# chapters

path: 111134311121211112121
author_id: masktrixie
title: A swing and a miss
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You pause for a moment, pressure still on your neck from the Lucy nopperabou. Then a wave of utter calm washes over you. Lightweight. The cruel words from the Dairy Queen still flicker in the background of the subconscious. Even Yumi, you know with your stolen mind, felt that it was true: it’s the sole reason she pursued you, sought out your secret lair. And while she felt sympathy then, you know that she’ll never forgive you for donning her face and stealing her appearance, even if it was to bring the nopperabou to life. No matter what happens, she has leverage on you now and will always feel superior – and her plans for the masks are more ambitious than you ever imagined. Yumi, like you, was open to using the masks for her own ends. You’ll always be little more than a conduit for her designs.<br/>
<br/>
You chuckle, both audibly and in your mind.<br/>
<br/>
Was.<br/>
<br/>
You’ve already made your decision, haven’t you?<br/>
<br/>
“Deal,” you say to Blackwell, even as you square off with the same face. The real Yumi, at your feet, looks aghast.<br/>
<br/>
“Will! What the hell!”<br/>
<br/>
You hold up a finger to her, attention back to Blackwell. Even as you look at him, your Yumi mind warns you that she’s got something else planned. Yumi is not a victim; her great-grandfather had a saying in the war: Go for broke. Do anything you can. Fight with whatever you have.<br/>
<br/>
“Excellent,” Blackwell says. “I truly believe you are making the smart choice. Now if you would be so kind as to call off your associate?”<br/>
<br/>
“Together,” you say, even as Blackwell’s Lucyganger presses against you. “On three. One, two…”<br/>
<br/>
You breathe easier as the false Lucy lets you go, while your own nopperabou releases Blackwell. The two standing Yumis stretch out a little, regaining their composure as the true one seems to tense like a coiled spring. With her mind, you know she’s waiting for a moment to strike. The real Lucy, dirt-covered compared with her double, seems quieter.<br/>
<br/>
“Very good,” Blackwell announces. “Now, before we come to terms we have some business that needs to be addressed.”<br/>
<br/>
“The book,” you agree. “We need to share it.”<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell’s expression pierces through its Yumi façade. “I think not. Such relationships need to follow the traditional precepts of master and apprentice. You have stumbled onto a secret of the world, Will. You have the talent to harness it. But it needs tempering, and tutelage of a sort. The book shall remain here, although we shall work together on each page. As I said a moment ago, I trust you know what the next spell requires?”<br/>
<br/>
A living person. And seeing as you already have a perfectly adequate Yumi mask and band – and you imagine Blackwell already has the grave dirt – it’s obvious who the first choice should be. It solves all of your problems at once.<br/>
<br/>
“A show of faith in each other?” You ask.<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell stretches a broad smile over Yumi’s face as he steps toward the prisoners. Lucy backs away; Yumi does not. For a brief moment, the master of the house turns away from his prisoner and smiles at you, stooped over his captives. “I could not have phrased it better myself,” Blackwell agrees, barely a foot away from Yumi. As the stolen head leans closer to its original, you know what’s coming. You’re not going to stop it. In fact, you’re going to enjoy it.<br/>
<br/>
“Raagh!” Yumi leaps at her double with a raging battle cry, her powerful leg kicking straight at the replacement version of her own knee. Blackwell crumples in surprise, before Yumi, in a supreme show of athleticism combined with will to survive, springs up to her feet. From behind her back something long and straight comes swinging out, connecting with Blackwell’s head in a sickening crack. The real Lucy dives at the Will replica’s feet, pulling it down and allowing Yumi to crash the metal rod atop its skull. Then she’s standing there, eyes filled with rage, squaring off against you. You have no idea where she grabbed a crowbar, but now she has the upper hand.<br/>
<br/>
“You fucked with the wrong girl, Will. SAI!” Her figure flails the crowbar around, swinging straight to where your head should have been. Instead it goes sailing over, a breeze across your jet black hair as you use Yumi’s frame to duck the move.<br/>
<br/>
You stand up and smirk. Then drop a kick straight into her chest, sending her reeling backward. The crowbar goes scattering to the floor. You ignore it, advancing toward her, eyes focused. In the corner of your vision, the Lucy nopperabou, now your ally, is scrambling to restrain the true version.<br/>
<br/>
“No, Yumi,” you say, taunting her with her own inflections. “I’m the right girl. I’m you.”<br/>
<br/>
She swings left. You catch it and deflect the blow into the cellar wall. She moves right, you step to match. She tries to spit in your face; you don’t flinch and land another blow. She looked at you with rage; now she looks at you with terror.<br/>
<br/>
“Almost like I’m reading your mind?” you mock. “That’s because I’ve got your mind. I know everything you’re going to do before you even do it.” Yumi’s brain reveals the move and what to do; your Will brain gives your own attacks an unpredictability she can’t match. Yumi’s now backed into a corner, her situation hopeless.<br/>
<br/>
“Will,” she says. “Please, you don’t have to…”<br/>
<br/>
“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell her again. “And yes, I do.”<br/>
<br/>
In half a minute of madness, you’ve taken complete control of the situation. Blackwell is on the ground, unconscious from the blow. You can beat Yumi, and your own nopperabou is now up again, ready to help with whichever of the Lucys comes out on top.<br/>
<br/>
You need to decide whether you truly want to ally with Blackwell. Or will the book and its secrets belong to you only?</span></div></div>


path: 1111343111212111121211
author_id: masktrixie
title: The Language Of Magic
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“So, how does this work?” you rest against the cellar wall, arms folded as you glance over at your counterpart. Counterpart because you’re equal partners; counterpart because you’re both magicians; counterpart because at the moment you are both Yumi Saito. The genuine article is on the floor, along with the real Lucy, unconscious through some trick of Blackwell’s.<br/>
<br/>
“I suppose we should discuss that before any further business is conducted,” Blackwell says, still nursing the wound actual-Yumi delivered earlier. Your choice to switch sides caught him off guard, but knowing you opted for partnership when you had him at your mercy seems to have convinced him you’re sincere. Besides, he mentioned as he went to fetch ingredients from upstairs there were “guardians” that would have made it a costly mistake to try and go it alone. So far he hasn’t told you quite what guardian he was referring to, but you get the impression there’s more to Aubrey Blackwell than just this one book.<br/>
<br/>
“No,” you correct. “I meant how does our partnership work. We can create a nopperabou…”<br/>
<br/>
“A what?”<br/>
<br/>
“Nopperabou. It was what Yumi called these things.” You gesture to the counterpart Will and Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not a thing, dude,” your Will monster interjects, before you hold up a hand to keep him quiet.<br/>
<br/>
“I see. Well, the Japanese faceless spirit is a fitting moniker, though if you wish to truly master the arcane arts, you should be more precise. The term in the Libra is pedisequos. A rather inelegant Latin phrase that roughly translates as ‘that which follows on foot’.”<br/>
<br/>
“How’s that any better?”<br/>
<br/>
“It isn’t,” Blackwell concedes. “It is merely the correct term. And one that is most telling, if one is a student of etymology. The Greek term would almost assuredly have been along the lines of 'prosopon', which means face, and was typically used for the masks of a Greek chorus. The Latin for face is, of course, faciem. Instead, the author of this work chose 'persona', which is a correct translation but not a literal one. This is quite revealing as to the source of our particular author, who did not translate the text from an earlier Greek manuscript, and by extension any language likely to arrive via Byzantium. In addition, we have the fact that Latin was used at all, as opposed to alternatives such as Hebrew, which might give us ‘golem’ or some such. Now, of course we could date the Libra by the mere fact it is a book, but let's take a small detour through the history of scholarship. <br/>
<br/>
“Latin was, de facto, a dead language by the 6th century, and through the dark ages until Petrarch - in fact Petrarch coined the term dark ages - we have very limited Latin sources. It is only in the 14th century that we reignite the language in the style the Libra adopts, that of aureate diction. Indeed, until the 18th century Latin is the choice of language among scholars of science, until we see a splintering between classicists such as myself, and scientists, who prefer to communicate in French. That the Libra adopts the former hints strongly, to me at least, of a connection to the alchemical, which is itself highly interesting. Though, of course, entirely unrelated to the question. Simply the book calls it a pedisequos, so pedisequos it is."<br/>
<br/>
“And what's the plural, pedesequoi?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh dear me, no. Do you think the plural of octopus is octopi, Will? The correct term is pedesequoses.” Blackwell finally pauses, dropping the rote professor act that he slipped into so freely. "Now, shall we begin the ritual?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink. That was a lot of exposition for someone that appears to be an 18-year-old Japanese-American student. You barely followed half of it. Fortunately, your mind was already drifting off, wondering about dissecting things. Blackwell was dissecting the words of the Libra, you realize, rather than its content. Perhaps he should have been dissecting the sigils themselves. What if they were smaller words connected to a larger whole? What if you could adapt them, remove them, alter them somehow?<br/>
<br/>
"Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yumi," you correct. "Will's standing right there." You point to your pedisequos, who gives a wave.<br/>
<br/>
"As you wish. Are we ready to begin, Yumi?”<br/>
<br/>
“No, We still haven’t discussed how this works. We we both know that its master will be the one who creates it; it requires hair with the sigil. So do we create one each, or?”<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell’s mannerisms override Yumi’s. “Ah, I see. Calm yourself, Will; it is not in my interest to betray our newly minted alliance. You shall have one, and I the other. Our pedisequoes shall keep us honest, hmm?” <br/>
<br/>
“Fine.” You close your eyes and wince, ripping out more body hair to be able to finish the task.<br/>
<br/>
Your new partner holds up a mask in one hand, grave dirt in the other. “Shall we begin?”<br/>
<br/>
You nod, and move over to Yumi on the floor. You feel almost nauseous with fear but, overwhelming everything, is the hatred she must feel for you. Your stolen mind reflects it, focuses it like you are an ant under a microscope, and burns you with shame. Shame at what you’ve done and shame at what you’re about to do. Yumi thought of herself as the hero in her own story; this isn’t a hero’s ending, is it?<br/>
<br/>
“I’m sorry, Yumi,” you say in her own voice. “I just don’t see any other way, knowing what you know.”<br/>
<br/>
Hair. Soil. Fire. And as you watch the flames, you know you've crossed a line that you can never return from. Blackwell retreats upstairs, assuming the process will take some time, to remove the mask and don his own clothes. And yet the moment his back is turned the eerie fires have gone. Instead are two pedisequoes. Only rather than blank, they have the shape of Yumi and Lucy.<br/>
<br/>
"That was quick," you say as he returns, looking at the extinguished flames and the still, lifeless creations on the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"I had my clothes nearby," Blackwell says, before noticing what you mean. "Ah. Remarkable. Clearly the requisite time is much shorter. And the form remains. Hmm. I wonder..."<br/>
<br/>
He stoops, and sets a blank mask down on what was once Lucy - the pedisequos that bears his hair. At once, she's restored. <br/>
<br/>
"You bastard," she hisses, writhing in her binds. <br/>
<br/>
"Now now, be civil," Blackwell commands.<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry, professor," Lucy replies, voice instantly calm. <br/>
<br/>
Blackwell looks up at you. "Two new servants," he says. "Now, before we venture to look at what wonder has opened to us for the seventh configuration, perhaps we should discuss your plans? As I see it, we have a cohort of six actors - four pedisequoes and two wizards - yet only four identities: mine, yours, Ms Vredenburg and Ms Saito. The latter three identities need to return home, or they will be missed. But that still leaves three actors."<br/>
<br/>
You nod. "What are you suggesting?"<br/>
<br/>
"That you and I stay here, and work on the book together, assisted by one of the pedisequos; goodness knows we have a Lucy and two Yumi masks spare. Once we unlock the mysteries of the next spell, we discuss our partnership from there."<br/>
<br/>
It's a sensible plan. But you're still not convinced you trust Blackwell. And he doesn't seem to have considered that the sigils could be modified. Perhaps now is a good time to borrow one of the identities yourself, get back to your own lair, and see if you can figure out the true language of magic.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431112121111212111
author_id: nirxor
title: Work on the next spell
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"From now on, you are to treat us, Blackwell and me, like we are both you, and listen to us. Like we're your sister's.". You say to Yumi, her face doesn't contort, instead she resumes her normal thoughtful personality and goes on her way with your Will golem, who has been instructed to take a job after talking it over with your parents. For an interesting spin, you tell him to study more and try to work out, taking the advice Yumi gave you befire her transformation. Lucy is waiting in the study, making more masks as you and Blackwell, both donning a Yumi appearance, discuss the next spell into the  long evening. As Yumi your hungrily seizing the knowledge he shares, as Will, your getting more intimate with your new mind and soul. The sun has already set by the time his lecture is over, but you've already absorbed all the needed knowledge and Yumi is ready to eat. <br/>
<br/>
"I feel like home cooking tonight, how about something light?". Blackwell asks, going into Yumi's persona, you smile back at him realizing his play. <br/>
<br/>
"Yes please. I would like some chicken and rice with fruits.". You reply earning a giggle from both of you, while your making supper, Yumi's long black silly hair is pulled back, and the both of you are cooking in complete Harmony, it's a perfect unison of a person. One mind, one body, one soul. No talking is needed for the both of you pick up on the tasks the other leaves unfinished, even when your Will persona emerges, Yumi can direct you on how to do it exactly like she would, exactly like she wants. <br/>
<br/>
<i>"Am in control of my life now, not my parents, not my grandparents, not Chelsea, NOBODY can tell me what to do.".</i><br/>
<br/>
Her mind told you as she was delighted to discover a book that could make her anybody she wanted. Yumi was sizing up people in the school at first, she didn't want to be them, they are just kids with nothing to gain, maybe a few had some way into wealth, but in the fortune 500? No, nobody was in that, or worth that, but then, she realized something.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Why stop at the school?".</i><br/>
<br/>
She could be anybody, so why not go for the top? Make Yumi Saito, the leader of the world! Every country under her hands would be utopia. It was so easy, all she had to do was seduce Will, and then leave him in someone like Chelsea. He'd take it, he's probably into that stuff anyways. If he didn't like it? He wouldn't be able to go back without your help. Yumi was making a very large gamble, it began to show how little she knew about you, rather how little she actually be paid attention to people like you. She like you, truthfully, she did. You were quirky, honest, a little on the flab side, but when you put in the effort it showed. She liked you compared to the other half of the school, maybe not on her list of potential boyfriends, you never tried to get in her pants, great to talk to, reasonable, thought things through, but she never though of you as boyfriend material, just a little pet project. When Lisa broke your heart, she ticked several points off her measurement for liking you. Even when you showed her the book, her mind was already trying to remove you from the equation. Unfortunately, that fell short when Blackwell knew about the book. It wasn't in her calculations, sadly her downfall was done by her own hand. How poetic. The food is great by Yumi's tastes, not exactly what you'd like to eat, but it did fill her up. Now she sits legs open, like a man would, Yumi's skirt letting you see under it, showing off the tights, it's silk enhancing her already perfect legs, the shirt slightly disheveled and her hair now hanging loosely, she's gorgeous, the thick glasses making her look far more intelligent, yet delicate as snow. You want her, this oddly mentor form of Yumi. You slowly take in the spin of Blackwell, making Yumi a sexy cute teacher, one who commands respect from you. Your both eating and discussing the book now, the possibility of how it requires Ingredients used to make some from the book are possibly the key.<br/>
<br/>
"It is the very core of the problem I face. I cannot make leaps of progress in the book, for all the years I've used it, and the notes I've taken, all I can see are the strange sigils which change into ancient Latin and such. They need to be translated thrice for me to even make such a break through.". Blackwell said, having Yumi's frustration show true by letting out a perfect "UUUUHHGG!!!". A very Yumi thing to do when she doesn't do as well as she thought. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, the book revolves around things you can make from it right? Masks, golem paste, the mind bands, why not try to advance using only the materials made with the book and things you need? I mean, it would make sense if we thought like that." You say as you finish your plate, having the Lucy golem take it to the sink along with Blackwell's dish, as he moves back to the study, grabbing the book and the massive piles of notes he has made. <br/>
<br/>
"I mean just think about it, anybody, anytime, anywhere, who we are doesn't matter anymore. We are anybody and everybody now.". You say as you smile at your reflection, admiring the Yumi in yoga pants, with a casual top on, the black and baby blue blending nicely, your hair a little messy, but that only drives you into playing with Yumi a bit more.<br/>
<br/>
"Realizing the danger of Yumi now William?". Your sister calls across the table. As Blackwell pours a you a cup filled with a very fine wine. A familiar brand Yumi had taken a liking to it when Lin snuck a bottle to your fifteenth birthday, and the day Yumi lost her virginity to a boy named Sotaru in Tokyo, the man her grandparents wanted her marry. It was a strange sense of happiness and sadness. <br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, am starting to see where she messed up at." You say confidently, letting the memories of her control over you wash over you. She thought she could butter you up, be easy for you, let you have a blow job, or a hand job, not the full thing, Lin had told her how to keep men committed without letting them in, so Yumi was prepared for it, but she never thought you would stab her first, well you didn't have to, she did it for you. As you relish in your victory, Blackwell begins again.<br/>
<br/>
"The reason why Miss.Saito is dangerous, is because she lacks the understanding of magic and it's dangers to the wielder." He started taking the persona of Blackwell to preach once more the dangers of magic. "She had wanted to aim for positions of power to get herself into those said positions and then stay there, a fine objective, however, she failed to see the truth of the matter: if I discovered magic? Then who else knows of it? What is it? How is it used? And finally most dangerous of all; organizations that specialize in magic.".<br/>
<br/>
These questions as they hit you, are more of a slow torture to Yumi, the obviously easiest part of planing. Your parents would be furious. Yumi's parents are nice, when it matters, but they are very much the definition of  strict parents. She is allowed freedom, as long her life is an order, they weren't happy was made cheerleader, they were dissatisfied with the fact she settled for a being a lowly part of the pyramid, instead of the top. Everything she succeeded in, they picked apart. Not even her brother or sister got this much flak from them, it's why she wanted the book, to make her life truely own. <br/>
<br/>
"The dangers of freedom, Mr.Prescott, nobody can stop you, until something or someone chooses to do so, yet you have to make a mistake in order to truely learn from it, least someone else learns from your folly.". Blackwell says in a somber tone, whirling the wine in his delicate hand. You do the same, looking dejected about her personal life, how shit it is, yet how much better it is than yours. The hierarchy of Westside, the tedious balance of her school and personal life, how crazy Yumi is beneath it all. Your wearing her like a damn glove, and it feels good, but could you do better? Could Yumi do better, not as a power hungry monster, but as Yumi, looking for an experience of a different life? It's a tall order to find someone to replace. <br/>
<br/>
"Do you have a solution to our current riddle?" Blackwell asks in the strange mix of both his manners and Yumi's voice. It doesn't take long, but you finally say it.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we need some more golem masks, or rather a test subject." You say bouncing over to him.<br/>
<br/>
"I see, I've sacrificed many before I found the book for magic, so no matter, I shall procure the needed subject." He says in a very matter or fact way, it makes your hairs stand on edge seeing how easy it is for him to accept it like that. Yumi isn't afraid though, she's relishing the freedom she has now, but when looking at her through your eyes, her parents aren't the problem, she is, you put the thoughts out of your mind as the night begins to grow long. after discussing the plans for tomorrow, Blackwell has found a suitable candidate. The two of you both take a shower in different rooms, letting the body of Yumi entice you to staying a bit longer in her form, until sadly you return to being Will, dressed in the clothes from the hide out, and now laying down, your mind is getting over the long lecture, your tired, yet oddly excited<br/>
<br/>
"I can't believe am going to live as one of the hottest girls in school." You mumble the feeling rising almost wanting to scream it out. "No. Am going to the power to do what I want, without being like Yumi." You say as you take the mask once more, becoming Yumi again, to learn everything about her, in greater detail.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431112121111212112
author_id: masktrixie
title: Chekhov’s Haircut
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You sit in the basement of the elementary school, your makeshift lab, your two servants at your side. Blackwell has the book, but you had a feeling in your gut that something would have happened if you stuck around.<br/>
<br/>
Getting here was hard enough. Your Yumi creation left first on the stolen bike with the clothes at Blackwell’s, then 20 minutes later a second Yumi - you - left with Will Prescott, actually your grave-dirt Frankenstein, for company. <br/>
<br/>
Now you’ve got a chance to relax, and that’s what you suspect Blackwell will want to do with his evening too; despite his intentions to study the book, the blow Yumi gave him, albeit in a different form to his own, is probably still ringing around his head. <br/>
<br/>
That gives you time to plot and plan. So you’ve removed the Yumi mask and are taking advantage of your downtime.<br/>
<br/>
“I still don’t get why you left the book,” the Yumi golem says. You thought of the different terms Blackwell used, from the ridiculous Latin to Yumi’s Japanese, and decided of all of them you prefer golem. Thinking of your creatures as clay keeps you distant from your crime of effectively murdering Yumi. <br/>
<br/>
No, you didn’t do that. You can’t think of it like that. It’ll stop you doing it again.<br/>
<br/>
“Because I don’t need the book,” you say. “Not for the next step in my plan.” You are currently tracing out the sigils. Something in your mind has taken these apart, and begin to decipher how exactly they all fit. At least, you hope that’s what’s happening. Either that or you’ve been doodling aimlessly for half an hour.<br/>
<br/>
“Having the book gives Blackwell a major advantage. You two are in an arms race, now.”<br/>
<br/>
“You think he’ll betray my alliance?” You turn from the work to face her.<br/>
<br/>
“Duh. You did.”<br/>
<br/>
“Because you’d have been out of control,” you argue, trying to justify your actions.<br/>
<br/>
“How the hell do you figure that?” Yumi’s hands are on her hips, one of her most indignant tells.<br/>
<br/>
“He was just going to use the book to get ahead at school,” your double says. “You started reeling off a master plan to control the whole town if needed. Perhaps the goddamn world.”<br/>
<br/>
“And what,” Yumi shrugs, “is wrong with thinking a little bigger? You think the peak of social achievement is Gordon freakin’ Black? Chelsea Cooper? They’re big fish in a small, small pond. And they aren’t even in real control.”<br/>
<br/>
“No? Then who is?” You ask, tracing out the sigils with your finger. Yumi’s exasperated sigh says everything.<br/>
<br/>
“Duh! Parents and teachers. A word - a word - from a coach or a teacher could destroy their lives. And while they know how far to push it at school, even Chelsea Cooper runs from her mom at home. And beyond them the wealthy, the powerful, the celebrated. You could be President and you want to be Head Cheerleader. Maybe you are a...”<br/>
<br/>
You stop tracing the sigils. “Lightweight.” The insult still burns from the Dairy Queen. The two assistants fall silent as you rise from the table and turn. “Well, I got the better of you.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, and now you get to live your weird, small-scale white boy fantasy of being whoever you aren’t.”<br/>
<br/>
“Pretty much,” you nod, years of anger and resentment seething through each word. “I could make Westside my real-life version of The Sims. Be whoever I want. Be with whoever I want. Change the dynamics and characters and script however I want. It’s power.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s pathetic,” Yumi replies.<br/>
<br/>
“OK. What would you do?”<br/>
<br/>
“I told you. You’re going to come into conflict with Blackwell sooner or later, and you need to start preparations for that.”<br/>
<br/>
“That,” you reply coldly, “is what I am doing. The sooner I master these sigils, the sooner I don’t need the book.”<br/>
<br/>
“And in the meantime,” Yumi says, “he is free to convert whoever he wants. How long does a mask take to make? Upscale it. If he dedicated his team to it, he could convert two, four, eight people into golems... in a week he’d have the town. Two the state. Four the country.”<br/>
<br/>
Not-Will makes a pfffft sound. “He hasn’t, though. Look at the spells he’s already mastered. He could have done all of that without the book and he hasn’t.”<br/>
<br/>
“So what, I’m the only smart one?” Yumi snaps. “Just because he hasn’t worked out mass conversion doesn’t mean it’s off limits. Think about it, Will. We make more masks and you lead us. Within a week you could have an army of infiltrators across town. You want to be at Gordon or Chelsea’s level, then fine. But a Gordon or Chelsea who matters, who people obey regardless of their apparent status. We could convert the school for you. Or use some of the tools already at your disposal.” <br/>
<br/>
She walks across the room and holds up the mask of Marion Pruitt. “Security guard at a department store? I could replace her, then with one mask you could be the fitting room assistant. From there you can be anyone buying the latest fashion. They come in to the private changing room, you do your thing, they leave as a new agent converted to your cause, or unaware you now have the ability to disguise yourself as them. Easy.”<br/>
<br/>
It’s tempting. A mass conversion, with everyone dancing to your tune. You could be anyone you want... or simply move between willing identities as you wished. You’d be the freakin’ emperor of Saratoga Falls. There is just one catch.<br/>
<br/>
“Hair.” You reach up and run a hand through the stubble on your head.<br/>
<br/>
“Was wondering when you were going to get to that,” mutters your double. “Yumi’s plan is great and all, but when we shaved our head it kind of limited the number of converts.”<br/>
<br/>
“So get more hair,” Yumi says. <br/>
<br/>
You look at your double. He groans, immediately knowing what you’re going to ask. “No, dude, you can’t make me.”<br/>
<br/>
“I can make you,” you correct. “I can’t remember when the bins are collected, but with luck that pile of hair is still among the garbage. It should work still, if someone went and gathered it.”<br/>
<br/>
“But why me?”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not going myself, and Yumi can’t exactly go dumpster diving either. That means you need to go through the trash and see if you can find my - our - hair. Failing that, you gotta go through any other source. My hair brush. The drain. Fuck, gather lint from under the bed for all I care.”<br/>
<br/>
You would hate the assignment, which means your golem hates it too. But it’s not like you have an alternative: you need your hair back if you’re going to build a force to beat Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
“Can’t I at least suggest an alternative plan?” He offers. <br/>
<br/>
You sigh. “Sure.”<br/>
<br/>
“Remember that game Caleb had last Summer? Castles and Empires?”<br/>
<br/>
“You know I do. Get to the point.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, we - you - beat him by starving his castle of resources.”<br/>
<br/>
You grin. “And we could do that to Blackwell,” you say in unison with your twin.<br/>
<br/>
“Huh?” Yumi asks.<br/>
<br/>
“Both of us need grave dirt,” you explain, “and it’s not like you can mail order that shit. We work out where he has been getting his batch, convert the graveyard keeper, or cops that patrol that route, and shut off the supply chain.”<br/>
<br/>
Yumi nods approvingly. “Now you’re thinking. Not bad, Wills. Our weakness is your hair, Blackwell’s is grave dirt. And he probably can’t be bothered to get it alone - he’s going to send his army of Lucys to dig it up. Prevent them getting dirt and you stop Blackwell building an army. Sadly, we’re still going to need more of Will’s hair, though,” she says to her fellow golem.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, I know,” it whines. “Trust me, I know.”<br/>
<br/>
“Hey,” Yumi smiles, “think of it this way. Blackwell probably thinks you aren’t smart enough to solve that one, so it’s going to make him even more complacent. And if you can figure out the sigils, we’re going to be unstoppable.”<br/>
<br/>
You have a way forward. While you work on the sigils, you order the Will golem to gather your own shorn locks and your Yumi golem to get to work polishing more masks. Tomorrow, you will go and work on the Libra with Blackwell... and afterward set your plan into motion. <br/>
<br/>
You just need to work out where to strike: start converting people en masse, or try to get control of the graveyards and shut down Blackwell’s access to his own golem army.</span></div></div>


