after a lot of goading you get him to her a text, suggesting that him and her and maybe some of their friends might get together to do something on Saturday. "Nothing'll come of it," he warns you, "if you think you're gonna use her to meet some hot Eastman cheerleaders." You airily dismiss his suspicion. You've got other reasons for wanting to meet an Eastman cheerleader.<br/>
<br/>
In the meantime, you've managed to straighten out your lackeys, arranging for Spencer and Call to pass their daily contributions to the Molester, and for him to deliver it once a week—on Fridays—under the pretext of hauling you out back for a beating. It gives you a weird thrill that afternoon when the Molester, without even a preamble, grabs you from in front of Keith. Except for the absence of mocking banter from Pozniak, it feels exactly like all the other times he has marched you off for a bout of pain and humiliation, and you shudder all over with remembered horrors as he steers you with a clammy hand on the back of your neck toward the portables. <i>But it's not real,</i> you gleefully tell yourself between shivers. <i>He's my lackey and this is just an act!</i> When you're out of sight, the Molester lets you go, and sullenly hands you a dirty envelope containing sixty dollars in various denominations.<br/>
<br/>
"He just made me give him my underwear," you tell Keith afterward. "Guess he has a thing for sniffing my farts." That is, in fact, what you ordered Pozniak to do after you had stripped off your boxers and handed them to him, in order to make the pretended abduction look that much more convincing.<br/>
<br/>
On Saturday morning you wake to a text from Caleb, telling you that Ann invited him to join him and a bunch of other Eastman students, who are planning to see a movie that afternoon. <i>Sounds great!</i> you reply. <i>Me invited too?</i> To which Caleb says, <i>Sure.</i><br/>
<br/>
He's in a subdued mood when you pick him up, but you can tell he's tamping back his excitement. As you pace in front of the theater, you're joined by two tall guys in Eastman letterman jackets. From their talk, you soon deduce that they're waiting for some others to arrive, and when you ask if Ann Sibley is one that's coming, the taller of the pair point-blank asks if you're the "Caleb" that she's meeting up with. You point to your friend. The other two  then introduce themselves as "Conor" and "Timothy."<br/>
<br/>
There's one false start before Ann arrives, though. A couple of more Eastman students show up and exchange some brusque words with Conor and Timothy before going in. The latter mutters that he's going to go wait inside before "that cocksucker" shows up. <br/>
<br/>
"Who?" you ask Conor after his friend has gone in.<br/>
<br/>
"Guy named Charles Whitney," Conor replies. "Him and Timothy don't care for each other. Lucky he goes to St. Xavier now."<br/>
<br/>
<i>St. Xavier!</i> You almost jump out of your skin. Why didn't you remember the elite boarding school west of town? If you had "friends" that went to St. Xavier, you could look down your nose at all of Westside!<br/>
<br/>
And one of them is coming out here to the theater? Where you can catch him with the memory strip that you brought along to use on Ann Sibley?</span></div></div>


path: 111131131111211111242112
author_id: seuzz
title: Mugging a Preppie
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've only got one of those metal doohickeys with you, but you've got others back at your headquarters and can make even more. So unless Caleb really fucks up this movie date with Ann, you'll probably have other chances to copy her brain, or that of another Eastman student.<br/>
<br/>
But when will you ever have a chance like this to get close to a prep-school snot?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Eastman gang comes dribbling in over the next ten minutes in little packs of twos and threes. "Dribbling" literally, almost, for most of them, like Conor and Timothy, turn out to be basketball players, and most of them have brought dates of their own along. Ann turns out to be even shorter than she appeared to be in her picture, and she's more ... interesting looking ... in person than beautiful. But she is pert and friendly, and she acts very happy to connect up with Caleb again. <br/>
<br/>
You don't pay much attention, though, and keep watching the parking lot for signs of that guy from St. Xavier. You finally nail the guy when one of his friends comes out of the theater to wave and gesture him in. <br/>
<br/>
He's a regular looking fucker, in a long-sleeve shirt and jeans, with a white ball cap pulled down low over his brow—not at all the preppy, uniform-sporting "Mutant" that you sometimes spot around town. Actually, he looks like he could go to Westside. Even the hardness of his expression—he wears a don't-fuck-with-me scowl as he bounds up the steps toward the theater, and his jaw muscles work—is the sort you see on the faces of some of the nastier athletes at your school.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb nudges you a couple of times while you're waiting, but you move away; and when he follows, you tell him in a very low voice to concentrate on Ann. He grimaces, but sidles back over to where she's talking a mile-a-minute with Conor and some of his buddies.<br/>
<br/>