path: 111134311121211112122
title: Go For Broke
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"No deal," you say. "I might be screwed up enough to use these masks, but there's no way I'm going to side with an asshole who has two girls chained up in his basement."<br/>
<br/>
"They are hardly chained," Blackwell says, slowly edging forward. Your double goes with him, while you and the Lucyganger sidestep, the whole standoff edging around in a circle. "But I really can't let you leave with the Libra. What if we make a bargain?"<br/>
<br/>
Your Yumi mind reminds you that you, she, is not a victim. Her Great-grandfather had a saying in the war: Go for broke. Do anything you can. Fight with whatever you have. Slowly you pace again, understanding the warning your stolen mind is giving you. Blackwell could realize it too, of course. Best keep him distracted. <br/>
<br/>
“What kind of bargain?"<br/>
<br/>
"The book in exchange for safe passage for you and the two ladies. On condition that none of you ever speak of this."<br/>
<br/>
"And the masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"You could take them with you. Save this one."<br/>
<br/>
"No deal!" Yumi snaps. <br/>
<br/>
"This hardly concerns you," Blackwell glances beyond your shoulder, over to Yumi on the bed. "You have stumbled onto a secret of the world, Will. You have the talent to harness it. But if you insist on refusing, then all I can promise is that you will never have to think about the past week again."<br/>
<br/>
You take another step to the side. Blackwell matches. "You're thinking too much about me," you say, grinning. Blackwell pauses, then his stolen eyes go wide with realization. "Go for broke!”<br/>
<br/>
Suddenly there's a screaming "Naaaargggh!!!", and something heavy crumples against you, a sickening clunk of metal on bone slamming down as the Lucy-golem's hold ends. In the same instant, your double kicks out Blackwell's feet, his Yumi-copied frame collapsing down to the ground. You step away, watching as the Lucy-golem's body slumps to the floor, blood streaming from its smashed scalp. <br/>
<br/>
Yumi, the real one, looks at you. She's clutching a crowbar she's obtained from somewhere - the object that was hidden under the sheet - and her breast is heaving with adrenaline. <br/>
<br/>
"Get the hell out of my body or you're next," she says, furious. <br/>
<br/>
"Hold him still," you command the nopperabou. "We'll get the clothes off..."<br/>
<br/>
"Not him, Will. You." she says, switching to Japanese. "Get that pervert mask off before I cleave my pretty goddamn head in."<br/>
<br/>
You gulp. Best do what she says. "Right. Of course. Just don't go upstairs, yet. I've got a feeling we really don't want to.”<br/>
<br/>
“Just do it,” Yumi seethes. “And don’t ever use Hiijiji‘s saying again. You are not me. Don’t think we’re even, Will. What you did was unforgivable.”<br/>
<br/>
***<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't take long to get everyone back in their respective identities. Yumi, dressed as Yumi, a hybrid of the clothing you and Blackwell stole from her. Lucy, dressed as Lucy. Your golem, dressed as you. The Lucy golem, now turned to stone and on the floor. Blackwell, fat and naked, unconscious on the floor. And you, dressed as... <br/>
<br/>
"Can't we at least turn my golem into a smaller frame?" you ask, the sheet wrapped around your waist. "So I can wear something. Anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," Yumi and Lucy say in unison, having taken full charge of the situation.<br/>
<br/>
"OK. So, what now?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're the one that doesn't want to go upstairs," Lucy observes. <br/>
<br/>
"I suspect there's a trap somewhere in the house. Something magic. Otherwise Blackwell wouldn't have just left you here. I don't know why, but I can... just feel it. It's like a part of a puzzle when you can see there's something missing, but you just don't know what."<br/>
<br/>
"Makes sense," your double says. "What the hell happened, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
The story soon unfolds. Lucy begins. The book was accidentally included in Blackwell's gift to Arnholm's. Lucy was replaced by a golem and has been down here for at least a week. Now you've had a chance to look at her, she seems hungry, thirsty and in desperate need of a bath (and probably psychological aftercare). Yumi takes up the story. She went to Arnholm's, found out about Blackwell, was convinced by him to head to his house, and then was attacked by  something unseen. By the time she came around she got the existential horror of watching her own double, in her own clothes, assume her life with the aim of recovering the book.<br/>
<br/>
"Where is the Libra, anyway?" you ask. It was in Yumi's bag.<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you had it, dude," your double says. <br/>
<br/>
"I did. Until I cycled over here... and then that thing got me." You point at the golem on the floor. "My guess is that Lucy..."<br/>
<br/>
"Not Lucy," the college girl reminds you. "A fucking monster."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey!" your own nopperabou says. "I'm right here."<br/>
<br/>
"A. Fucking. Monster." Lucy hisses, straightening her top, stolen off the creature. Lucy has her own mask now; Yumi two masks with her form.<br/>
<br/>
"It'll be upstairs. I saw a study of sorts, full of reagents. Probably had it there, waiting to deliver it to her, er, its, master."<br/>
<br/>
"OK. So, next step, we get the book. Then we deal with Blackwell." Lucy says. "See how that fuck likes it down here."<br/>
<br/>
"What about Blackwell's monster?" Yumi asks, nodding furiously in agreement.<br/>
<br/>
"Again. Right. Here." Neither woman pays attention to your double. Will Prescott - real or replacement - stopped being relevant the moment the stand-off ended. <br/>
<br/>
"We leave it like that. He controls it, but it can't do anything without a mask. It's just an inanimate lump of nothing. He can't do anything with it."<br/>
<br/>
"What about escape through the mausoleum?" You assume that's where Yumi got the crowbar. "Could that fat ass get through the gap?"<br/>
<br/>
"Doubt it." Finished their huddle, Yumi and Lucy turn to you. You get the impression neither is to be crossed. "Will. You're the only one that understands the book. Is there as spell to deal with Blackwell?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you reply honestly. "Maybe the next spell. I translated it while I was waiting for Yumi last night. It requires less grave dirt, and I think it requires a human. A body."<br/>
<br/>
The two girls glance at each other, then at Blackwell. "Go get the book and whatever you need," Lucy says.<br/>
<br/>
"But upstairs could be dangerous," you protest. Yumi interrupts you, arms folded.<br/>
<br/>
"I think you deserve to take a risk, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
You sigh, and look to your own double for sympathy. You just rescued them both. Staring at its expression, you know instinctively it's feeling equally under-appreciated about its part in the rescue.<br/>
<br/>
"You're welcome," you both mutter in unison. Then, sheet wrapped tight, you edge over the cold concrete floor toward the spiral stair.</span></div></div>


path: 1111343111212111121221
author_id: nirxor
title: Get the book and return
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The stone has a different feel to it when you finally make it to the metal stairwell, it's like all of the light from the small crack under the door is being devoured. As your feet make contact to the ancient and destitute antique stairs, the spiral and gothic like finishes, spears which seem to used to impale Blackwell's prisoners, feel very much aimed at you, like the whole of his house is a monster, from the experience before it like being an animal <br/>
it's hunting you, it's patiently watching, ready to strike. <br/>
<br/>
"<b>GET. YOUR. ASS. MOVING.</b>"<br/>
<br/>
Yumi, showing an unrelenting rage to you, hiss through her clenched teeth, showing you a very animalistic anger. Lucy simply mirrors the glare Yumi has on you, as your feet make contact and sound off the steel, what feels like a period of forever, eventually ends as you grip the door, then pull with all your might and it opens to a dimly lit room.<br/>
<br/>
 The windows are strangely luminescent, the light shining in is almost blue, it's then you see the stained glass, as the room breaks into a very odd chamber of stone and wood, with heavy focus on mysterious symbols and writing. As you carefully step around the floor, doing your best to not let a single toe of piece of cloth touch a part of the magical circles, or what you assume is one, you stop for a minute and pause, the window shows a full moon, it's properties almost like a divine revelation for you. As the light shine throughout the chamber in what you call a "feeling of freedom" or at least the essence of being able to literally bolt out the front door, you also feel a tinge of responsibility, a heart string being tugged on and played with, the tune is Yumi's voice. Not her anger at you or the power trip she had, or even her deceiving you. It's the fact that none of this would have happened if you had introduced her to the book, hell Lucy is an entirely different matter, but you feel responsible none the less. <br/>
<br/>
<i>"No, it's Blackwell's fault, but I didn't exactly trust her either."</i><br/>
<br/>
You had a sort of tenuous relationship with Yumi, she was somewhere between helpful and unsociable for you. In a sense Yumi wasn't the friend you'd call when you needed a ride, but if she offered, you'd accept. The days you spent as her, revealed a lot, the people around her, her thoughts, her struggles, her issues, her talents, at some point, when all of this began, she was just wanting a bit more freedom. She wanted to be away from it all. From Chelsea. From the rumors. From her family. From all of it, Yumi was just as guilty as you, but his was for another day. Hopefully.<br/>
<br/>
"Freedom."<br/>
<br/>
The word leaves your breath as you leap over a circle. Then quietly gaze at the maze of chalk and dust. As you glance along the room, you notice the design, where you stand is within a moon shaped parlor of sorts. The glass windows, shining through with a stained bluer and black, showing the cycles of the moon and and eclipse. The room feels....... Hidden. Or just unnoticeable? It's hard to even begin to put the words in your head now, or focus on it. You look around the entrance of the parlor and see it's directly in the line of sight you'd see if you walked through what looks like the main hallway. <br/>
<br/>
<i>"You can't miss this if you were blind!"</i><br/>
<br/>
The thought screams as you see the stained glass, the serene and peaceful night sky only showing a moon through the stained glass matching up perfectly with it's alignment on the chart. <i>"I wonder what is does?"</i>. The idea of this being a kind of security isn't right, somewhere in this chamber, it feels too much like a definite sign of "Hey! Look at me do some black magic!" <br/>
<br/>
It's really strange, yet as you completely leave, turning your back on the chamber the light from the room fades away! Shocked you scurry back to the chamber putting a hand up to feel for the wall or the lack of one. As you make it back to the same distance where the light died, the chamber comes back to view, like it was always around you, like this chamber is oddly calling out to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Better remember this."<br/>
<br/>
You say to yourself as you back away from the chamber, turning back to the hall you quietly cross the wooden floors where dist and creaking follow with every step. The though of that shadowy creature hunting you through the house is present in your mind all the way as every tiny sound has you pausing before you even dare to move, as the night continues, you make it eventually to a small door where upon opening the door, as quietly as possible, you witness a kitchen. The idea pops into your head of getting some food and water, it would be best if you got some for everyone, but right now, the book and escape is more important, quietly you cut into the kitchen as you stalk the moonlit house, where across the way it breaks into a dinning room. The grandiose room made for hosting a party from possible the Victorian era, but it's ultimately cut short by the next door, with light shining through the entry way, as you do, you see the opening of what look like a den? You're not versed in house stuff, but you figure you must be getting close, the room feels like it's made for inviting guests, well victims honestly now that you've experienced the real charity of it's master. Quickly gazing around the room, you see a shadow dart from the ceiling across a window, the tendrils of the almost unholy moving investigating the glass, possibly gazing out for prey, for anything, or hunting you. As windows rattle and shake, crack and screech, the whole of the wall is moaning under an invisible force, as you feel the need to back away. To run. To hide. To leave through the front door, which could very well be in almost every possible scenario in your head around the next corner, the shadows stop. They straighten out. Then you hear a skittering, like a spider or fingers going hard against wood. Trying to escape it's captor. Then you realize, that there is a very real possibility that this thing is fed very well......<br/>
<br/>
The shadows eventually let's out a roar that that is akin to a whisper, a horrifying sound like a glass shard being ran across another piece of glass, then what you can only described as fear and uncertainty made into a feeling that breezes along your skin, it vanishes into the depths of this mad house. The air feels wrong, like something happens here, or that something was going on in this very room, but as you cross it, you see right before you a bag, not just any bay, Yumi's school backpack, the one she disappeared with. It's tempting, to just reach out and grab it, but the sensation from the chamber, that parlor bathed in moonlight, whatever was it was almost like you were put on Defcon one, all of the hair stood up on your neck stood up, it felt like there was a certain air about this bag, something definitely "hazardous". Instinctively, yet perplexingly, you back away from the bag and lean back to the wall, waiting for a bit.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>What the hell was that?</i>" You skull is going through a scenario in which you had picked the bag up, and the creature hunts you down. Or possibly it was some kind of trap to knock you out, then place a mask on you, and nobody would ever know the difference. As the thoughts gather the weight of failure and hellish torture of this man's demon, a sound of clacking and cluttering is coming out of the large entry way. It's very much the sound of metal against metal, like a dinner tray? Cups? Is someone eating? The thoughts of this man having a team around himself is revolting. More likely golems than anything else, or it's the shadow, but as you step into the next room, you see the salvation you wanted, windows leading out, a huge massive door framed like earlier! A place for umbrellas! A coat rack! A place for shoes! All of this, is a heavenly revelation! The one thing you wanted to get first is already within grasp! It almost too easy! The book is certainly in his inner sanctum! If what the girls told you is true, then within the library, Blackwell's most prized possession. You'd find the book he was so desperate to have back, but as you enter the hall, you see a problem, two problems, two very familiar problems, and a third problem you've never seen before. <br/>
<br/>
"Uhg." The fist one says. "I like this dress, but am not certain about wearing it to social events. "The hair is done is such a way it's elegant, but it emphasizes her face and body, the legs are highlighted by the tight way it wraps around her waist and the voice is familiar, but the tone. "Am most pleased about this one, she's rather exotic." <br/>
<br/>
"Aren't we all?" The second one replies. "The dark colors are best paired with the offset of the gold, but I detest such displays of arrogance and greed." The second one chimes in as the heels stop briefly of the entryway into the house. "I never would have imagined that having a two minds in one body was such an attainable feat, but my research is rather, capricious!" The second one simply shakes as the body is placed on hold, taking a moment to admire the face. <br/>
<br/>
"Am assuredly interested in this life. Melody Words has been a valuable assistant, but I prefer to have her keep her life, she's only her for the money." The third one is not dressed as the other it's wearing a more business like suit, but it still gives off the same aura as the others. "I would be pleased to have a more..... <b><i> masculine</i></b> form, but William is too much like me." The third one finishes. <br/>
<br/>
"Yes, however he seems to have an aptitude for the dark arts! A most welcomed gift!" The voice of Yumi is singing with a high praise, but the tone and demeanor of Blackwell ooze out of her, you can see why it would be sickening to watch a copy of yourself now. <br/>
<br/>
"Ah! I see!" The Lucy golem chants, now some hoe proud. "A strapping young man would most definitely satisfy <i>our</i>, curiosity!"  You don't even birth to stare at the tray as the trio talks about your body, and the things they can do with it, as soon a mask is ready</span></div></div>


path: 11113431112121111212211
author_id: nirxor
title: The secrets within and without
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"A young man would be an advantage." The Lucy golem says, as she holds the tray, looking into a mirror placed intentionally at the entrance. She muses on her appearance, smiling as the eyes seeming gain a sort of malice and curiosity. "Ah, I certainly would entertain this body, but having two minds in one body, like this." It takes a deep breath, like going into a trance.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center"><i><b>"Enamoring."</b></i></div><br/>
<br/>
The words drip off their lips as the essence and sounds of Blackwell sink into the forms of their hosts, the trays clatter and clang as the heels click against the, the united voices of the golems speaking as their master, unnerves you. The strange way they moved, talked, and, the clothes, maybe Blackwell is investing into something, or maybe Yumi was right about him. It's the dresses that catch your attention, each one is oddly accented to the bodies of their wearers, the new one, Melody Weiss, especially has a more accented form. Where as Yumi's is a more delicate, form which enhances her natural beauty, the fact she can use very little makeup and still be gorgeous. It's strange colors of silver lining with a black and blue. A personal taste of the man probably, it's Melody that catches your eye, she isn't particularly striking, but she's sort of the Liberian type, cute despite the heavier set, her stomach and lower are body definitely larger than other girls, but in that way she is similar to Kim Walsh. Kim is definitely cute, but very petite and slender, not very heavy at all, but cute. <br/>
<br/>
"Ladies." The sultry, yet still dominating aura of Lucy just catches the other two's attention, the trays are held still. "We still have a job to do. We have three copies each to manage, minus the ones we let take over the lives." <br/>
<br/>
It's damnation to listen to, the hell of knowing that there is a contingency plan already laid out, the fact that you'd have to help murder another golem. The three stand quietly for a brief moment, the trays clatter as their heels click against the floor. "We're going to be waiting until the original returns with a mask of the boy, William."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah!" The Yumi golem exclaims, as she giggles, you hear a chuckle from the Melody golem. "I know him pretty well, I wouldn't have ever realized his potential with the book, even with my memories!" The enthusiasm from her almost exclusively focused on the supposed "potential" you have. <br/>
<br/>
"Outstanding! The meer knowledge he made such progress in such a miniscule amount of time is profound!" The Melody golem shouts. "His natural aptitude for this art is astounding! We should ensure he becomes an apprentice!" <br/>
<br/>
"Patience, we don't need to lead him by his nose." The Lucy golem preaches. "We should have secured such ability when we found him, but with us spread so thoroughly, he would be wise to accept our offer." The golem ends with smile, enjoying the form it wears. The heels clack away, with the trio of false women entering a room, one you are certain is where the book kept! If the light shining from of the room and the sounds of people talking, the indication that there is certainly something listening to, after this, a part of you honestly doesn't want hear anything else from the golems. The door is left open, as the trays clink against a table, then as you peer into the room, you see a gathering of the previously mentioned groups. A number of copies, each one dressed differently, but all of them concentrating on a part of the room where in the center of all of the golems, are two faces you know should be in the dungeon. Blackwell, is sitting with a copy of his directly across from him, with masks, bands, and, pages all being made by hand. <br/>
<br/>
"Ah. My dears." One exclaims, almost enchanted by their new looks. "My, my! Had I known the beauty of these ladies well before, I would made a much better investment in their choice of clothing!" He almost sounds like parched fish, gasping as he looks at the three you followed. <br/>
<br/>
"By all means Audrey!" Lucy sings, her red dress is like a cocktail dress, but it's out of place on her, the golden trim is very out of touch on Lucy, but it's from age long gone. "I personally wouldn't wear clothes like this, but it's rather charming." The golems drop the trays on the tables, a pile of cups, vials, and, some kind of powder, are gathered in front of each of the groups, the Yumi's, Lucy's, and, Melody's all take a piece of each, mix each in a strange motion, then infront of each a ghost fire ignites and out of the strange colored flame, comes another powder which is gathered into the tiny vials, which are placed into the center of the table. The two Blackwells are gazing into the book, not focused on any of the matters around them, it's only when the Yumi in the selected dress, uncovers a tray does the mystery suddenly come full circle. <br/>
<br/>
"Audrey, if I recall-" The elegant Yumi calls out as the tray is placed next to one of the copies. "Out of all of the talismans, artifacts, and, tomes, are we certain on the usage of them?" <br/>
<br/>
"Miss Saito, I believe that if the fruits of my labor are to be utilized properly I need to authenticate the sigils and runes, after all if the house's origins are to be traced properly!" He cuts off, quietly he pauses, then glances around the room. "This place has been made by an old architect, one by the name of Shabbleman."<br/>
<br/>
"If our memories are to be correct, then the symbols placed meticulously in the manor, the very moon cycle and stars placed are in a foundation for creating an illusionary barrier, the fact the moon obscures the parts of manor in a way that only that those with an affinity can see them, or better yet, a person who has blood and claim to this house can utilize the house, then it is a proper fortress." He smirks as the golem hands him a strange set of artifacts. "I only know that moon and it's cycles can hide the truth, make things hard to find and see, even with all of the powers we wield." The Melody golem speaks, imitating a lecturer, she takes a metal extended rod, almost appearing like a true professor would. <br/>
<br/>
"If the book came from the Shabbleman family, then I can assure us gentlemen." She pauses, before moving a hand down to her butt. "We can definitely prosper and use the tools at our disposal to certainly claim a proper hold of resources!" She exclaims as she simply smiles, sitting on the desk.  <br/>
<br/>
The abomination of Blackwell not only having made copies of himself and inserted the essence into the girls he has collected, with their own minds and his in one horrifying union, it's enough to make you feel the food inside of your gut quake and rot, vomiting is almost the first thing you do. <br/>
<br/>
<i>"The book is so damn close!!"</i><br/>
<br/>
The sight of it literally within a single bound, it's tempting, but having to go against that many golems? It would be suicide, even worse since they have masks literally made here, in almost no scenario do you see yourself winning. As the danger bells inside, the primal fear of your own being is screaming for you burst thought the front door, the hellish wail of the shadowy creature breaks all of the conversation and motion in the room, even the Blackwell twins, for as invincible as the seemed to be, suddenly look afraid. <br/>
<br/>
"Our familiar is certainly active tonight." One says.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you think they touched any of the traps?" <br/>
<br/>
"We would be alerted by the sigil going off and a different sound."<br/>
<br/>
"True, but still our master hasn't returned."<br/>
<br/>
"Patience, all good things come to those who wait, and we have waited for so long."<br/>
<br/>
The two go back to work, but then it strikes you! The trap they set was placed perfectly! The fact the three golems walked by it wasn't a fluke! They were checking it out! The bag was the trap! Again it wails, the thing is skittering through the house, close to where you are, but the same scratching noise cease as you sneak into the room, taking a step carefully, you reach for a broom and dust pan, then hope that this is first and last time you'll ever do something this stupid again. Is the quietest motions allowed, you book it into the guest area where the bag should be, to your luck and wit so far, it hasn't moved, but right now, that is the least of your concerns, quickly taking the broom you poke the bag, waiting for it to do something, then you carefully open it, opting to not dump it across the floor, but leave it as if it a trap, then you need to make it work once. It's filled with clothes, surprisingly, it all men's clothes around five pairs and two shoes, converse brand and pair of loafers.<br/>
<br/>
"Was he serious on replacing me?" <br/>
<br/>
The contents of the clothes wasn't what you expected however, it was all folded neatly, from the looks of it, it was carefully picked too, the style was nicer than what you normally wear as well. The words you heard now seem all to real and much to close of a promise. You remove the sheet and as quick as you possibly can, dress I the clothes. It's not exactly comfortable, but it will work, now you're at a cross road, where to throw the bag?</span></div></div>