Inside the theater, you just have time to spot your target and his two friends as they turn away from the concession stand, and watch as they disappear through the doors of the first auditorium. You then edge away from the others, and pretend to have gotten a text. When you rejoin them at the concession stand, it's to tell Caleb that your dad's told you to come home. Caleb looks alarmed, but you insist it can't be helped, and make a run for the exit.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're back up at the theater less than an hour later, though. It hurts a little to have to buy another ticket to get back in, but you've got the money. You've also got another item with you, wrapped in the windbreaker that you've slung casually over your arm: a blank mask.<br/>
<br/>
It seems like a good thing to have in your back pocket (so to speak) if you do manage to catch the Mutant alone. The chances of that are pretty slim, probably, and so are the chances of catching up to him a second time, if it turns out you want to do that. So it seems best to copy as much of him as you can if you're going to have only one throw.<br/>
<br/>
He and his friends are watching <i>Shock and A.W.,</i> a buddy-action movie, while Caleb and everyone else are in watching <i>Cravenmoor,</i> so there's little chance of having your story blown by running into someone you know. Your only worry is that the two films will let out at the same time, but that works out too: Caleb's movie is still playing as you trail your targets outside. They stand chatting for a few minutes while you loiter close by, pretending to be interested in the miniature golf course, before two of them break off in one direction, and your target saunters off in another. You follow him at a discreet distance, glancing back occasionally to insure that you're not being watched.<br/>
<br/>
You're led over to a black Mustang, and your target gives you a brief glance as he opens the door and slides in. You slip the memory-strip from your pocket as you hurry over, and knock at his window as he starts his car.<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a very dark and hooded look, then rolls down his window. "The fuck you want?" is all he manages to say before you shoot your hand in at his face. He tries to twist away, but you catch the side of his temple (with a hard jar to your forearm as your palm connects with his skull), and he goes limp and boneless. You reach inside to touch the button that unlocks all the doors, then hurry around to jump into the passenger side. It looks like no one has spotted you.<br/>
<br/>
You get only two frights while waiting for the memory strip and then the mask to copy your victim. The first comes when his cell phone goes off—"Motherfucker!" it yells, followed by a couple of hard beats—and when it goes off again you scramble to grab and turn it off. You can't (it's locked) so you have to sit there and take it while a rapper calls you a filthy word half a dozen times. It's disconcerting to think of some rich fuck at a preppy school walking around with that kind of ringtone. Shouldn't he be playing some kind of pompous, trumpety fanfare instead?<br/>
<br/>
The second fright comes when you see the Eastman gang come streaming from the theater. They mill about for awhile, then separate, and two of them come striding in your direction. You push the car's owner into an upright position, and slouch low in your seat while pretending to be absorbed in your phone. Worse comes when they veer off toward your truck, and for a moment it looks like they're going to try getting into it. But maybe they were just interested in it, for after looking it over, they move on.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, though, the copying process finishes. The memory strip finishes first, and you get a full name to go with your victim: CHARLES PATRICK WHITNEY. It sounds preppie enough. Then the mask comes out. After collecting it, you slide out of the car and hustle back to your truck. You waste no time racing back to your secret hideout.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Donning the memory strip of course solves some little mysteries that had been niggling at you. Like:<br/>
<br/>
Charles Whitney is really not <i>that</i> much different than you. He's probably more like you than most of the kids at St. Xavier's—certainly he's more like you than he'd care to admit.<br/>
<br/>
He's a native of Saratoga Falls, for a start, though his parents are a hell of a lot richer than yours, and live in a big, fancy house on the north side of town, in the horsey country north of the mall. From the toys they've given him, and the money they've spent on his education, you get the impression that he's pretty spoiled. Not that he seems very grateful. He felt pretty churlish toward his mom when she asked him to run a couple of errands for her before coming out to the show, and he spent several minutes bitching to his friends Zachary and Ethan about it. His taste for rap music may be another form of moody rebellion—his dad is a classically trained violinist, and Charles likes to play his favorite rappers <i>loud.</i><br/>
<br/>
He also resents the school, and though he boasts a lot about attending St. Xavier, he resents the other students, who are all richer and better connected than him, and he feels that, as a "townie" who doesn't even board at the school, he is looked down on as little better than white trash. He tries making up for it by cruising the university on weekends, looking for hook ups. Just last weekend, in fact, he talked his way into a fraternity by pretending to be a college student, and got laid. But at St. Xavier he's mostly a loner. But he's not such a loner that he doesn't know the sixth form (the senior class, that is) inside and out.<br/>
<br/>
Your best hope for "catching" a new set of friends at St. Xavier would be to snag some of the other townies. Probably it's Charles's own moody instincts that make this idea feel like slumming—though Charles, you can tell, feels a grubby fascination for Roxanne Hurley, a pixie-ish, trailer-trash tomboy who's probably a lesbian. The best thing to be said about the townies is that you wouldn't look out of place in their company, and they'd still carry the "mutant" cachet.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the Mutants come in to town—if they come in at all—only on weekends, and only to kill time and money. You'd have to work at making a friendship with most of them look believable, and they would only be available on weekends and maybe Friday nights, if you wanted to show them off. But there are a handful that you <i>might</i> be able to work with. Loki Swain, for instance. Nobody seems to know how Loki—who is a forgetful, fluff-brained loner—got into St. X. But he's got a mystique that makes him popular, and no one at the school would question it if he became friends with a townie like Will Prescott. But the really rich and connected kids—<br/>
<br/>
Like Marius Hall, Mary Occam, Dalton Reeves, Mathilde Ambard, Abi Steiner, Travis Rallart.<br/>
<br/>
—spend as little time in Saratoga Falls as they can get away with.<br/>
<br/>
You climb off the table where you've been lying and pad over to stare at yourself in the dusty, full-length mirror in the corner. Charles Whitney glares back out at you from behind your borrowed eyes. <i>Fucking loser,</i> he is thinking. <i>Why don't you use this stuff to hijack the face and body and life of one of the rich and powerful? That's what I'd do.</i><br/>
<br/>
Yes he would. Charles is not the type to let people fuck around with him.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should take him—his brain at least—to school with you on Monday.</span></div></div>


path: 1111311311112111112421123
author_id: seuzz
title: Leaving Your All Behind
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Why are you fucking around like a little pissant, in your pissant school, in this pissant town? You got a thing you could use to steal anyone's life. Why the fuck aren't you using it?</i><br/>
<br/>
That's the question Charles Whitney is putting to you, from deep inside your own mind. He's looking out through your eyes as you study his borrowed reflection in the dusty mirror that leans against the wall in a corner of the school basement. And as you study the face you have copied, you see the eyes becoming darker, harder, colder, more contemptuous. The lips twist into a small snarl of contempt.<br/>
<br/>
<i>You little fuck-faced twerp. You </i>know<i> what you can do with this stuff, and instead of grabbing it with both hands and jamming your cock up inside it—</i><br/>
<br/>
You wheel from the mirror and stalk toward the basement door.<br/>
<br/>
<i>I'll do it,</i> you swear to yourself, and a hot itch blossoms all over you. It's like the skin of Charles Whitney is trying to blister yours from the inside. <i>I'll grab one of those cocksuckers, and I'll make them my bitch. I'll make myself </i>into<i> them!</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have to take a hard jog around the neighborhood to burn off some of the hot anticipation that's coursing through your veins, then return to the basement to start putting your plan into effect. As you work on the necessary supplies, you wonder whose brain exactly it is that you're thinking with, because you're not sure you could have come up with the plan that suggests itself.<br/>
<br/>
You start by gluing the last blank memory strip you have on hand into one of your blank masks. Then you tear Whitney's mind out of yours—for you have no idea how it might interact with the mask that you've made—and set the newly completed set onto your face. When you wake—nearly suffocating—inside the mask, you pause only to confirm it has made a complete copy of you (face glistening under the outer surface; your name floating on the inner surface) before knocking yourself out again by putting Whitney's memory strip back on.<br/>
<br/>
Then you go home for supper.<br/>
<br/>
While there, you pack some loose-fitting extra clothes into a plastic sack and return to the school long enough to pick up the rest of the supplies that you need. Then you hurl yourself downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
You're passing through the living room, where you parents are watching TV, and you're about to tell them you're heading out, when it hits you:<br/>
<br/>
<i>If I do this, it'll be the last time ever see them.</i><br/>
<br/>
The thought stops you dead in your tracks.<br/>
<br/>
Your dad pauses the TV, and he and your mom look over expectantly at you.<br/>
<br/>