path: 1111343112
author_id: masktrix
title: Marion Meets Marion
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You walk down Acacia, shifting with discomfort, your breasts straining against your uniform fabric. It hurts. It chafes. But then you only have Marion’s uniform, not her bra, so you’re just going to have to live with it.<br/>
<br/>
You’re fully disguised as Marion now, the only telltale signs your shoes - your Will Prescott sneakers padded with newspaper to fit your Marion feet - and the lack of bra. Marion doesn’t wear much makeup, although the shades and colours she does have can be bought pretty easily. Her hair is easily tied up into a bun now you know what you’re doing. You have her thoughts, her appearance, her very being. In one hand, folded over the arm, are the dresses. Marion is a self-confessed ditz, and you know she’ll assume she already collected her stuff. The DVD was another thing she chalked up to her jumbled mind. <i>Way to go, Marion</i>.<br/>
<br/>
You stop and crouch down, holding out your hands before you enter your apartment complex. “Hello, Smoke,” you say, greeting the apartment cat - actually owned by your neighbours Dan and Holly, but adopted by more or less everyone. Cat appeased, you press the buzzer.<br/>
<br/>
“Zzzkkpppt?”<br/>
<br/>
“Mr Hollister, it’s Marion, 3b? I’ve left my key at work, can I use the spare?”<br/>
<br/>
“Klklpppffftttt.” The door’s magnetic lock opens, and you push inside. The Super is there to meet you. He’s a reed-thin man, a shock of red hair with a cleft lip.<br/>
<br/>
“If it doesn’t show it’s gonna be twenty bucks out of your wage.” <br/>
<br/>
You give your best Marion smile, your jolly, oval face beaming with relief. “Thank you, mister H! You are a life saver!” You take the key in one hand, the other continuing to hold your dry cleaning. <br/>
<br/>
“Still 20 bucks.”<br/>
<br/>
<i>Last time it was ten. The time before that five...</i><br/>
<br/>
You nod, warm and friendly. “Gotcha.” <br/>
<br/>
You would normally take the stairs. Marion would - she needs the exercise, she would tell herself. Instead you take the elevator. The third floor, you know from the maze of memories, fears, hopes and ambitions drifting over, under and weaving through your mind is like a feed of information. You only need to pull it and...<br/>
<br/>
<i>You fell over and grazed your ankle on your seventh birthday.<br/>
<br/>
You went to the prom with Francis Dearborn and when he kissed you, he was so nervous you’re burst out laughing.<br/>
<br/>
You have an all-time crush for that Hollywood actor in all the blockbuster movies, Chris</i>...<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head as the door opens, propping up your glasses to see clearly. The real Marion is on a double shift and won’t be home for three hours. Plenty of time. You could even help yourself to the tuna salad in the fridge, or that double-thick fudge ice cream saved for lonely nights in watching... ice hockey? Well, you shrug, whatever people like. <br/>
<br/>
The apartment is small, but scrupulously clean and neat in a desperate attempt to get organized. TV, soft fabric sofa, open plan kitchen in Nordic pine. In front of you are photos of your, Marion’s, family on her central table: parents, elder brother Logan (the one who confessed to his little sister he likes women’s clothes), younger brother Brent (the smart one). You pause, breathing in all of Marion’s thoughts. Then you make your drop-off.<br/>
<br/>
The dresses go in the bedroom closet, neat and tidy. Objects returned, you pause and wonder how much you could take to borrow Marion’s identity around town. The uniform is a given; who knows what you could do with that. But what else could you get away with? Bras and underwear are easy: Marion can’t keep track. Shoes are out, but she wears cheap sneakers and work shoes from the same store and can be copied. You begin to help yourself to shirts, sundresses and even a pair of jeans you doubt she’ll miss. You could be Marion anywhere with these. You stop at the dresser and look at your stolen face, unbuttoning your uniform and exposing your chest as you take the shirt off.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey!” You wave, faking the enthusiasm the real Marion feels when meeting her friends. Part of you wishes you could go to the wedding as her. Maybe you could; polish some more masks, gain some new identities. You slip on a bra (oh god, much better!) and button your uniform on again. Part of you wants to take some jewellery but that would be missed. Instead, you throw your stolen items in a sports bag (the beaten one that she always means to throw out) and make your exit.<br/>
<br/>
You’re 10 foot from the door when the key turns in the lock. What the hell? You freeze in panic, the bag dropping to your side. Moments later the real Marion opens the door and steps through, closing it after herself. It’s too late to duck behind a sofa: you’re simply stuck, in the open, her double. You could remove the mask but you doubt that would help. You scramble to try and understand. Then it hits you. You have Marion’s imperfect brain. She cancelled that double shift last week. <i>Remember Marion, you idiot?</i> You want to swear at her forgetfulness.<br/>
<br/>
But that’s nothing compared with what happens next. She turns around.<br/>
<br/>
Two Marion Pruitts stand a few feet apart, facing each other. Both in work clothes. Both with long hair tied up, a warm, round face and glasses. Figure. Height. Scent. Sound. Except the sneakers on your feet,  you are perfect.<br/>
<br/>
You smile warmly and wave. What else can you do? <br/>
<br/>
“Hey!” Fake Marion, you, greets Real Marion.<br/>
<br/>
The original’s jaw falls to the floor. “The fuck..?”<br/>
<br/>
You wonder what you’re going to do next.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431121
author_id: masktrix
title: Mar’s Attack
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You can’t run. All you can do is hope that the real Marion chalks this up to some kind of dream. And you’re going to have to help with that.<br/>
<br/>
You mentally reach for her thoughts, fears, feelings and pull them close. Allowing her to effectively take control. They become your instincts, as much as anything else. You want to scream, but you can’t. You feel your jaw hang loose, flopping about in your mouth as you approach... what? <i>Your clone? Some kind of ghost?</i><br/>
<br/>
Your chubby fingers reach forward, as hers do, Your other hand slips instinctively to your belt, but you left your gear at work. The Marions take two steps forward. Your heart pummels into your chest, feeling as though it is going to explode. Cold waves, not shivers but actual waves, freeze your spine to ice, even as the blood drains from your head to keep your organs going.<br/>
<br/>
“What are...” you say in unison with your counterpart. <br/>
<br/>
“I...hoooowww?” You feel faint. Sick. Your footstep staggers now, even as hers, the race to walk into contact becoming a slow-motion agony. Black spots appear at the edge of your vision. Black lines. As if the screen is shrinking.<br/>
<br/>
You start to stumble. Quickly, the Will thoughts pull you back, even as the real Marion begins her tumble to the floor. <br/>
<br/>
Bam. She hits the ground, her head cracking against the tile with a sickening thud. It rests at an unnatural angle, the rest of her body spread out like some kings of...<br/>
<br/>
You suddenly burst out laughing. Marion’s laugh, like the hours of an owl, resound from your lungs as you place your hands on your hips, gather your near-failed strength and laugh until you cry. She’s on the ground like... <i>like a marionette.</i><br/>
<br/>
There’s a thud on the floor.<i> Mrs Melman downstairs. Knocks if you even have the TV on too loud. Bitch.</i><br/>
<br/>
Snapping out of it, you bend over your double, stroking your own hair out of the way to grab a pulse. Still alive. Weak. But alive. Marion’s first aid training comes in as you check for injuries. None. Just a broken mind. How broken you don’t know.<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath and try to decide what to do next. You could cut your loses and leave the poor woman there. She’ll remember the fall, think she’s had some kind of breakdown, use medical insurance and pay premiums she can’t afford. It will, you know, ruin her life. Easy for you to take off your mask, make some more, go back to being a shaven-headed Will Prescott who is still staggered his parents didn’t ground his ass for the haircut and instead told him just having to go out in public like that was lesson enough. <br/>
<br/>
But maybe that isn’t the best option. If you can be anyone, why not use that? The book has to have some kind of answer that can ‘fix’ Marion. Some way to cure her, or at least give her amnesia so she doesn’t remember any of this. The next spell, you recall, required pounds of grave dirt and a fire. You have no idea why. Marion’s flat won’t work for that, but downstairs the building has an industrial furnace. Maybe you could use your position here.<br/>
<br/>
A second plan forms in your head. If Will Prescott was gone a few days - how you don’t know yet - you could step in to Marion Pruitt’s life until you can fix her. She’s mostly off duty, and you have masks and bands to prepare. She has enough money in her bank account for ingredients. You could look after her, live her life a little, maybe find some new people to be until you heal Marion. Certainly you could complete the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
If she heals. For now she is broken, asleep in some kind of mental coma. And that gives you another idea... all you need is one new mask.<br/>
<br/>
Part of you - Will, the real you - enjoys the thought of trying out someone else’s life. Part of you is scared for the consequences. But you need to decide.</span></div></div>


path: 111134311212
author_id: masktrix
title: Cover and Recover
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
Today is Friday. That means you’ve got a weekend to find a solution. And right now you need to help Marion. She is a good person, her mind tells you. Forgetful, a little bumbling at times, but good. You crouch down and let her mind guide you through moving an injury. Recovery position. Unnecessary here. Instead you stoop down, grab her arms and drag her into the bedroom. It feels eerie, touching her flesh with those same fingertips. You pant and perspire a little at the exertion, before pulling her up into bed. Then you help her into her (hideous to your mind, cute to hers) PJs. You do your best not to look.<br/>
<br/>
By the end, you’re doubled over and out of breath. Marion really needs a better fitness routine. Her mind is insistent she ‘gets her steps in’ just doing patrols. <i>Yeah, but you also get your jelly supreme donuts...</i><br/>
<br/>
You edge out of her uniform, trousers looking around your shins before you gather and fold them properly. Moments later you’re in Marion’s jogging bottoms and a loose top with a faded logo from an old grunge band. You undo your bun, letting the wild mane of hair release. Then, without really knowing why, you pick Marion’s glasses off her face and place the spare on her nightstand.<br/>
<br/>
You are now Marion Pruitt. At least for a few hours while you try to decide what you are going to do.<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
You are back to your shavenheaded self. You thought it'd take half an hour to get home, get your things and get back to Marion’s apartment. You didn’t figure on your parents. While you made it back to your house in record time, you weren’t expecting a lecture on your recent behavior. Shaven head. For 20 dollars? And then there is the C you got on the time capsule. Not good enough. You are virtually forced to sit through family dinner.<br/>
<br/>
You mutter something about a new job. That gets your parents’ interest piqued. <br/>
<br/>
“Nirdlinger’s,” you say. “Security. Just a few hours a week.”<br/>
<br/>
Your father dissects his pork chop as he considers it. “Better than Dairy Queen,” he shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
Then you need to persuade your parents that you’re going to be away this weekend, camping with Caleb. You’ve texted him to cover for you. That was a harder sell - especially after the poor grade. Instead, you had to change approach.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m going to stay at...”<br/>
<br/>
“No.” Your father chews slowly. “Not Caleb, after this week’s grades. You need to study. This is your future, Will. You aren’t going to throw it away.”<br/>
<br/>
“I wasn’t going to say Caleb,” you sigh. Shit. You search for your alternative. “I was going to say Brent.”<br/>
<br/>
“Who’s Brent?” Your mom asks. <br/>
<br/>
“Brent Pruitt. He’s on the AP track. We’re going to have a cram session. He owes me for... y’know. Something. And we’re going to be working hard all weekend.”<br/>
<br/>
Your parents can’t really argue with that. “Fine,” your father says, before noting your clothes. After removing the mask you didn’t bother changing; Marion’s pants had drawstrings and the T-shirt just got a little baggier on your frame. “Since when did you listen to Soundgarden?”<br/>
<br/>
You decide to head up before you are subjected to his attempt to bond over his taste in music.<br/>
<br/>
- - - <br/>
<br/>
You’re back at Marion’s - as Marion - a full hour and a half after you left. You step out of the elevator, waving as you pass Holly, letting in Smoke who has been pawing at her door. Then you slip in the keys you took from your... patient? Prisoner? You aren’t sure what Marion is, right now. All you know is you are relieved that she is still unconscious and in bed when you check on her. Blowing a loose strand of her stolen hair out of your face, you dart into the kitchen and then sink into the couch with some chips. Stress eating. It’s slightly disturbing to realize that it’s a Marion trait, not a Will one.<br/>
<br/>
You’ve taken everything you need from your room. The Grimoire. Your supplies. A few books to keep your parents from getting suspicious. Now you won’t be disturbed as you look after Marion. Frustratingly, the book still won’t let you look for a solution beyond the next page. Four hundred pounds of grave dirt. You are certain it won’t be about helping someone who’s having a mental breakdown. <br/>
<br/>
You have a few options. First, you can polish some more masks, then get further into the grimoire. Or, alternatively, you can try and find other magical options. There is a mystic shop in town; you remember some of the goth kids talking about a ‘Madame Andrassy’. Maybe if you got a mind band on her, you could find an alternative solution.<br/>
<br/>
But first there is a call you need to make that could ruin your school reputation.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, little bro,” you chirp down the phone, voice full of Marion’s innate, bubbly warmth.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey,” Brent Pruitt answers, a little confused.<br/>
<br/>
“You studying hard?” You can hear the groan down the end of the line. Marion likes to tease her sibling though.<br/>
<br/>
“I guess,” he says. “Trying to get through some problems for the mathlete contest.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ooh! Go on, then!” You say it out of instinct. Inside you groan, not wanting a math problem. Nor does Marion, but she likes to appear game.<br/>
<br/>
“Heh,” Brent laughs. “I don’t think that would help. But I have to get these done tonight. Mom is really turning the screw.” Your Marion memories remind you that Brent has always been under this kind of pressure. As Will you assumed that he was just wet; now you know that his parents are taskmasters. All three kids took to coping with unfair expectations. Marion started eating and got an apartment as soon as she could. Brent, youngest and most gifted, got it worst of all. He’s expected to be brilliant. It suffocates him. Marion’s emotions cause your face to frown in empathy.<br/>
<br/>
“Hang in there, little B.” You say. There is awkward silence on the line.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks, Sis. So, what’s up?”<br/>
<br/>
“I need a favour,” you say, wincing inwardly as you do. “Do you know a Will Prescott?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, he goes to my school,” Brent replies, curious. “Why?”<br/>
<br/>
Steel yourself. You lower your voice. “This goes no further, OK? Totally in confidence?”<br/>
<br/>
“Sure.”<br/>
<br/>
“I caught him shoplifting at work. He’s in a lot of trouble, but don’t want to ruin his life so we’re coming up with an alternative. He’s going to work it off this weekend.”<br/>
<br/>
“Okay...”<br/>
<br/>
“So, I told him we don’t need to include his parents in this. But he needs a reason he is away this weekend. So, I was thinking...”<br/>
<br/>
“You want me to cover for him?”<br/>
<br/>
“Is that cool?” <br/>
<br/>
“I guess,” Brent mutters. “I mean, I barely know him. I think he’s got a girlfriend, maybe Lisa would be a better...”<br/>
<br/>
“I think,” you interrupt, “a weekend studying with a little genius is better cover than a date. C’mon, little B. Hmm? Hmmmm?”<br/>
<br/>
You finish the call five minutes later, having persuaded your disguise’s little brother to cover your absence. You have two days. You have Marion Pruitt’s life and meagre savings. The only question is how you’re going to help the real Marion, comatose in her bed. And there is another problem with the Grimoire spell. You need a lock of your own hair... and Caleb shaved it off two days ago.</span></div></div>


path: 1111343112121
author_id: masktrix
title: In Which Will Prescott Has an Accident
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
The book is your only answer. Magic is real, but you doubt whatever trinkets sold downtown are; otherwise there would be a school coven. Or, worse, someone like Geoff Mansfield or The Molester would have used it to make everyone’s lives that little bit worse.<br/>
<br/>
You feel like your world is getting tighter. Like an invisible noose is closing around your neck. You can’t keep Marion Pruitt a prisoner. Even if you have her face, her thoughts, her entire identity, what’s your end game? What’s your plan? You don’t have one. She could come round at any moment and you wouldn’t have any idea what to do.<br/>
<br/>
You try and come up with a solution all night as you watch TV (strangely, the ice hockey has actually become interesting to you) a polish a new mask. You knew you'd need something to keep you busy, so you went back to Acheson long enough to pick up and bring back all your magical supplies, along with the book. You're too frazzled to concentrate on the next spell, so this is the next best thing.<br/>
<br/>
But even that isn't good enough. Your hand and wrists are soon aching from the endless rubbing. If only there was a faster way to polish these things ...<br/>
<br/>
---<br/>
<br/>
An hour later you're admiring the finished mask. <i>Brilliant work, there, Marion,</i> you congratulate yourself. Sometimes a wandering mind comes in useful. From "mask polisher" to "floor polisher," to remembering that the super keeps a floor buffer in the basement ... It all came lickety-split! You snuck down to get the machine, plugged it in back in the apartment, and only forty minutes later you'd buffed it to a brilliant blue. <br/>
<br/>
Then back to the ice hockey, and to work on another mask ...<br/>
<br/>
---<br/>
<br/>
Dawn. You wake up bleary-eyed, the sun’s rays hissing into the apartment, dazzling you. Wearily, you raise up off the sofa and blink at the blue, plate-like object you were resting your head on, and... shit. Shit shit shit. The mask has your face in it! You must have fallen asleep, and your face ploughed straight into the mask as you dozed. <br/>
<br/>
You clamber to your feet, feeling a little sick, and go into the bedroom to check on Marion. Still out, still running a fever. You frown in concern. She’s been out for half a day. What happens when she needs water, or food? You’re starting to get hungry yourself. <br/>
<br/>
Carelessly, you take off the tracksuit bottoms and band shirt, and find something else to wear. Picking out a pair of jeans and a yellow top, you grab a shower as Will (less hair, so it’s faster), then don your Marion Pruitt mask, clothes, and wallet to head outside.<br/>
<br/>
You pick up the mask before heading out, though, and glance over it. A mask of Will Prescott. That could actually be useful, you think, if I could figure out a way to get it onto someone so they could cover for me.<br/>
<br/>
Before you have a chance to reconsider, you have broken into your supplies and applied a sealing layer to it. Only then does it occur to you that someone could cover for you at home by wearing that mask only if you explained to them what was going on and why you needed their help. "You need to catch up on your sleep, dude," you chide yourself. But your mind can't let go of the thought that a mask of your face could be helpful, and you're noodling absent-mindedly over it as you head out and downstairs to get a bite to eat.<br/>
<br/>
---<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, Maria!” You say, stepping into the neighborhood bakery a short time later. The smell of baked bread is enticing. Marion sometimes stops here to get a fresh loaf and croissants before work.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re up early!” comes the reply. Maria Ortiz keeps the bakery family-run, although judging by her lean figure, she stays away from her own creations. “Usual?”<br/>
<br/>
“Uh, actually...” you purse your lips, propping your glasses as they slip a little down your nose. “Actually I’ll have two of those pain aux raisins? And a cinnamon bun.” Your stomach, or rather Marion’s, grumbles appreciatively.<br/>
<br/>
“No problem.” You pay using Marion’s card, looking into the bakery beyond. The oven reminds you. You have to bake 400 pounds of grave dirt. Somehow you have to get that much. You have scales in your - her? - apartment. That should help measure it out. If you grab some sacks from Walmart,  then you could head up to the Masonic Cemetery. Tonight, perhaps. Yeah. That could work. There’s still the matter of your hair, but... you almost choke on your breakfast, not realizing you even helped yourself to a pastry in the store. Marion’s ditzy body went onto autopilot. You are too tired.<br/>
<br/>
The thought that surprised you is simple.It doesn’t specify <i>what kind of hair. </i> You aren’t sure if it’s a Will thought or not, but you could get a lock from... well. Somewhere gross. Your armpits, maybe? Perhaps that would still work. You feel a little sick at the idea.<br/>
<br/>
“You OK, hon?” Maria calls from behind. You turn, and beam one of Marion’s happiest smiles. <br/>
<br/>
“Mmm,” you nod, giving an OK sign in return, answer muffled with food in your mouth. “God I needed this.” You try not to think of body part spells, just how much Marion loves good baking.<br/>
<br/>
Maria nods and moves to go back to her baking. You head for the exit, brushing the crumbs from your chest outside. Hair. Grave dirt. Then the building’s furnace. But what about the real Marion? You finish one pastry and start another, letting the buttery taste smooth your thoughts. You can’t just steal her life, even as you walk back in her body, in desperate need of sleep but living her routine. You catch a glance of yourself in a shop window as you pass by. Just an average woman out for a morning bite to eat. Maybe you could live like this. You shake your head to banish the thought. You need to help her.<br/>
<br/>
Your head is still in the clouds as you reach your apartment block, pushing through the crowd to get in. Wait, crowd? You turn to look. Everyone is gathered in a circle, looking at something on the ground. You join the huddle. Marion’s short, so you can’t see over, but fortunately it’s easy enough to push forward with your security guard training to see what happened. There’s an ambulance. Paramedics. A figure on the floor, in front of a car with a smashed windscreen. <br/>
<br/>
Then, in growing horror, you realize the figure is you.<br/>
<br/>
You, as in Will Prescott. Dressed as you were yesterday. Blood is dribbling out of your ears, and the crew have you immobilized. You gasp.<br/>
<br/>
“They’re doing all they can.” Beside you, your neighbor Holly had her arms crossed. She unfurls them, giving your wrist a squeeze. Marion’s wrist.<br/>
<br/>
“What happened?” You mutter.<br/>
<br/>
“I didn’t see it,” Holly says. “I was clearing out Smoke’s litter. Apparently the kid was running wild, like, crazy. Ran straight into the road to try and stop a car. It didn’t stop in time.”<br/>
<br/>
All the color drains from your cheeks. The pastries collapse on the floor. Someone mutters something about kids on dope. Your heart races, your head spins. You bend over, trying to breathe. “I’m going to be sick,” you say to Holly, rushing away into the apartment block. Up the stairs, two at a time. Up to your apartment, into it. Your lungs tighten now, the taste of the pastries replaced with the threat of vomit. You glance to the couch. Nothing. You run to Marion’s room. Empty, no clothes on the floor. You look out the window as the ambulance screams away, lights and sirens blaring. The onlookers drift away, the cops taking a statement from the driver. <br/>
<br/>
It’s clear what happened now. Marion woke and assumed your encounter was some kind of horrible dream. She slipped on the closest clothes to hand and walked into the lounge. There, she found a mask and a mirror. She must have put the mask on. You imagine what her mind, already pushed to the edge, must have made of coming to, staring into the mirror you had left out, and seeing Will Prescott. She’d have tried to find her cell, but you had it. She’d have knocked on Holly’s door, but Holly was out. Desperate, she would have sprinted outside to get help. Straight into a car.<br/>
<br/>
You run to the bathroom and throw up. <br/>
<br/>
You don’t know what to do, now. You are Marion Pruitt. Will Prescott is on his way to hospital. But what if he says something? Worse, what if he never says anything again? How do you go back to your old life? Can you, even?<br/>
<br/>
Everything you do just seems to make matters worse. Do you bring someone in to help you? Or do you try and figure this out on your own?</span></div></div>