You are overwhelmed with an anticipation of homesickness. But you have to say something, so you mumble something about going out to meet up with Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, have fun," your mom replies. Your dad only nods, and restarts the TV.<br/>
<br/>
There's a gaping hole in your stomach as you stumble off toward the garage. <i>Oh my God,</i> you think, <i>I just said goodbye to my family forever! And I didn't even say goodbye to my brother!</i><br/>
<br/>
Even the grasping, hard-charging mind and spirit of Charles Whitney is struck dumb. You have to take several deep breaths, and remind yourself of the fantastic life—the fantastic <i>lives</i>—to come, before you can put your truck into reverse and back into the street.<br/>
<br/>
You're still trembling slightly when you stop off at the old school to pick up the rest of your supplies, including the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the drive out to your destination passes in a haze, and not until you arrive at Jeff Spencer's do you come to life again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next few steps are like setting up a shell game. You collect the dull-witted Spencer, and he sullenly directs you to the poky little house in the bad part of the city where Joshua Call lives. There's a party going on there, or something, for there are a lot of cars out front, so you send Spencer in to bring Call out. The latter starts violently when he sees you, and for a moment you think he's going to sprint away, but with a sharp word you beckon him to you. With a few quick words you send him back inside with orders to clear out the party and send everyone away; you hunch in your truck and watch with grim amusement as Call, cursing hard and being cursed harder back, throws his guests out, then comes trudging out again to meet you. You order him to follow you in his car.<br/>
<br/>
Back to Spencer's place you go. Upstairs, in his cramped, disgusting apartment, you order Spencer to strip, and you pull the mask off him. The crude, bare lackey appears where he had stood. From the bag you pull the mask you made of yourself, and you set it on the face of the thing. Instantly, another Will Prescott appears. Joshua Call snickers unfeeling at your nude counterpart.<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa," your replacement says as he glances around. "Oh, fuck."<br/>
<br/>
"You know what's going on?" you ask him. You're anxious about how another version of you will act. For the moment, he just looks worried, and eyes Call warily.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I think so," he says. "I didn't expect to wind up here, though."<br/>
<br/>
"It's just temporary," you assure him. "You're going home." You dump out the extra clothes you'd brought, and he dresses in them with obvious relief. "You're, um, going to be me. From now on."<br/>
<br/>
Your other self pauses in the act of pulling on trousers, and he gives you a rabbity, crinkley-eyed stare from under his bangs. "Like, permanently?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you said you knew the plan."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I kind of guessed it. I— You're going to get yourself a new life." He resumes dressing. "And you're not coming back?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Never say never,</i> you find yourself thinking. "We'll see," you say aloud. "I don't know when or how, though."<br/>
<br/>
"Right." Your doppelganger looks worried, and pauses again in the act of pulling on his shirt. When you ask him what's wrong, he says, "Nothing. But I guess I had the weird impression I'd be going along too."<br/>
<br/>
It's a suggestion that takes you aback. How could he go with you, if you're going to New York, or Hollywood, or Paris, or London or wherever. Of course, there's nothing to say that you <i>can't</i> eventually come back to Saratoga Falls and fetch him. Of course, it would depend upon who you turn yourself into. And it would also have to wait until—<br/>
<br/>
"You'll just have to hold things down until the end of the school year," you say. "Everything has to be normal. Just the way it was before, you know—"<br/>
<br/>
Your voice freezes up at the personal pronoun.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That's me I'm talking to,</i> it comes to you as the other you squats on the edge of Jeff Spencer's bed to put on the extra pair of shoes you brought. <i>Another version of me.</i> Dizziness briefly washes over you. <i>Maybe that could have been me over there? Maybe </i>I<i> could have turned into the copy, and I'd be taking orders from ... another me ... who looked like me ... but was my boss?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know," he says as he gets to his feet again. Except for the clothes and the missing ball cap, he is your exact double. He flicks a worried glance over at Call, whose expression is openly contemptuous. "Is <i>he</i>— Are the other, uh, guys going to be cool with me?"<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't look like it, you'd have to say, so you give Call a very long and repetitive set of instructions, to the effect that "Will Prescott" is now his friend, that he will look out for Will and he will make sure that Spencer and the Molester also look out for Will, and that the three of them are to fuck up anyone who fucks with him. You don't know if your instructions will carry as far as the Molester, but Call is looking at your double with an expression of respect and maybe even fondness by the time you finish with him.<br/>