path: 11113431121212
author_id: masktrix
title: The Dreams of John Doe
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You run your face under freezing cold water, flicking your hair back. Looking up, you stare at the mirror affixed to the bathroom cabinet. Marion Pruitt stares back. Or, at least, a blurry approximation. You reach over and put on her, your, glasses. You are pale. Flustered. Scared. But that’s nothing compared with the real Marion now. You can’t drag someone else in. What if they get hurt too?<br/>
<br/>
You bend over and take some deep breaths, bringing up a mental checklist. First you need to find out what’s happened to “Will”. You could make a mind band and get it on someone who would know more. How would you get into a hospital, though? And what good would it do anyway? It might take some time for the “John Doe” to be identified, and that’s before wondering what will happen when “he” wakes up convinced he’s Marion Pruitt. You gulp. If he, she, ever wakes up.<br/>
<br/>
Then there’s the connection you’ve made between Marion and Will. Eventually someone is going to draw a connection between you and her. Him and me. You and you. The most obvious weak link is Brent. You told your parents you were studying with him, and yet here “you” are, lying in the road unconscious outside of his sister’s apartment block.<br/>
<br/>
Can you trust Brent to not mention it? Yes, Marion’s mind echoes. Little B would do anything to protect his sister. But you’ll have to come up with a plausible story. The shoplifting line you used on Brent wouldn’t work with the police (or explain why he, you, Will, was outside your, her, Marion’s, apartment.)<br/>
<br/>
You feel your head growing dizzy again and another wave of nausea pass. You are too tired to think straight. You need to collapse. <br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
Dreams. Creatures in shadows. Faceless men loom in ashen grey. Marion lies in front of you, her head a blank, empty maw where a face should be. Sirens echo. Sirens fade. Vigil lights rise in the distance, chants and prayers of students known and unknown. Caleb, Seth, Lisa and Geoff, crocodile tears from Chelsea, real tears from a girl you don’t know. Brent speaks, voice tripping over words. Candle flames, sheltered in plastic holders, flicker for Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
Endless black and white. Twins who are not. Brothers who are not yet are brothers of a truer nature. A creature born of soil, flame and a false, flimsy key and borne by unwilling arms, tattooed hands and malevolent fingers. A faceless man sailing through lives and identity, dancing in bodies never and always his own. Marion’s chubby face, glasses and all, pulled off to reveal a woman of short hair, then another of long, dangling, curling locks, slipping again to reveal a woman of short blonde hair in a bob, behind that only a galaxy and the light of the Moon.<br/>
<br/>
Screams in your voice, muttering in the voice of others. Machines apart and recombined, a myriad of paths and problems, endless threads to tug.<br/>
<br/>
And again that strangling warmth. Strangle and smother, rubbing abraisively against your face, tickling your nose...<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
You dart up on the sofa. Smoke, offended by your speed, leaps up into a sofa arm and meows. He’s come in via the window, walking the concrete edge of the building, the sill lip that links the apartments on the floor. <br/>
<br/>
You groan. “OK, silly cat. I’m up,” you pledge, Marion’s voice good humoured about the interruption. You glance at the clock on the mantle. Noon. You yawn and stretch. You haven’t said anything yet to anyone. You don’t know if you will. Who could you ask? Caleb?<br/>
<br/>
Oh shit. Caleb was covering for you with your parents. When they find out he’s gonna get it from his own mom. It wasn’t your intent, but, also, it’s the least of your problems right now. You pull a loose, sweat-drenched lock from Marion’s face and wonder what you’re going to do.<br/>
<br/>
Then the doorbell rings. Swinging yourself up, you try and compose your form as you walk to the door, straightening your glasses. You open to find Holly there.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey,” you say, softer and more meekly than usual. Usual for Marion, that is. You are now thinking of yourself as her instinctively, even if you know it is a ruse.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey,” she replies. “I just wanted to come by, see if you were OK. You didn’t look well earlier.” You nod, and wave her inside. She follows, standing with hips on her thighs as she mock-scalds Smoke for breaking in. “Darn cat,” she laughs. <br/>
<br/>
“He’s all right. Just wanted to keep me company.” <br/>
<br/>
“Well, we were worried about you. It was horrible, what happened this morning. That poor boy.”<br/>
<br/>
You nod, looking at Holly for perhaps the first time. Smaller than Marion in every way, more of a whisp than a person. Freckles, and a pixie crop the color of ice. Large eyes. Larger nose, which detracts from her face. Thin lips. And, Marion’s mind tells you, a kind heart, even if it’s a heart that adores gossip.<br/>
<br/>
“It was terrible,” you agree. “I just wanted to throw up. I don’t know I I could deal with that.”<br/>
<br/>
“I thought you wanted to be a cop?”<br/>
<br/>
“I did,” Marion’s eyes go wide. Inside your mind, you realize that such an experience, if you were the real Marion, would have put her off her dreams too. “When I’m working security, the worst I have to deal with is the occasional guy in the women’s underwear section, a lost kid, maybe - maybe - someone who dropped her purse and thinks it’s stolen. Worst thing I ever dealt with was someone who knocked over a display of wine bottles and refused to pay. My uniform stank. For. Daaaaays.” You give a half-smile. “But I couldn’t stomach that. That guy in the road, I mean. Maybe I’m not cut out for the job.”<br/>
<br/>
Holly pats your arm, gives you a hug. It feels ridiculous, pretending to be consoled about a dream you never had. But then something feels so good about it, too. You find yourself softly, ever so softly, starting to shed a tear.<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll be back later,” Holly promises, giving a half-smile. “There’s no news on the kid. The police are canvassing later, I think. No ID. Apparently he’s in a bad way.”<br/>
<br/>
“How bad?”<br/>
<br/>
“Trust me,” Holly says. “Bad. Head trauma like that... not a good sign. Sure you’ll be OK?”<br/>
<br/>
You nod. Offer a weak smile. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “I’m just rattled.”<br/>
<br/>
“So is everyone. It’s just... right outside the block, y’know? Could have been any of us.”<br/>
<br/>
You nod. “I just hope they find his parents.”<br/>
<br/>
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” Holly shrugs. “You get some runaways around here, from time to time. Anyway, I just wanted to swing by. You take care, hon.” She pauses, and wags her finger at Smoke. “And you, sir, stop going around expecting five meals a day from anyone who lets you in.”<br/>
<br/>
Holly leaves. Smoke, uninterested in the affairs of humans, stays, prowling around. He takes a brief look at your pile of reagents and turns imperiously to play with Marion’s sofa cushions.<br/>
<br/>
You slump down, still in your stolen body, and plan. The obvious thing is to prepare. More masks. More bands. Whatever the next spell is. Marion works on Monday, so you have a day and a half, if you intend to continue the charade of living her life. <br/>
<br/>
But what next? Do you contact Brent and make sure all connections to Marion and Will Prescott are cut, so nobody finds out that you’ve used magic to steal the body and life of an overweight 20-something security guard? Or do you intend to infiltrate the hospital and see how Marion, now severely injured and disguised as a John Doe waiting to be revealed as Will Prescott, is? You got her into this mess, after all, and the guilt weighs heavy.</span></div></div>


path: 111134311212122
author_id: masktrix
title: Missed Messages
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
Brent is none the wiser. If you told him to drop it, it would only make things more suspicious. Instead you need to figure a way to get into the hospital before anyone finds out who the John Doe is. Your parents won’t be looking for you until Sunday evening. You have about 30 hours.<br/>
<br/>
By Sunday morning you have 10 hours. You have spent your day polishing masks and making headbands in preparation for whatever it is you’re going to do. Holly came around again, but you feigned tiredness - or perhaps just admitted to it - and kept working. A few hours earlier, the police had been around, an older guy with peppered hair in a buzz cut that reminded you of J. Jonah Jameson. He’d asked what you knew. <i>Nothing, officer. I was getting breakfast.</i><br/>
<br/>
An evening in Marion’s shoes, literally, was an eye-opener. You rather enjoyed it. And there was a thrill about going to sleep as her, in her bed, following her routine save for the glowing masks you’ve created. Tonight you have resolved to go to Masonic and dig up the grave dirt. But first there are a few things to settle.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, little B,” you say. Brent was not your priority, but taking a step back has given you a brilliant idea. With rest - and the monotony of polishing the mask - came clarity.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey sis. What’s up?”<br/>
<br/>
“You know that Prescott kid?” You say, heavy on the sigh.<br/>
<br/>
“Will. Yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“Never. Showed. Up. I’m annoyed as hell about it.” You muster some Marion-level rage, which largely consists of not smiling.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh man. That doesn’t sound like him.”<br/>
<br/>
“Wait, is that little pipsqueak a friend of yours? Because when his parents find out he’s gonna be on a fast track to military school.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes,” Brent says. “I mean, no. I mean I know him but... we’re a different circle. He’s just so...”<br/>
<br/>
You wait. Marion’s breath holds in your lungs. So? So what? Your false mind has no ill words for her brother, but your Will mind wants to know what the hell someone as wet as Brent Pruitt thinks of you.<br/>
<br/>
“So what, little B?”<br/>
<br/>
“So unassuming. Like, I can’t think of anything he’s actually done. He’s not a burnout. He’s not AP. He’s not in the orchestra... oh, you coming to hear the recital on Thursday?”<br/>
<br/>
You shake a fist at the phone. Pruitt’s focus has slipped off subject totally. “To hear you play solo? Absolutely.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not soloist,” Brent says glumly. “Cruz is first chair. I’m second chair.”<br/>
<br/>
Cruz? You thought he was a swimmer. But Marion knows nothing of this. And people can swim and play a violin, can’t they?<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, in the case I won’t bother.” You give a second before bursting out in a chuckle. Brent reciprocates. “Anyway. You see this Prescott kid, don’t cover for him. I’m going to call his parents.”<br/>
<br/>
Another five minutes as a big sister tending to her spineless little brother and you put the cell down. Done. Next, you pick up your Will phone. <br/>
<br/>
Ten messages. Texts. Voice mail. You frown as you check out the first text.<br/>
<br/>
“ABORT ABORT. Dude whatever you have planned your parents KNOW.”<br/>
<br/>
Caleb’s message looms large on your screen. Followed by Mom and Dad. You wince as you play the message.<br/>
<br/>
“Will Prescott get your butt home this minute, mister.” Your Mom isn’t fooling. You wonder what got them so agitated. Then you listen to the next message.<br/>
<br/>
“WILLIAM PRESCOTT. You pick up this phone, do you hear me? Studying with someone, hmm? Then why did Caleb call to say you were with him? GET HOME NOW. You are grounded.”<br/>
<br/>
You could hit yourself for being such an idiot. When you were at dinner you changed stories but forgot to warn Caleb. He called to cover for you and that alerted your parents.<br/>
<br/>
You continue listening. As the messages continue, their anger gives way to concern. Why aren’t you picking up? And then to worry. Then to that horrible phrase: “We’re not angry, we just want you home. Please just let us know you’re OK.”<br/>
<br/>
But you are not. “You” are in the hospital. And suddenly those 10 hours are gone. You wonder if your parents would have called the hospital already. Of course they would have. That sickening feeling gushes over you. While you were making masks and mind strips, your parents have been at your bedside.<br/>
<br/>
You need to get over there and find out what’s happening. But not as Marion; she’s too linked now. If you show up as her, it’s likely that someone will unravel your story. You need another face. Another identity.<br/>
<br/>
You have two options. You can either try and find someone from town, or you can head over as Marion and hope you can get a disguise at the hospital.</span></div></div>