<br/>
It's weird and hard to say goodbye to your replacement. Harder even than it was to say goodbye to your family, because your double at least knows what's going on. So you dismiss him with a gruff "Be good, okay?" and send him downstairs with your truck keys, to take it and himself home to fill the Will Prescott-shaped hole that you're making in the world.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The rest of the evening is much more tedious.<br/>
<br/>
Charles—his memory strip tells you—was planning a Saturday night out with friends as they try to score some pussy. Taking Spencer's mask and the rest of your things with you, you have Joshua drive you to the north side of town, to where the Whitney's colonial-style McMansion stands in splendid isolation from its neighbors. A narrow lane leads from the street to the house, crossing a low bridge that spans the gurgling creek that acts as a decorative moat, and you order Joshua to park directly across the lane, to stop any traffic heading in or out. Then, leaving him to guard the approaches, you walk up to the house, ring the bell, and politely inquire of the woman who answers if Charles is home.<br/>
<br/>
He isn't, and you thank her and leave.<br/>
<br/>
Inside your head, the brain of Charles Whitney freaks out a little at being able to talk to his mom without her recognizing him.<br/>
<br/>
Out in the darkness, you crouch with Call in the bushes beside the road, passing the time by scrolling through your cell phone as you wait for your target to arrive. He will have to stop at the roadblock, and he'll get out, and that's when you'll catch him—<br/>
<br/>
And copy him.<br/>
<br/>
And replace him.<br/>
<br/>
So that tomorrow you can drive in to St. Xavier's and scout it out for a new identity.</span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121111124211231
author_id: seuzz
title: A Bad Night for Charles Whitney
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's after midnight, and you're cold and stiff and more than a little pissed off, before a pair of headlights come racing in toward the Whitneys'. Your heart goes into your throat as a black Mustang shoots past your hiding place—a sleek black shadow against the darker black of night.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not excitement at Whitney's (finally!) arrival that galvanizes you. It's his speed and recklessness as he hurtles up the lane toward a roadblock that he doesn't even know is there.<br/>
<br/>
A loud squeal of tires tells you that he's seen Call's car, and his brake lights pop on. The Mustang swerves and fishtails, and the brake lights vanish off the road. For a horrorstruck moment you stand rooted to the spot as you listen for a sickening crunch of metal against stone.<br/>
<br/>
But there's no sound of a crash, and a moment later an engine guns angrily.<br/>
<br/>
You slap Call in the chest, and the two of you spring off toward the shadows that swallowed the Mustang.<br/>
<br/>
It plunged off the path just before reaching the bridge, and you find it on the creek bank with its ass hiked up high in the air. The white back-up lights are on, and the engine races and the tires spin as the driver tries to back up onto the road. Inch by inch, with the engine snarling and the tires squealing, it backs up across slimy grass. When the rear wheels finally get a purchase on the ground, you and Call have to leap away as the car comes roaring back onto the road.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment it sits there, grumbling and racing.<br/>
<br/>
Then the door pops open and a lithe, panther-like figure jumps out.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?" Charles Patrick Whitney screams at you. "The <i>fuck!</i> Are you the fucking morons who—?"<br/>
<br/>
You slap Call in the chest. "Grab him," you tell him. "Like I told you."<br/>
<br/>
Call grunts—a happy sound—and charges at Whitney. There's a muffled thump as the two boys fall back against the side of the Mustang. You rush up, but have to jump back as they tussle and wrestle. Call has Whitney in a bear hug, but they're face to face, so you have no way at your victim. Not until Call manages to trip Whitney and falls atop him, pinning him to the mossy bank, can you get at him You squat at Whitney's head and, with a chest bursting with fear, excitement, anticipation, and maybe something like lust, you smash the mask into your target's face.<br/>
<br/>
Instantly he ceases to writhe.<br/>
<br/>
You have to gasp and gulp for air. Muscles deep inside your chest bang away.<br/>
<br/>
"Nice job," you tell Call. "Perfect." You put out a fist, and he bumps it—a gesture that gives you a warm feeling. "Okay, now let's start getting him undressed and prepped."<br/>
<br/>
But you leave it to Call to start stripping Whitney while you lumber on legs that are suddenly heavy with exhaustion back to where you were hiding. From the bushes you pluck out the bag stuffed with Jeff Spencer's clothes. You double-check that Whitney's memory-strip, which you tore off while you were waiting for him to arrive, hasn't fallen out.<br/>
<br/>
Call has everything off Whitney except his t-shirt and underwear—tidy whities—when you get back, and you start folding up the clothes into a neater bundle to lay nearby. Whitney's memories haven't fully deserted you, and you recognize his outfit. It's his preferred "pussy patrol" ensemble: black Levis, black sneakers, royal-purple long-sleeve shirt made of soft-velvet. The v-neck t-shirt that shows off the curve of pectoral muscles. They're clothes made for rubbing up against, and you wonder if Whitney managed to score with them tonight. Given the hour, though, you doubt it.<br/>
<br/>
Which might be one reason he was so reckless as he turned into his parents' driveway, and why he was so furious when he came bounding out of his car.<br/>
<br/>
The boy himself is not the most imposing physical specimen, though you yourself are not one to be overly critical. His legs are slim and hairless, as are his arms. He has only a small tuft of puffy hair in the groove between his pecs. He hasn't got much mass in his torso, though the muscles at least have some definition, and his stomach is flat. The problem, it comes to you in a hazy memory of a memory, is that though Charles would love to be bulky and cut, he hasn't got the discipline, and the weight set he got for his birthday two years ago gets relatively little use.<br/>
<br/>
After the mask comes out of him, you drop the memory strip onto his forehead, to charge it with his most recent memories. You and Call pull and push him into Spencer's clothes as that happens, as you've nothing else to do. And you still have time, even then, to strip off your own clothes and begin putting Whitney's on.<br/>
<br/>
When the memory strip reappears on his forehead, you pop Spencer's mask onto him.<br/>
<br/>
And where once lay a smart-ish, pampered, and handsome member of the top ten percent, there now appears a lumpy, borderline-retarded charity case. Even in the dark you can make out the dull glare that Spencer gives you, and he pushes your hand away when you put it out to help him to his feet.<br/>
<br/>
To him you repeat the same instructions as you gave Call, about looking out for and protecting "Will Prescott" at school—"He's your friend," you tell Spencer, though you wonder if the concept is one that Spencer really understands. Then you walk him and Call back to the other car, and see them off back to town.<br/>
<br/>
That leaves you alone with Whitney's mask, memory strip, and Mustang. All that is required now is to assemble them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're flailing as you come rushing up out of the darkness, and you crack your knuckles on something hard. <i>Fuck!</i><br/>
<br/>
Your heart is pounding, and your skin is crawling all over your body. You blink and bat at the darkness that clings about you, suffocating you, as you try to catch your breath and locate yourself. <i>Some asshole grabbed me,</i> you remind yourself, <i>and I was fighting him and—<br/>
<br/>
Ohhhh!</i><br/>
<br/>
You groan and go limp as two sets of memories click neatly together, like Legos. You shut your eyes ad wipe the sweat from your face. But still your chest heaves and thumps, and your mind races in a couple of different directions.<br/>
<br/>
Like—<br/>
<br/>
<i>I got him. It was almost a disaster, but I managed to grab Charles Whitney, and now I'm him, and tomorrow I can start putting my plan into effect.</i><br/>
<br/>
And—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Who's the fucking cocksucker who parked his car across the driveway? I could'a been killed, and I almost wrecked my wheels driving into the brook! I swear, I'm gonna fuck 'em up when I find 'em!</i><br/>
<br/>
And—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus, am I really ready for this? I mean, here I am, but am I really ready to go to this guy's house and sleep in his bed and see his mom and dad in the morning and pretend like I'm really him? Like I'm really not</i>—you gulp—<i>like I'm really not </i>me<i> anymore?</i><br/>
<br/>
And—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fucking wench. Who the fuck you think you are, telling me to get my hand off your ass? Do you even </i>see<i> how you're dressed? I've blown my nose in Kleenex thicker than that skirt, and if you don't want your ass touched, don't go shaking it in my face on the fucking dance floor, okay?</i><br/>
<br/>
You rake your hands through your hair—soft, floppy, full of body—and grit your teeth as you get another hard-on at the thought of that girl. She was Mexican or some shit like that, with tousled, shoulder-length hair and silver hoop earrings, and you didn't just want to grope her ass, you wanted to chomp on it like a pair of ripe peaches. <i>Fucking Mexicans.</i> She was sloppy and just begging to be banged, but when you made your move she—<br/>
<br/>
You nurse your cheek with a grimace, your ears burn with the memory of the names she screamed at you.<br/>
<br/>
So, yeah, not a happy night for Charles Patrick Whitney. Didn't get laid—got fucking humiliated—and came home to almost plow into some motherfucker or other, and then got tackled by that same motherfucker, and now he isn't even himself anymore.<br/>
<br/>
You're him.<br/>
<br/>