path: 1111343112121221
author_id: masktrix
title: Donuts and Dry Blood
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
Hochstetter All Saints Hospital has a gothic, run-down feeling that's always given you the creeps. Bigger than a district hospital should be, but you've heard it has ties to biomedical research at Keyserling College. This fact—if it is a fact; but why wouldn't Keyserling do its research at its own, nearby Keyserling Memorial facility?—that complements its grey, gothic facade and black, staring windows. Standing high above Hochstetter Park, it’s in the ‘wrong’ part of Saratoga Falls as well. Though, you have to admit, for a hospital the fact that it’s in the worst part of town is probably a bonus.<br/>
<br/>
If you were Marion right now, you’d feel vulnerable. The hospital has a car park, but Hochstetter Park - Hellstabber Park as some of the locals call it - is too close. The hospital has shuttle systems and buddy systems in place for its doctors and nurses. Marion, even with her security training, would feel vulnerable walking within a block radius.<br/>
<br/>
The good news is nobody is going to mess with you in your current guise. You puff your chest out and walk into the hospital, giving a light wave as you step past reception. The on duty staff nod at you before getting back to the queues of people streaming in and out. You stride down the corridor, smelling that intense antiseptic stench, wondering why the corridors in hospitals are always speckled blue and white, and the walls always a yellow off-cream. You pass the signs: radiotherapy (complete, your mind tells you, with a technetium source from the college); physiotherapy (linked to Fort Suffolk); obstetrics; gastroenterology. You turn and jog into a side room, swiping the card reader as you do so. You throw a quarter into a machine, twist the handle and get a new set of fresh, clean scrubs dispensed. Then you head into a cubicle and get changed.<br/>
<br/>
Marion’s sweater and sweat pants come off easily. Earlier, you’d used your borrowed knowledge to track down a likely face to borrow. Fortunately, Marion has a great knowledge of local donut shops. Don’s was the perfect choice. You almost aborted when you saw that you were being served by Keith, but you just let Marion’s natural tastes take over. Three donuts. A jelly supreme, a custard and fudge, and one of those twisted ones with excessive icing. Just a big girl getting a Sunday treat.<br/>
<br/>
The second part was less nerve-wracking. Keith is amazing as a friend  but he isn’t very attentive as a minimum wage worker, and you easily walked up to the young man in loose clothes with a hospital ID card around his neck. You had worried how you were going to place the mask, but he was already out cold, snoring with his head hanging loose onto his shoulder, a half-eaten donut abandoned in front of him. He’s of Asian descent, his chin covered in day-old stubble, his body just past fatigue limits.<br/>
<br/>
Marion knew hospital workers sometimes come here, near catatonic after a long shift. More prepared than before, you were wearing loose, unisex clothes that you could change into and out of quickly. As you sat down, you rested your handbag on his table and slipped the mask on his face. As you recovered your bag you snatched his name badge off his neck.<br/>
<br/>
The next ten minutes were pleasant. Marion’s appetite was ready for the sweet sugar, and all you had to do was sit and wolf down donuts while the mask did its work. By the time it fell off your Marion fingers were sticky with sugar. Rising up, you took the mask and slipped your tray back to Keith. Just for kicks, you gave him a five dollar tip.<br/>
<br/>
Marion’s clothes are now shed, your scrubs on comfortably. You are senior nurse Salman Khan, who has just pulled 14 hours in the hospital and just wants to go home. That’s fine - you don’t have his fatigue. You do however, have his mind and knowledge. He works mainly in elderly care, but as a nurse his skills are extensive. Better than the doctors, your mind says.<br/>
<br/>
You slip into intensive care. You aren’t supposed to be here, but confident strides are the secret. Looking at the bed board, you see that a smudge that read “DOE” now reads “PRESCOTT”. You gulp and keep walking. Bed nine. You slip in and close the door.<br/>
<br/>
The sight is horrifying. You - unmistakably you - are strewn on the bed, IV line into a cannula, lines for a variety of access, ventilator, a monitor clipped to your finger. No. Marion’s finger. Dried blood cakes your - her - hair. Your, her, neck is braced. The room is full of monitoring devices. For a moment you are concerned they are not making that *ping* noise. Then Salman’s thoughts remind you it is not supposed to. <br/>
<br/>
You look at your, Marion’s, Will’s chart. You walk through the drugs, the abbreviated scrawl of diagnosis, the stream of stats. It’s terrifying, but a mix of good and bad news. Marion is not going to die - her vitals are stable and the scans show no permanent damage. Head trauma means “Will” is going to be heavily monitored for risk of an intracranial bleed, there are a few broken ribs and breathing is assisted (although “Will” is breathing on his own). You lean over and look at the fluttering eyelids. You wonder what would happen if you took the mask off. Would Marion heal instantly? Would that be the end of the nightmare you’ve created? You don’t know and, you think, don’t want to know.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m sorry,” you whisper quietly. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant this.”<br/>
<br/>
You need to get out of here before Salman gets caught. You step out of the room and begin to walk toward the ward exit...<br/>
<br/>
And then the worst comes. As you turn your family rushes in. Rushes past. Rushes with red faces, horror in their eyes, your mother’s cheeks burning with tears. Your father strides determinedly past you, toward the duty nurse. You want to reach out, say something, do something. But then they are begging to see their son. Their loved one. Their Will.<br/>
<br/>
It takes every ounce of your strength not to tell them you are right here. Instead you stride through the doors without breaking down. It’s heartbreaking to strip your scrubs, put on Marion’s clothes again, and head to the car. Even changing back to Marion, in the dark alone of the car park, doesn’t shake the thought of Will on a ventilator. <br/>
<br/>
The drive back to Don’s is a nightmare. You struggle to fake Marion’s chirpy pleasantness as you order yet another donut (hey, a big girl has cravings). Once you’ve eaten it, you walk up to Keith. It’s closing time, and he looks ready to go home.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey,” you say, handing in Salman’s card. “I think someone dropped this.”<br/>
<br/>
Keith takes it, gives it a look. “Oh, yeah. I think someone was looking for this earlier. Thanks, ma’am.”<br/>
<br/>
You give him one of Marion’s broad smiles. “No problem!” <br/>
<br/>
You are about to turn when you pause. You wonder if you should tell Keith. Confess. Reveal everything. You are bursting to do so. Or, perhaps, you are too far down that path now. Perhaps all you can do is work on the book and forget the mistakes you have made. You still need to get that grave dirt, after all.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431121212212
author_id: masktrix
title: Will Didn’t Start the Fire
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
The Masonic Cemetery is a short drive back toward Acheson, down Orlando Boulevard. Normally you'd have taken your truck, but given you're supposedly in hospital and on life support, you think it's safer to take Marion's Civic. It's a smaller car, but 400 pounds is only the weight of two people. Your only concern is whether you can fit it all in her trunk. <br/>
<br/>
You're wearing Salman's mask, because you figure it's going to take more strength and stamina to move 400 pounds of dirt than either Will Prescott or Marion Pruitt have got. It's probably the only use you'll be able to get from it. Going to the hospital was a risk, and his shifts are so unpredictable you don't want to take the chance of running into him.<br/>
<br/>
The guilt of what's happened to the real Marion has started to pass, now. You almost had a breakdown in front of Keith, but the instinct to tell him everything subsided like the aftertaste of your fourth donut in a few hours. You need to stop focusing on your screw ups and start enjoying this. Magic is power. You realize that now. You just need to decide how to focus the gift you've been given. <br/>
<br/>
One thing is certain. Tomorrow, you're going to enjoy being Marion Pruitt, and when you slip on that security uniform and head to Big Nird, you're going to love your ebullient, bouncy self. Marion's situation isn't permanent - and you don't want to stay her forever, either - so you might as well enjoy the ride.<br/>
<br/>
First, though, there's the matter of grave dirt. Parking up at the cemetery, you head deeper inside, away from the scattered houses of this part of town, away from prying eyes. The chosen grave, picked out largely for security and quiet rather than convenience, is deep in the cemetery, a bush shielding you from the road. You’ve picked up bags from Walmart and taken Marion’s bathroom scales along to weigh out the amount. It’s not perfect - the weight of the bags needed to be taken into account - but you aren’t in chemistry. <br/>
<br/>
You start to dig. You don't look at the name. You don't want to know. Marion has a heavy duty flashlight as part of her job (not that she’s ever used it), so you slip into routine. Dig, fill, weigh. It feels a little ghoulish, but it’s the least of your crimes this weekend.<br/>
<br/>
It's late by the time you make it back to Marion's apartment block, and it's later still when you clamber out of her car, having taken the time to pull Salman's mask off your face. But you don't change into Marion's mask--not yet, when there's still all that dirt to move, so it's in your own skin that you make the five trips, back and forth, carrying all of the dirt sacks into the elevator and hauling it down to the furnace. You make one final round trip in the elevator, this time to Marion’s apartment, to pick up the grimoire, ingredients and a broom. Descending to the basement, you sweep out the dirt and cover your tracks.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the basement, You open the cast iron door of the furnace, which is rusted a little at its hinges, and look inside. When the building was first built, this was a coal furnace, and would have had the black rocks of industry roasting in its fed flames. Today, the furnace is out of use. The building has been converted to use a modern burner, so this is unused, a relic of decades ago. It is still connected to the flue, however, and is still self-contained. You are confident that it can take the flames. <br/>
<br/>
You hesitate a good long time before you lay the grimoire inside the furnace, open to the page with the spell you're going to try to execute. All the spells require the use of a complex sigil, and you've been using the sigils inside the book instead of taking the trouble to copy them out. (They are hugely intricate—wheels within wheels of complicated symbols; what if you copied a little bit of one wrong?) But this is the first time you're going to be risking the book itself in a spell, for you're going to have to pile all that dirt on top of the book, pour the chemicals over it, and set it on fire. But you're too tired for the alternative.<br/>
<br/>
You soak the dirt, then, at the core, place a lock of your hair. This is the part that concerns you most. Hair, you assume, is supposed to be from your head. However, you - or Caleb - shaved that off mid-week. Instead you use the only other hair to hand. Well... almost. Taking a pair of scissors, you trim a chunk of armpit hair and bind it as a lock and set it on the open book. This substitute, you hope, will serve. You guess you’ll find out. <br/>
<br/>
Finished, you heave the dirt inside. It spills out over the intake tray, but with the shovel you're able to pat it down into a lump. Then you get out a lighter, shielding yourself behind the cast iron door, and light the mix...<br/>
<br/>
You wince, waiting for the whoosh and the heat. Nothing. Nothing at all. You open Marion’s eyes, peering over the hatch. Light! Looking inside the furnace, brilliant purple flames dance like a Christmas pudding. No heat, just pure magic. You whistle, surprised at Marion’s voice giving a melodic tone, then giggle. You need to light it when it goes out, but nobody has any reason to come down here and check the furnace. Merrily, you swing the door shut and let the magic do its work. You pick up the industrial buffer as you whistle a happy tune back to the elevator.<br/>
<br/>
That night, covered in sweat, grave dirt, ash and charcoal, you slip into a boiling hot bubble bath, letting all the tension drain from your body. You let your cares soak away, absorbed by the water. Though you are out of her mask, you lay back and pretend that you are Marion Pruitt, have always been Marion Pruitt. Afterward, you put on her mask and pop into a fresh pair of cute pyjamas, then climb into your bed, murmuring in deep relaxation even as the clock ticks past midnight.<br/>
<br/>
You start work at 9.45. Big Nird opens at 10am. You are looking forward to it. Hank is on duty tomorrow, and he’s usually got some hilarious story. And then there’s lunch with Danielle, catching up about the big wedding on Saturday. You have one mask, banded, to use. Your magic fire burns safe and bright in the basement. It is good to be Marion Pruitt. The real one is, at the moment, far from your mind.<br/>
<br/>
You know this is not permanent, however. You wonder how long you’ll keep this guise up. Until she wakes? Longer? Or just until you are bored? After all, the more you think about it, what happened to her was just fate. It wasn’t like you pushed her in front of that car, was it? <br/>
<br/>
Settling into Marion’s dreams, you decide what you’ll do tomorrow. Just have a day in her life, or use that last mask to get another potential disguise.</span></div></div>


path: 111134311212122122
author_id: masktrix
title: Shopping for Disguises
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
Lunch is at Osaka. You go for a giant Ramen bowl, filled with a miso and beef broth swimming in umami flavor. Danielle Green goes for a smaller sushi dish, which she picks at even as you greedily slurp away. Dani almost dragged you to Taco Famoso but, despite your guise's interest in all things burrito, you're reminded about how bad that place is. You can't have Marion get the squirts on the day of the wedding. <br/>
<br/>
For a moment you wonder why you care. Unless you're planning to attend it?<br/>
<br/>
“So! Exciting, huh! So close to the big day!” Danielle practically flaps her hands with enthusiasm. She and Marion have been friends with Robyn Martin for years, since they all graduated Westside and went their separate ways. Dani made it as far as Buffalo before the Saratoga bungee dragged her back to run a local accountancy firm. Robyn has been working as sous chef for Le Metropolitain, which Marion loves because a) her friend cooks incredible food and b) she's hoping to get comp'd there one night. <br/>
<br/>
"I know!" you gasp. Marion's mind is on the bachelorette party a few weeks back, and that stripper with the chiseled pecs and thighs. "It's going to be amazing. Plus Richard is just a nice guy. There aren't enough of them."<br/>
<br/>
Danielle rolls her eyes then nods furiously. "Tell me about it. So, reason I'm here. I just wanted to make sure you're solid on the plans. We know what your mind can be like."<br/>
<br/>
You give her a faux look of insult. Marion knows all too well her friend is just looking out for her. Earlier today you forgot to take your bleeper when you hit the shop floor. Hank, the senior guard in charge of electricals, had to give you a loud cough and point to it on the table. You wonder if the Marion swiss cheese is going to permanently affect you, or just while you're holding her form.<br/>
<br/>
"So," Danielle claps. “Bridesmaids at 10am, at Robyn's. Hair, makeup, all that stuff. Ceremony is supposed to be at 1pm, but obviously the bride arrives late. It'll be held at the little pagoda at Stewart's Hole. Reception will be in a tent at the park, and I think Nicole Roy has promised to cook up something."<br/>
<br/>
"Nicole Roy?" Danielle rolls her eyelids.<br/>
<br/>
"Robyn's boss. You know, on her way to her first Michelin star? She doesn't do weddings but I think she's got one of the Metropolitain pastry chefs to make a cake." Marion's mouth begins to salivate in anticipation. "Obviously photographs. Then, in the evening, Robyn's sister is in some band, so will be playing the reception. I think they're some kind of punk outfit, but,' she flaps her arms again. 'It'll be classy, it'll be classy."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you need me to do anything?" You offer, finishing your bowl. Danielle shakes her head.<br/>
<br/>
"No, Mar. I've got this all in hand. You just turn up and be you. Oh! Actually, one thing. Florists. I need you to go over there on Saturday for the corsage. It's the one at Fell's Lake. The only one there."<br/>
<br/>
"Got it," you smile, before flipping the conversation onto trivial matters.<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
You were tempted to take Danielle's form. You probably still could, if you wanted. She's like a thinner Marion, with short-styled brown hair and, you think, about 80 pounds less on her frame. But there was no opportunity. She didn't even go to the restroom. You could have put a mask on her to shut her up, but Osaka was too exposed, and not exactly the place anyone would sleep. Instead, you still have your mask when you come back on duty at Nirdlinger's. You've kept it inside your lunch pail (you didn't need it, after all) at work, stowed under the work counters rather than in the security break room for easy access. <br/>
<br/>
The day takes forever. You didn't appreciate just how boring, how mundane and dreary, Marion's job would be. The worst part is the patrolling. The whole day is spent on your feet, slowly pacing between racks of clothes and keeping an eye on things. Marion's mind wasn't lying when she said the most interesting thing to ever happen was someone falling over the wine display. <br/>
<br/>
Lots of potential mask victims pass you, but nobody stands out. Older women, women in designer clothes, young mothers hounding their children around the store. You're not sure why you want to stay as your current gender, but Marion doesn't have much of a wider playing field given her post inside Nirdlinger's. You consider the staff for a moment, particularly Melanie the spritz girl. But you doubt it would give you any new insight. You're looking for someone that can help you, as well as be a fun life to sample.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, Wednesday night. For a student who got hit by a car this weekend." Your ears prick up. You look over, and see a girl about your - Will's - age, honey-blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, talking on her cell while holding up a shirt and considering it. She's athletic, strong muscles visible under her clothes, even if she's wearing an oversized designer leather jacket. Her face is long, but tanned by the sun. You think you recognize her from a sports team. <br/>
<br/>
"Will Prescott. It's just awful. The whole school is talking about it. I didn't know him. Well, I think I knew him, as in, if you pointed him out, I would recognize him? Like, he was a guy at school. But we weren't close. Still wish I could go. Whole school needs to pull together." She takes her shirt and walks toward the changing rooms. You follow, eavesdropping.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. The usual vigil stuff, I guess. Candles? I think Kim Walsh is handling it all. She's taken it over as a project. Who, Kim Walsh? Basically Westside's Julianna Seaton." She laughs at something on the other end of the line. Takes her tag. Moves into the changing area and shuts the door. You follow, picking up your lunchpail. <br/>
<br/>
"No, I already told you, I can't go." You can hear noises inside as she changes. "I've got that thing. You know... the thing. Well, not *the* thing, but a pre-thing to the thing. I think it's just a fitness test. Bleeps, sprints, a few skills exercises. Nothing I can't handle. But I can't blow it."<br/>
<br/>
Your curiosity is piqued again. You're still not totally sure who the girl is. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, they're associated with one of the D1F sides, and the French are the best at soccer, at least domestically, so? OK, fine, the Germans are better. But still, holey moley is it a good program. Part of me just wants to stick it to Bonny. You know she wouldn't cross the whole of last game? I ended up having to dribble the ball off her. Good thing I did though, right? I was wondering if I was ever going to score that game." She laughs again. "OK, yeah, I'll talk to you later."<br/>
<br/>
Conversation over, you open your lunchpail and take out the mask. Then you politely knock on the door. "Miss, security. Please can you open the door."<br/>
<br/>
"What? Uh... one moment." You wait until she's decent and opens the door. Then you put the mask on her and gently set her down. Ten minutes later, Marion Pruitt is back on duty, and the girl, none the wiser, has left with her purchases. <br/>
<br/>
You look at the mask and band. Hannah Iris Westrick. You don't know the girl (although soon you will know her as well as herself). You're intrigued as to what exactly she has planned, too. But she's created an interesting opportunity. She won't be at the candlelit vigil in honor of poor, hospitalized Will Prescott in two days.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe another Hannah could be...</span></div></div>


path: 1111343112121221221
author_id: masktrix
title: The Vigil
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
You grab a donut from Partytown at the end of Marion's shift and check her cell. There's a long email message from Brent, telling her all about why Will Prescott didn't turn up for his community service. He's distraught, worried that Will was on his way to meet you. Brent Pruitt is so wet, your Will half tells you; he's so sweet, Marion's sisterly mind retorts.<br/>
<br/>
You type a message back, telling him you already knew after an awkward exchange with Mr and Mrs Prescott. You ask if he's still playing with the orchestra recital on Thursday. Stay strong, little B. <br/>
<br/>
A message pops back almost immediately. Like most school activities, it's been postponed. Westside seems to be coming together for Will Prescott. You finish your donut and drive home. <br/>
<br/>
The golem's fire is still raging, burning with purple flame when you return. No sign anyone has been in the basement, either. You check on it twice again during the evening. One time, Smoke follows you down, curls around your leg and hisses at the purple glow. <br/>
<br/>
The evening is spent donning Hannah Westrick's mask, learning all of her little secrets, and allowing you to plan. Hannah, it seems, isn't just a good soccer player: she's a star soccer player. As the Dragons' forward, if she doesn't score at least two in a game she's disappointed. It's a talent that's attracted big attention, and there's a soccer scout in Saratoga Falls on Wednesday night to run her through some basic drills, before she heads off to a full-on trial on Saturday. It could be the start of a blossoming career in women's soccer. No wonder she was so nervous.<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
Tuesday passes slowly. Marion isn't in love with her job, and even faking her personality you are beginning to get worn down by it. Hank cracks a few jokes, you eat your lunch on one of the benches that line Acacia, and head down to twentieth street to check out the shops. The only excitement comes at the end of your shift, when you pull out your shopping list. The cashier gives you a strange look as you make the purchases and place them all on Marion's credit card. <br/>
<br/>
"Are you sure they're your size?" she asks. Marion's mind stumbles a little, hurt, reminded of her weight. You put up a brave front to the unsubtle fat shaming.<br/>
<br/>
"They aren't for me. I have a list." You wave the piece of paper, and head home.<br/>
<br/>
Another night. The fire consuming the thing in the furnace needs to be relit. More messages from Brent about his life. You have more important tasks. First, you create and buff some more masks. Then, you get out your purchases and a little wire wool. Carefully, you weather the new leather jacket, and break the pocket of the jeans. Then you stitch it back up with red thread, exactly like the original. You now have Hannah Westrick's face, mind, and a reasonable approximation of three different outfits she owns. <br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
Wednesday. You are bored of Marion's life. You want to phone in sick tomorrow, but that might interfere with the plans to go to the wedding. Instead, you ask Hank if you can take some holiday time. <br/>
<br/>
"Bit short notice, Mar," he says. <br/>
<br/>
"I know," you plead, with your warm, smiling face. "C'mon, Hank. When have I ever asked for anything?"<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "How about this. Head office needs a night cover on Wednesday and Thursday next. Just a patrol at Salopek, nothing interesting. Given it's a night shift, I can probably get swap cover for Nirdlinger's. So, you get tomorrow, Friday, Monday and Tuesday off. Wednesday, Thursday nights. Friday off, and then back to normal."<br/>
<br/>
You pretend to think about it, then beam. "That works for me! Thanks, Hank." The older man winks. <br/>
<br/>
"No problem, Mar. What you got planned, anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
No sooner has Nirdlinger's closed than Marion's Civic races over to Westside. You park up a few blocks away, down an alley, and change masks. Coming around in the back seat, you struggle out of the now-loose security uniform and into your Hannah disguise. It's cramped and difficult to change, but somehow you manage, slipping into the leather jacket and slim-fit jeans. Then you tie up your hair into a ponytail and take a look in the rear view mirror. You smile, beaming a winning grin. The grin of a champion. Perfect.<br/>
<br/>
You head to the vigil. The rest of the soccer squad are together, Barbara, Dominique and Anita, the captain standing along with Stephanie Wyatt and a few of the basketball team. They mutter as they see you, so instead you stand next to Kelsey Blankenship. One of the juniors gives you a candle, an upturned plastic cup acting as a way to catch the wax and shield the flame. You get a light from Kelsey, and give her a word of thanks as you join everyone else.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you all for coming,” Kim Walsh is leading the event, standing on a small temporary stage made of boxes and holding a cordless mic. Beside her are Lisa and Yumi, eyes red with tears. Someone has printed out the class photo of you - no, of Will, you are Hannah - and blown it up to giant size. “As you know, over the weekend a student here had a major accident. Will Prescott was...”<br/>
<br/>
You tune out, and look around at the illuminated faces. Your friends, your classmates, students you passed in the corridor only last week, people you didn’t know knew or cared you existed. Caleb and Keith are in the shadows on the edge of the crowd, and can barely look up at Kim as she speaks. You are glad they are here, even if the knuckleheads would never get involved. Alone, a little distance away, you see Brent Pruitt. He looks as if some kind of invisible weight is about to crush him. Maybe you should...<br/>
<br/>
You feel a large, strong arm around your waist and a head nuzzle against your neck from behind. "Didn't think you could make it, babe." <br/>
<br/>
Your heart races. Marc Garner, Hannah's boyfriend and captain of the varsity squad. You slip your smaller hand over his, the other keeping a firm grip of the candle.<br/>
<br/>
"Nor did I, but I'm here," you reply, letting your thumb dance over his knuckles. He presses his crotch against your ass.<br/>
<br/>
"Seems like half the school turned out."<br/>
<br/>
"It's kinda heartwarming. Do you know him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott?" There's a sniff. "I know of him. I don't know if anyone actually knew him. He kind of just was... pretty unremarkable." He presses his chin into your hair, reminding you of his height advantage. "You coping with this?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so," you sigh, only now just realizing tears are streaking down Hannah's cheeks - although in truth you don't know if they are for Marion or the life you've abandoned. The tears are all real. "It's scary. One day you're flying, the next you're falling. It could happen to anyone.”<br/>
<br/>
Marc squeezes you tight, lowers his voice so only you can hear. You, playing Hannah, let him. "By the way, the party at Catherine's isn't cancelled. She's just told people that because it seems inappropriate. Guest list is cut down but it'll still be a blast. Pick you up at eight?”<br/>
<br/>
You are about to answer when there is a disruption on the stage. Kim Walsh had finished, but the person speaking now is someone you never expected.<br/>
<br/>
“Will Prescott,” Chelsea Cooper says, her voice soaked in insincerity, lonely tears dribbling down her cheeks where she’s forced herself to cry. “Oh my God, what is there to say? He was always close to me. And now it looks like he’s gone, and...”<br/>
<br/>
“Shit,” Kelsey says, beginning to muscle her way through the crowd. <br/>
<br/>
You stand there, Marc’s arm draped around you, as Chelsea blubs and bleats complete bullshit about your life. It’s an amazing spectacle, an attention seeker’s guide to cold reading. She even gestures to Caleb and Seth at one point. “But we are dragons! We are! And we will all honor your memory, Will Prescott! Our next home game will be dedicated to you! And our... our...”<br/>
<br/>
Kelsey has taken the stage and is wrestling the mic from Chelsea. For a moment it looks like the head cheerleader is going to win out, before the mic slips free. Defeated, and with a look of petulant fury having replaced her insincere eulogy (she does know Will isn’t dead, right?), she storms off, only to recover a few footsteps later, flicking her hair and remembering she got her moment in the spotlight. <br/>
<br/>
Yumi is up to speak next. But Marc leans in to your body again. “You want to get out of here?” he asks.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431121212212211
author_id: masktrix
title: The Price of Freedom
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
“No, I want to stay,” you push back. You know full well Marc wants to make out, and while Hannah would be totally fine with it, you aren’t sure you’re comfortable. Marc mutters agreement, and you stand and listen to the speeches.<br/>
<br/>
Yumi speaks eloquently. Intelligently. As someone who knew you and understood you. Lisa tries, but in the end the words choke in her throat and she bursts into tears. Geoff Mansfield is there to comfort her, and you feel your fist tighten around the candle. It’s not a very Hannah response, but you can’t resist. You notice the soccer team are posing with the basketballers for the school blog, and Hannah’s mind prickles that they didn’t call you over. This, she reminds herself, is because they are just jealous of your talent. What was it Zlatan said? <i>A lion does not compare itself with a human.</i> He's one of your idols. Zlatan. Messi. Dempsey. <i>OK, maybe not Dempsey...</i><br/>
<br/>
Away in the distance you see Brent Pruitt texting, and feel Marion’s cell vibrate. Lightly moving Marc’s arm, you glance at the message.<br/>
<br/>
“New cell?” Marc asks. You shake your head, deliberately swinging your honey blonde ponytail in his face so he can’t see.<br/>
<br/>
“Nah, just a burner coach told me to get, in case I get scholarship offers,” you reply. You don’t have time to look at what Brent sent, so just reply with what seems to be Marion’s stock response.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Hang in there, Little B.</i><br/>
<br/>
You press send and push the cell back into your jacket. You'll have to see what Brent wanted later. "Your sisters here?" you ask Marc.<br/>
<br/>
"I think Eva is," he says. "Probably means Jessica is, too. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
You lean back into him. "Just wondering. It's just strange who's come out for Will Prescott given so few people knew him. It's nice."<br/>
<br/>
The speeches are winding down now. The principal and a few of the faculty are in attendance, but Kim Walsh is really the leader, and wraps things up. You begin to turn, and see Caleb sprawled on the floor, Seth Javits standing over him. You wonder what happened, even as Keith looks helplessly on, backed up behind Caleb’s collapsed frame. Will Prescott couldn’t have done anything, but Hannah Westrick can act.<br/>
<br/>
“Is that Seth?” you ask Marc. "Oh my God, is he all right?" Marc looks over as you point.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, Javits,” he calls. Seth straightens up, and gives a nod of the head, ignoring the now prone Caleb. "'Sup?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing," Seth says, stepping away from the prone Caleb. "How 'bout you? Hey, Hannah."<br/>
<br/>
You give a little wave with your candle, a half-smile of acknowledgment, but your mind is elsewhere. You aren’t even thinking as Caleb and Keith use the distraction to get away.<br/>
<br/>
You remember the dream. The vigil. Chelsea. The unknown girl - who you now realize is you, disguised as Hannah - crying your own tears. Lisa and Geoff. The lonely Brent Pruitt. And, if you had gone with Marc, you imagine you’d have walked straight past Seth and Caleb and found out why that asshole jock was kicking the shit out of your friend. Was the dream a premonition? You struggle to remember the rest of it. Brothers who aren't. Tattooed hands. Perhaps it wasn't premonition but warning. And if it's a warning, then there must be a way to sidestep it.<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, you two!” You turn, Marc’s arm still around your waist, and blink as the cell camera’s flash burns your eyes. Someone is taking photos of the event for social media. Of course the are; why wouldn’t they? There's nothing you can do but flick your hair and pose as Hannah would. Kelsey is now next to the pair of you again, and you huddle to form a group.<br/>
<br/>
Stupid, Will. Stupid. You have to be more careful. You’re suddenly confronted with the fact that Hannah Westrick’s double will be in every photo, video and memory of the vigil. The real Hannah, you know, is almost guaranteed to look once her soccer trial ends. With her mind at your command, you know she won't panic like Marion at the sight of her double. She'll take charge of the situation, try and take control. She'll call Marc and demand to know who that slut he was with was. Why did she look so much like her? Then she'll start digging around, trying to work out what happened. Hell, she could even call the cops. She has an iron-cast alibi, no doubt video footage proving she wasn’t at the vigil.<br/>
<br/>
You realize that you've got to stop her. The fastest way would be to get back to her house, get on her laptop and delete the social media posts, or at least mark them as read; you're confident she will be too focused at the trial to be surfing the internet on her cell. That way she'll avoid seeing the ones with pictures of her... maybe. The alternative is that you take her into your confidence, tell her everything. You're not sure how she'll react. Probably in a way that will mean she's running the magic show.<br/>
<br/>
Either option means getting to her house quickly. You could ask Marc to drive "you" home, which would be the fastest and easiest. Hannah's father is with her at the trial, so it's just her mom you'll have to avoid.<br/>
<br/>
Or you could abandon Marc and get back to Marion's. That would mean you wouldn't have to abandon Marion's car (Hannah lives nearer to Eastman, and it would take you way too long to get back to Westside and pick up your ride), and you could see how your pile of purple flame dirt is progressing. After all, you know all of Hannah Westrick's passwords. It'd be easy to delete the photos remotely, or even change her passwords and lock her out of the accounts until you decide what you're going to do.<br/>
<br/>
You blow out your candle and make your move.</span></div></div>


path: 111134311212122122112
author_id: masktrix
title: The Creature from the Black Furnace
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You get back to Marion's apartment block still as Hannah. The risk of changing masks in the back of a Civic feels too high, even in the shadows, and the fact that you'd have to do it naked to prevent your new form ripping your Hannah clothes was too uncomfortable. Instead, you just pray nobody notices as you make your way inside, into the elevator, and up to Marion's apartment. <br/>
<br/>
There, you quickly get on to social media, logging in to Hannah's accounts. Photos and tags from the vigil are all over her timeline, and you set out to obliterate them, deleting any posts that show you and disabling the tag feature. For good measure, you also enter her email account and delete the notification about a new login. You just hope she didn't see it before you managed to erase all trace. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do. <br/>
<br/>
By now it's late, and the possibility of running into someone is remote enough not to bother changing guises. Instead, you descend into the basement to check on your purple bonfire. Opening up the grill, you notice that the dirt seems to have taken shape and the fire has died out. Is this it? You try and light it again, but nothing happens. <br/>
<br/>
Whatever is supposed to have happened has ended. Gingerly, you look deep into the furnace to try and make out the shape. It looks like a charred body, a stone statue that is featureless, genderless. You back away a little, wondering what it's supposed to do. <br/>
<br/>
"Hello?" You ask it. No reply. No motion. "Are you alive?" Nothing. It's inanimate. Dead. You chew Hannah's lip, wondering what you're supposed to do. Back upstairs. Now, down with a grimoire. There's no instructions, and the damn page still won't flip to the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
You try pulling the thing out of the furnace. You grab the shoulders and pull it out of the entrance, narrowly getting it through the loading grill. Hannah's fit, though, so it isn't as hard as it would have been for Marion. <br/>
<br/>
You are working with the book under your arm, and when it falls to the floor you pick it up. With no other place to set it, you lay it atop the statue until you hauled the thing all the way out. The grimoire falls to the floor again.<br/>
<br/>
And this time, when you pick it up, you find that that stubborn page flapping free.<br/>
<br/>
---<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
"Body." "Mask." "Slave." Those were the words that leaped out at you as you hunkered in the basement, working on a translation of the flip side of the page, where the spell continued. <i>Golem</i> is the word that you finally settle on. (Hannah knows a thing or two about ancient legends.) You go back upstairs and bring Marion's mask back down. You set it on the rock creature and the featureless thing suddenly bursts into form, taking on Marion's plus size shape, that long, flowing hair around her chubby face. She opens her eyes. <br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?" She asks. "Why am I in the basement? And... naked?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh... hi, Marion," you manage. She turns, eyes narrowed. For a moment you think that she's angry, but then you remember what she needs. Rummaging in your backpack, you hand her some glasses. She blinks as she puts them on.<br/>
<br/>
"OK... ok... oh...kay," she still seems panicked. "I'm OK. Just... I'm sorry. Who are you?"<br/>
<br/>
Look like that? Does this thing instinctively know who you are? "Hannah," you reply. "Hannah Westrick."<br/>
<br/>
"Marion,” she says, modesty suddenly stirring and forcing her to cover herself. You look away and throw her some of Marion's clothes. "So, uh... maybe I should give up getting donuts after work if I'm going to be knocked out by a pantie-raiding wizard," she says, trying to laugh. Of course, this thing has the last Marion memory. Memories come with the mask. Got it. "What happens now?"<br/>
<br/>
Slave. You wonder if you just state what you need and it works.<br/>
<br/>
"I need to stay at your apartment," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure thing," Marion, or the creature now masquerading as her, replies, in exactly the tone you'd expect. "Whatever you want.”<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
It takes a full hour of exposition to bring your creature up to speed. By now the shock has worn off and it's behaving exactly as the real Marion would, complete with eating straight out of a tub of ice cream, worrying about its real self in the hospital, and furiously messaging Brent Pruitt on her cell. The only difference is that this Marion is completely in your thrall. It's a servant, and the moment you want it to it'll snap straight out of Marion mode. <br/>
<br/>
You run an experiment, taking the mask off it, and switching it for Hannah. It doesn’t believe it is wearing a mask, but still a simple command and it lets you remove it. You then take off your own mask and, back in your original skin, place the newly vacated soccer star creation on your monster.<br/>
<br/>
"Who the fuck are you?" she demands with steely composure, hands curled and ready to throw a punch and beat the ever-loving-shit out of whoever has, from her perspective, assaulted her. “Wait... aren’t you the kid that had the accident? Will Prescott?” Again, a simple word is all it takes to calm her. A few words more and it’s as if Hannah has been your lifelong friend. You decide to switch the mask back and have the golem be Marion again.<br/>
<br/>
Now you've got a partner in your magic, and yet you feel more alone than ever before. Will Prescott, you are reminded, is still in a coma. Hannah Westrick is living her life, and although you've got a double of Marion Pruitt, you're not sure what good that would do. You are also stuck on the next spell. While your creation - is golem the right word - is set to work buffering more masks and headbands, you try and crack the next section of the book. This one requires less grave dirt - a mere 40 pounds - and seems to require a living person. <br/>
<br/>
That means you need a guinea pig. Your first instinct is Marion (the real Marion). If you could somehow get back to the hospital and take off the Will mask, you could slip this creation, this... thing... in her place as a substitute. You have no idea if Marion would still have her injuries after the Will mask is removed, but it's possible that this new spell might cure her. You have no problem with substituting a creature made out of gravedirt and purple fire lying comatose in your stead. It would make you feel a hell of a lot less guilty.<br/>
<br/>
And yet the whole idea is just too complicated at the moment. Somehow you'd have to sneak into a hospital with a golem, switch masks, hook the golem up to life support, then do an occult ritual involving purple fire and 40 pounds of grave dirt on a patient, all without being detected. Even if the first part is plausible with your Salman mask, you need to know what this ritual actually does before you risk using it to save Marion.<br/>
<br/>
That leaves you with two options, and there are two opportunities. The first is to perform the ritual on someone Marion knows. There's a host of people in the apartment block, plus all of Marion's friends getting ready for the wedding. It could be simple enough to find someone alone and test out the ritual.<br/>
<br/>
The second is to use your Hannah disguise. She doesn't know Catherine Muskov's party isn't cancelled, and isn't likely to show up if you intercept Marc. As Hannah, you know that she and Marc could easily sneak off somewhere without interruption or judgement. Or perhaps you could use it on the real Hannah, tidying up that loose end.<br/>
<br/>
Either option would give you a chance to see what this spell actually does before you set about rescuing Marion Pruitt from the strange hell of being trapped as a comatose Will Prescott.</span></div></div>