You climb out of the Mustang—where you made the final change after gluing the memory strip into the mask, and sealing it up with some of that new paste like you put in the other masks—and pace up and down to work off some of the nervous energy that is giving you the shakes. You stretch and flex and roll your neck and do a couple of squats. <i>Need to get in shape,</i> you tell yourself, <i>get in serious shape.</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh, but why bother. You'll drive out to the school tomorrow, look around, figure out who's likely to be available on weekends, and how to get close to them.<br/>
<br/>
Then <i>next</i> weekend, after you've spent a thoughtful, careful week of scouting and preparation—<br/>
<br/>
You slap your hands together: a reflex.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Another new me.</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113113111121112
author_id: rugal
title: How a Caveman Solves Problems
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Warehouse.</i><br/>
<br/>
That is the word that enters your head. To call it a thought would be overstating thing however as it's less an active thought and more of an instinctual feeling. Why? <i>Work,</i> is the next word to enter your head. Yes, that is where you work on Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays too. They don't pay you though because they say that they can't. But that's okay, you're not looking for money. At the Warehouse they want you to handle problems. When there people fight or when they cause some other kind of trouble that's when they call you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Can you take care of it, Spencer?</i><br/>
<br/>
That's what they have you around for. Often that means grabbing, tossing, punching. The problems are always loud and they often want to fight but there is almost never a problem that you can't take care of with your fists. You like that though. It's so much simpler that way. Everything would be so much simpler if you could just punch it until it made sense but a lot of people don't like that. Usually they scold you and yell and cuss you out good.and then you wish you could make that problem go away too.<br/>
<br/>
But the Warehouse is different. That's what they want. That's what they expect.  That's why you like it. There you don't have to understand the problems, only the solutions. There you can be who you really are.<br/>
<br/>
<i>And who are you?</i><br/>
<br/>
It's a question that repeats itself and then repeats itself some more. Muffled and barely audible but with each yell it gets a little louder, a little more clear, and then suddenly it's tangible and grabbing you and grunting and straining as it pulls you with every ounce of strength it can muster. It's like being pulled from a tar pit and as the tar washes away as you're pulled to the surface everything is suddenly much more clear.<br/>
<br/>
Who are you? You're Will Prescott and you don't even know what the hell <i>that</i> was you realize as you pull into a parking lot to catch yourself.<br/>
<br/>
It was slow moving and it trapped you. It was hard to breathe, hard to see; you felt like you were on autopilot. The brain of Jeff Spencer is less of a mind and more of like quicksand that pulls you under and engulfs you. But does it have to be? Quicksand is sand, soil, clay and like clay you can mold it and shape it. You push back in and get to work slowly letting it cover you and shaping it as you do. It's a struggle but eventually you're able to fashion it into a sort of Jeff Spencer shaped cocoon with enough space to not be smothers and move around.<br/>
<br/>
You're breathing heavy as the world, the real world and not the bizarre, gray and misshapen world of Jeff Spencer, comes back into focus. You think and you can access things, memories and thoughts and the like, but they don't seem overwhelming. You're still aware of who you are and that's wonderful.<br/>
<br/>
What's not so wonderful, you realize, is the realization of just how you'll deal with Spencer if he is at the Warehouse. Because the Warehouse is loud and crowded and it would be very, very bad if Jeff Spencer ran into Jeff Spencer. To get him you can't be him which means you'll need to be someone else. You doubt either yourself or Caleb will be able to waltz in but if you can get someone in the parking lot...<br/>
<br/>
It's a gamble but if you're going to check there then you'll have to take. As you put the truck back into drive and head back to the community center you can only hope that lady luck is on your side tonight.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Spencer!"<br/>
<br/>
A voice barks out as you get near the front of the Warehouse. It's George Mendoza, another lowlife at Westside and one of Spencer's buddies. "Didn't know you were comin' tonight," he says and you can only grunt a response. "Well you ain't a moment too soon. Need you to take care of some bullshit like right fucking now."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuckin' Faith, man. She was raisin' hell with Sheehan. Got 'em separated but she's just gonna find him and start more shit," he explains."Everyone else's got shit they gotta take care of, I gotta get back to makin' sure the fuckers upstairs ain't stealin' time. Just need you to get her out of here, tell her to head home for the night and make sure she goes. Think you can do that?"<br/>
<br/>
Again, another Neanderthal-like grunt.<br/>
<br/>
"Great," Mendoza says as he slaps you on the chest, "she's over by the bar. Take care of it."<br/>
<br/>
He disappears inside and up the stairs while you head inside and lumber over to the bar. Will Prescott doesn't know Faith Becker beyond some stuff that gets around but Jeff Spencer does as this isn't the first time she's caused trouble here. You find her and with a meaty hand grasp her shoulder. "Out," you simply say.<br/>
<br/>
Faith turns and looks up at you. There's no intimidation and in fact she practically sneers at you but she doesn't argue, just rolls her eyes, huffs and walks past you towards the door. You follow her out, standard protocol for Warehouse security to make sure people who are kicked out actually leave.<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft!" she snorts as you follow her out to her car. "Mendoza had to get <i>you</i> to take me out because he was too much of a pussy to do it himself?" You don't say anything while she continues. "Of course he did because that's all any of them keep you around for. They don't even know what the hell was going on and just assume that <i>I'm</i> being a bitch and when they don't want to do it they just..." She stops and looks back at you, another sneer, and shakes her head, before continuing to walk. "They just get their pet caveman to take care of the problem."<br/>
<br/>
You don't say anything, merely utter a sound in annoyance.<br/>
<br/>
"Can't talk?" asks Faith sarcastically. "Right, you need an actual brain in there to form thoughts in the first place. That's why it's so easy for them. You don't think so all they have to do is go 'Hey caveman, go punch that thing!' and then that's what you do right? Too bad for you I'm not someone you can punch."<br/>
<br/>
You feel it happening, like magma boiling up inside your head. Faith's right in that not even Spencer is brainless enough to think he can just hit a girl until that girl stops being a problem but it doesn't mean what she's saying isn't making him mad and in turn making you mad. Because that magma is starting to cook the clay cocoon you've embraced yourself in and turned it into an oven. It's starting to get hot and it's getting a little harder to think properly.<br/>
<br/>
She continues to jaw at you and all you can think of is how much you want her to shut up.<br/>
<br/>
You stop at a car, Faith's car you figure, and are surprised to see it's only two down from your own. While she digs through her purse for her keys you walk over to your truck, open the passenger door. A bag sits on the passenger seat and inside is a mask. You grab it, shut the door, then head back. Faith is just sitting down when you take the mask and smash it on her face.<br/>
<br/>
As she sits unconscious you scoop her up, grab her keys and shut the door. You carry her back to the truck and place her in the passenger seat.<br/>
<br/>
Faith Becker will be back again. She will cause trouble again. She is a problem. A problem that you can't solve by punching. But you have a way of solving this problem.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You practically fling the mask of Spencer across the basement. You don't want to touch it, you don't even want to see it and you certainly never want to put it on ever again. It's a terrible mask, an evil mask, because just look at what it made you do.<br/>
<br/>
Before you on the floor of the basement floor lies Faith Becker. But it's not Faith as she was back at the Warehouse. The Faith you're looking at is white from her head to her toes, from her hair and skin and eyes. Every feature is captured perfectly, like a statue carved by a master sculptor. In fact you'd doubt even Michelangelo could craft something as impressive.<br/>
<br/>
It's all because of that damn mask. When Spencer got heated so did you and you found yourself both aware of who you were and completely lost, like the two of you had combined only in the worst way possible. You put the mask on Faith and put her in the truck, then started driving as it copied. When it came out you put it back on. Again and again you did this as you arrived at the community center, brought her to the basement, placed her down and having already gotten the materials -- hair included -- when you'd set off from the basement the first time, executed the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
Not just one problem taken care of but two at the same time. You were happy, then, and content. The fire died down and you came back to your senses and when you did you were neither happy nor content. Instead you were horrified. Faith, annoying as she might have been, did not deserve what you did to her. She was not a problem that needed to be solved. But you solved it anyway. Under the influence of Spencer you made sure of it.<br/>
<br/>
But you haven't solved the problem, not even a bit. All you've done is created a new one. You've got Faith's image and mind copied onto the mask so all you have to do to bring her back is place it on the statue that looks like her. But you won't have actually brought her back, will you? It'd just be a double like the previous spell; a phony Faith that would have to do whatever you told it.<br/>
<br/>
You kneel down and pick up the mask that sits on the floor next to her and look at it. On the back is a name that reads <i>FAITH EILEEN BEKCER</i>. You can't help but to feel guilty. After what you did maybe you should serve your penance not as William Martin Prescott but as Faith Eileen Becker.</span></div></div>