path: 1111343112121221221122
author_id: masktrix
title: How to Save a Life
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You decide that you're going to be Hannah. You dispatch the Marion golem to gather more grave dirt and chemicals from WalMart, then settle in for the night. You have enough masks and mind bands now; you just need to work out what you're going to do about the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
"Head to Masonic cemetery and dig up 40 pounds of grave dirt," you order it. Marion seems reluctant, cell in hand. <br/>
<br/>
"OK. Can I do it in the morning? There's something important I've got to do."<br/>
<br/>
"Late is good," you insist. "No police. It's not like digging up a plot is legal. Go now."<br/>
<br/>
"Good point," she says, rolling her eyes and tapping her head. Marion, you ditz. "I'll get changed into something I don't mind scruffing up and head out."<br/>
<br/>
You nod, and watch as the golem departs. Then you get back to the book, trying to make sense of the spell. The need for a body concerns you. You don't know what the spell will do, and while the magical flame doesn't give off heat, or seem to hurt, you can't bring yourself to use it on a person.<br/>
<br/>
Hannah, you know, might use it if she thought it would get her ahead of the curve. You think about her friendships across the school. She's a transfer from Eastman (now that is an interesting story), but seems to have made friends with almost everyone, except the other girls on the team. She's better than them. They know it.<br/>
<br/>
You run through her acquaintances, surprised at the stirring deep inside when you pass over Marc. Gorgeous, like an Adonis. You wipe a sweaty strand of deep blonde hair from your brow, taking a deep breath and pushing Hannah's emotions down. Despite her skills as a soccer player, and an intense fitness regimen (you know you can run a mile in sub-six minutes) you know how to party hard. Right now, you could do with a little fun. You walk into Marion's kitchen and pull out a bottle of tequila.<br/>
<br/>
---<br/>
<br/>
The alcohol hits but doesn't have the effect you want. You have another shot. And another. Hannah doesn't stop when she starts drinking. Right now, you'd welcome that sense of oblivion, too. You're about to hit a third shot then call it a night when Marion bursts through the door, her face bright red.<br/>
<br/>
"We've got to call the police!" she blurts out. Her hands and face are stained with dirt from her excavations. Her expression is pure terror.<br/>
<br/>
You  groan, sitting up. "What?"<br/>
<br/>
 Marion's face is pure panic. She's been crying, and her breast is heaving from running up the stairs. "Brent! He needs help, now!"<br/>
<br/>
You look at the golem, trying to work out what's going on.<br/>
<br/>
"I was leaving Walmart and was checking my phone! We need to call the police! Please! Please let me!" The golem is terrified. <br/>
<br/>
"Calm down," you say. Immediately Marion's panic vanishes, and her voice levels into an eerie serenity as she explains, almost without emotion, the sequence of events.<br/>
<br/>
"Brent is going kill himself. Earlier tonight, he texted me and said he couldn't take it any more. You had the cell and blew him off. I was trying to repair the damage when you ordered me to go to the cemetery. He went quiet. He just texted me goodbye. If you don't let me save my brother, I'll resent you for it. You'll kill my brother. Perhaps you already have. You fucking bitch."<br/>
<br/>
You roll yourself off the sofa, and grab the phone out of the golem's hand. A quick scan at the messages tells you everything you needed to know.<br/>
<br/>
At the vigil, while you cuddled with Marc, Brent Pruitt was in crisis. He was staring at the candles, at the kind words, feeling the pressure of the AP demands of his family and wanting to end it all. The emotions of the vigil overwhelmed a student pushed to the edge. He reached out to the only person who he trusted and his sister, or rather you, texted back almost indifferently. <br/>
<br/>
Not for the first time, you rush to Marion's toilet and vomit. This time the golem is with you, calm in its fear for the innocent it thinks of as its brother. <br/>
<br/>
"Let me call the police." You realize that it's still obeying your earlier command. No cops. The golem  Marion's complete callous cool is such at odds with the words.  Slave. <br/>
<br/>
"Where would he go?" you manage to ask. <br/>
<br/>
"Potsdam Park. Just north, along the river, you can get under the bridge."<br/>
<br/>
"Let's go." You rise, swaying a little. The tequila is starting to hit. "Now!"<br/>
<br/>
The Marion golem doesn't need any more encouragement. Within seconds you're both rushing down the stairs to Marion's car, then screaming out onto King Road. "We used to go down here as kids," the golem blubbers. "Mom and dad's is just over the river, not far. When I was 18, I made a den for him down here. We came back the next day and some older kids had trashed it. But I still remember the look on his face when he saw it. It was just cardboard and junk, but..."<br/>
<br/>
You try and focus, but the car's motion and Marion's erratic driving makes your head swim. You decide to risk pulling off the mask. Hopefully the cops won't catch you driving like this. If they do, you have no idea how the golem will react.<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
You wake up as the car slams its brakes on. "Come on!" the golem barks, already unbuckled, its overweight frame now completely exhausted but willing to fight through anything. You hurry out of the car and watch as it pants after you. Down by the river. You sprint through the park, through the ill-lit undergrowth, and down to the hole in the fence that leads to the flowing waters of the Mohagen. The bank is muddy and slippy, but you manage to rush along it. You've already ruined Marion's life. You're not going to let some stupid mistake end Brent's. <br/>
<br/>
The bridge is up ahead. You'd find it easier to run if you were Hannah, but her head is a fog and yours is clear. At the limits of your speed in the dark, you rush onwards. Behind you, the Marion golem's flashlight shines. <br/>
<br/>
You trip over something in the dark as you pass under the bridge. You land hard, your arm taking the brunt of the fall and causing you to reel in pain. In the dark, you stagger over to what you fell across.<br/>
<br/>
Brent Pruitt. Lying there. Prone. Your fingers scrabble for a pulse. Your wrist howls, even as nervy fingertips press into his neck. Weak. Thank God. You pant, and try and remember CPR.<br/>
<br/>
Then the flashlight hits you. You blink in the beam, taking a moment to see the pale, pasty color of Brent's face. The Marion golem collapses to her knees, wailing. <br/>
<br/>
"Calm down!" You bark, your own voice panicked and hoarse. "Start CPR."<br/>
<br/>
Without another word, the now professional, cool golem heads straight to Brent and begins the steps to save his life. You close your eyes and try to think. No time for paramedics. All Saints isn't far, but you doubt Brent would make it. <br/>
<br/>
That's when you notice that, in your flight from the apartment, you brought the book with you.<br/>
<br/>
- - - <br/>
<br/>
"You killed him." Marion mutters as the flames die. Brent Pruitt's body is like stone. Turned to a sculpture. Turned into a golem's flesh. You clutch your arm, and shake your head, edging to his body. <br/>
<br/>
You wince, then to hide the sight you lay Hannah Westrick's mask on Brent's stony face. Hannah, still woozy on tequila, raises her head. "What did I miss?" she slurs. <br/>
<br/>
It was one lucky break after another, starting with the wrist you nearly busted when you fell  over Brent. That's when you realized you had the grimoire with you. Then you remembered what Marion said, about coming <i>out</i> of Walmart when she got Brent's last text. And when you confirmed, she also told you that Walmart had been her second stop, after the cemetery, which she had been eager to get behind her.<br/>
<br/>
So there was no need to find a body for the next spell, not with all the ingredients in Marion's car, the book in your hand, and a lock of your own body hair after you'd pulled Hannah's mask off.<br/>
<br/>
But did the spell kill him? It sure looks like you did. Under Hannah's mask, Brent Pruitt is now a golem, for crying out loud. You don't even have a mask of Brent.<br/>
<br/>
But he's a different kind of golem, because the golem still has Brent's shape. After you get him back to Marion's apartment, maybe you could try putting one of your blank masks on him. Maybe it will copy his face and mind, even through the stony exterior, so that you can at least send a fake Brent back home.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe the next spell can reverse what you've done.<br/>
<br/>
Or perhaps you've done enough. Perhaps it's time to end this chaos. Dabbling in magic has, so far, cost you your own identity, put an innocent woman in a coma, and has turned a teen desperate and alone into a golem, now suspended safely under the guise of a girl who is off living her own life a few blocks away, oblivious to the fact her face, her mind, her identity has been stolen.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe, once you've got back to Marion's apartment, tomorrow morning it's time to throw the book into the river.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431121212212211221
author_id: masktrix
title: How to Take a Life
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
"So, what happens now?" the golem is asking you. <br/>
<br/>
"Beats me," you shrug. "I think we remove the mask. Then... I don't know. It can't stay as Hannah forever."<br/>
<br/>
"Stay as? I am... the hell are you talking about?" the other golem - the former Brent Pruitt - looks at you with confusion, eyes blurry and out of focus. You sigh.<br/>
<br/>
You've reconvened at Marion's apartment. The woman downstairs - you can't remember her name now you're out of Marion's mind - is banging at the noise so late at night, but three people walking around isn't quiet. Maybe you need to find a better place to experiment. Or maybe... maybe you need a holiday. A break. A chance to step away from all of the chaos you have wrought and enjoy this damn power. So far all you've had to face was endless misery, confusion and suffering.<br/>
<br/>
Culminating in turning Brent Pruitt into a golem. A golem now with the form of Hannah Westrick, the real one of whom is sleeping oblivious a little over a mile away.<br/>
<br/>
"Be quiet," you say. The golem shuts up and lies down on the couch in near-silence. You turn to the other golem. The Marion golem.<br/>
<br/>
"How soon until your parents realize he's missing?"<br/>
<br/>
Marion shrugs. "Morning, I would guess. Little B... Brent... doesn't make a lot of noise and can study pretty late."<br/>
<br/>
"Fine. That gives us some time to experiment. First, we need to remove the mask off Hannah here."<br/>
<br/>
"What mask?" Hannah asks, bobbing her head up, honey-blonde ponytail now frayed chaos behind her head.<br/>
<br/>
"Be. Quiet." You walk to your collection of spare masks, mind strips included. "We're going to remove the mask and put a blank on it. Maybe it will copy Brent and then we can send the copy home, at least."<br/>
<br/>
But the copy will probably be as close to death's door as the original was ...<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
Brent Pruitt is alive. Pasty. Pale. Collapsed on the bathroom floor, but alive. Marion fusses over him, propping him up, getting him comfortable, holding up two fingers and asking him to count. Brent's still coming around, but he's alive, at least.<br/>
<br/>
You stand back, wearing the Salman mask. Good thing that you had that medical profession on hand, full of all the medical skills you'd need to get through this. Once you removed the Hannah mask, Brent turned to stone as expected. What came next, though, was unexpected. The mask didn't copy Brent -- it turned him back into flesh!<br/>
<br/>
From there, you let your newly gained medical knowledge save his damn life.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't EVER do that again," Marion scolds him. The half-conscious Brent deflects away from her words, shifting uncomfortably. You step over.<br/>
<br/>
"Allow me. Brent, you will never try to kill yourself again." You take the briefest of pauses before you finish the thought. "Unless I tell you to." You don't know why you added that. Security, maybe. Brent gulps, then gives the barest flick of a nod in acknowledgement.<br/>
<br/>
"Marion, I want you to take Brent home. Brent, you are going to forget this ever happened. You'll go home and you'll go straight back into your normal routine. Until I tell you otherwise. Live your life."<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head and stalk from the bathroom without waiting for an answer. Golems. You're sick of them already. You walk to Marion's bedroom, throw off your clothes and collapse into the deepest sleep you've had in weeks.<br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
Friday. Today, Catherine Muskov is throwing a party. Marc Garner is expecting to pick up Hannah Westrick. Hannah Westrick is oblivious to this, and currently preparing for the biggest event of her life the next day. Marion Pruitt, meanwhile, is preparing for her friend Robyn's wedding tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
You look at the next page in the grimoire, pulling up the online translator to confirm that you've got the phrases correct. You're out of Salman and back to Will now, the wannabe magician who is flitting through lives without a moment's pause. The next spell seems to solve all of your problems: it's a kind of paste that creates temporary golems. Now you don't have to worry about having conversations with stone people, or permanently affecting anyone. Slather the interior of a mask with the stuff, slap it on someone, and you've got a docile, willing slave who, you presume, won't remember anything after the mask is removed. Perfect for temporarily replacing someone. <br/>
<br/>
Is that what you're thinking of doing? By the time you've prepared the stuff, you're sure it is. You need a break. You need to step away from this and actually start enjoying the power you have. You won't need to cover for Marion anymore once you've covered the interior of her mask with the new stuff. You'll just hang it onto the face of the person you're going to replace so they can cover for Marion, and you'll step in to take their place.<br/>
<br/>
There are two obvious options, both of which you could replace tonight. Someone to be, someone whose life you can enjoy living for a few days while you recover your strength and wits.<br/>
<br/>
The first option is Marc Garner. You have his girlfriend's form, and while you don't want to spend your weekend in the stress of trying to pass a soccer trial, you could easily substitute yourself into his life without anyone noticing. You'd quite like to be handsome, popular and fit.<br/>
<br/>
The other option is riskier, but could be even more fun. Robyn is getting married - and flying straight out to exotic climes for a week's honeymoon. They say your wedding day is the happiest of your life, and the added bonus of a week's free five-star, all-expenses holiday could be just the rest you need to figure out how to move on with the book.<br/>
<br/>
Or you could go in to work as Marion and grab some likely person when they go into the changing rooms -- same trick as you used on Hannah.</span></div></div>


path: 111134311212122122112212
author_id: masktrix
title: Setting Up A Switch
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You decided not to risk going as Hannah to the party. Marc will be confused as to why his girlfriend blew him off - and Hannah will be wondering why he thought they were supposed to go - but with the chaos of teverything that's happened you're confident that either she'll think her boyfriend has screwed up, or she'll go along with it. It doesn't matter: Hannah Westrick is of little interest to you now. <br/>
<br/>
Except, of course, you're wearing her face, being escorted into the basement of Nirdlinger's by an off-duty Marion Pruitt. You follow her lead, passing staff that get a brief nod of recognition, taking doors that increasingly smell of garbage until you can't go down any further, and the doors begin to have a thin veil of cobwebs.<br/>
<br/>
"Well," she says, tapping her thighs. "This is the bottom. We store the mannequins, the props, the Christmas decorations. Halloween changes every year, so nobody's going to come in here for another... month?"<br/>
<br/>
You nod. "Should be long enough." You wait until your Marion golem finishes finding the right key - goddamn Marion's head - and follow it inside. <br/>
<br/>
You cough at the dust that rises as Marion fumbles for the light switch. Hannah has allergies. Thick allergies. You cough and sputter, feeling your lungs tighten and eyes begin to itch. The inhaler is at her house - a heavy dose of reliever that is fully approved with a sports exemption if she does get the trial - but right now you have her wheeze. Great.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you OK?" Marion heads over. You wave her away, nodding. <br/>
<br/>
"I will be in about two seconds." <br/>
<br/>
You set yourself down on the floor, whip off the Hannah mask. Black. Then, back as Will, you sit up and shake it off. Marion has been pacing - her footprints shuffle in the dust - and has been shoving boxes out of the way. You rise and look around.<br/>
<br/>
It's a creepy basement. A serial killer basement, full of broken plastic limbs and dead heads, crates with strings of lights, a giant waving Santa and, along the back, an entire sleigh and reindeer. You remember it from about two years ago, how Nirdlinger's managed to put up enough lights to drain the city grid. Carson tried to work out how much juice the whole thing took as some extra credit science project. You walk over to it, remembering your old life. Friends. Family. Westside, even with its bullies and social scenes that you've never worked out. You think back to the vigil. Kim Walsh. Yumi. Lisa. Nobody else had anything sincere to say. You never gave them anything to say.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, so what are we doing here?" Marion asks. You are fed up of golems. Docile fakes that just do what you tell them, even as you crash their world off course. Even as you inadvertently order them not to save their imagined family. <br/>
<br/>
You don't ask. You turn, and lightly touch Marion's chubby face. "Remove your clothes and stand over there." You watch as she obeys, still in the character of her stolen mind and face. Then you utter the words and remove the mask. All that remains is a lifeless, sexless, genderless stone statue.<br/>
<br/>
It's Marion Pruitt who walks out, the Hannah mask in hand. <br/>
<br/>
- - -<br/>
<br/>
Golem gone, there's only one Marion left. Settling down in her apartment, you remove the mask and get to work on the next stage. You are running out of Will body hair - your head is still shaven - but you have enough for two more golem mask. The first, with its new paste, has already been used on the Salman face - which is how you know the next page is torn.<br/>
<br/>
That's got to be deliberate, you decide. There's no way a book with this level of potency would have a page torn out of it unless it wants to be torn. Whoever owned the book before doesn't want you to see the next spell. But right now, you're going to take an even bigger risk. You're going to put on a golem mask on.<br/>
<br/>
You are a little nervous as you finish the new gloss, hair included, and set it alight. What if this turns you into a golem? That's part of the reason you've chosen the Marion mask: at least, if you're convinced you're the chubby, merry security guard, there won't be a duplicate running around. Part of you even hopes that you will. Perhaps that would be an atonement. You take a heavy breath and slip the mask on...<br/>
<br/>
You sit up. You're Will Prescott. Will Prescott wearing the body and mind of Marion Pruitt. The mask took the second coat, and hasn't excised any kind of control over you. You laugh nervously with relief. That means the world has just become far, far less complicated. <br/>
<br/>
You're going to replace Robyn Martin. You decided that last night. The only question is when. There are two options. The ideal choice is after she gets married; you can attend the ceremony as Marion and somehow get Robyn alone afterward. That way, even if she doesn't remember her honeymoon, she'll at least remember the greatest day of her life.<br/>
<br/>
But then... you trace a finger along your neck. Wouldn't it be fun to make it the greatest day of your life instead? And replacing Robyn before the ceremony means you don't have to worry about replicating her makeup or hair. It'll be far, far easier to get her alone.</span></div></div>


path: 1111343112121221221122121
author_id: masktrix
title: Robyn and Marion
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
Robyn Martin lives over on the eastern fringes of Saratoga Falls. It's not the finest neighborhood, but some of the houses are nicer than others. Robyn, you know from your Marion memories, lives with her fiance Richard in one of the best properties in the area: a four bed designer house with an infinity pool, all computer controlled. It's always been a point of minor envy for Marion that Robyn managed to find someone so... well... hot. Wealthy. Smart. It had been a whirlwind romance - they'd been dating for only three months when Richard proposed - but Robyn, Marion's mind tells you, feels truly happy. <br/>
<br/>
You pull up your Civic and step out, looking at the sprawling house. Robyn's sous chef wages couldn't even afford to rent a room here. Fortunately, Richard works in... you try and pick it out of Marion's mind, but her usual forgetfulness means there's a patch. Something to do with... bioblahblahblah. Marion, lovely as she is, tuned out when Richard was explaining it. Something to do with electric circuits in the skin?<br/>
<br/>
You straighten up and press the doorbell. Richard isn't going to be in - unlucky to see a bride the night before the wedding - so you should have her alone. That’s your primary reason for making the switch now: you’ll have to go through the wedding but it’s far easier than getting a newlywed in private, replicating her hair and makeup and not getting caught.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey!" You say as the door opens. Robyn is a beautiful slip of a woman, the same age as Marion, with saucered eyes and a thin nose that draws attention to her sharp jawline and cute, minute overbite. She keeps her hair, a rich copper that seems to magically lighten and darken as she moves, in a short retro-cut like something out of the 1960s, and generally wears clothes to match.<br/>
<br/>
"Marion!" Robyn beams, throwing her arms around you as she opens the door. You reply back with an affectionate squeeze. "What are you doing here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just thought I'd swing by before the big day. I've got a surprise for you. For luck. Mind if come in?" <br/>
<br/>
Robyn shakes her head, pushing the door open and standing aside. "Please. God, save me from myself. All I'm doing is pacing around. Tidying. Why am I tidying? I can't think of anything else to do. It's all so..." she fans herself, then gives out a nervous laugh. <br/>
<br/>
"I get it. It's crazy. Must be really awkward having the whole house to yourself." It's a leading question, but you want to make sure you've got time.<br/>
<br/>
Robyn's eyes widen and she gives as short nod. "Yeah. Usually Rich is in his study, working on... let me get this straight..." she takes an overly-serious voice, dropping a few octaves, "graphene-based subdermal circuitry with an aim for Crispr-induced stimulation of biological polymorphy."<br/>
<br/>
"Which means?" You say, allowing Marion's cheery eyes to glaze over.<br/>
<br/>
Robyn shakes her head. "Not. A. Clue. You want a chai latte, hon?"<br/>
<br/>
You furrow your brow. "How many cups have you had?"<br/>
<br/>
Robyn thinks, then laughs. "I guess that explains the hyperactivity." She sinks down onto a grey cotton corner sofa, the L shape segmenting the large open plan downstairs of the house. It's palacial. Rich must be worth a lot if he can afford a place like this. "It's a big day. I just need to remember to breathe..."<br/>
<br/>
You sit down next to her. "Well, this should help you relax," you say, fishing out a mask from Marion's handbag. Without a moment's hesitation, you push it on to your victim and watch as Robyn collapses. <br/>
<br/>
"Step one," you say, blowing out Marion's cheeks as you rise, walk to the kitchen and make a cup of chai with and extravagant home barista setup. While you wait for the mask and mind band to do its work, you look around at the space. Open the fridge, see how a chef prepares her kitchen (the answer, it seems, is lots of plastic containers). You could enjoy living here. And, looking at Robyn's svelte form, you will enjoy being her, too. You take off your clothes, lie on the ground, set your glasses off and remove the Marion mask. The few moments you are back to Will Prescott are agony - you’re certain tripping over Brent Pruitt broke your arm. Gingerly you take out a clutch of other prepared masks, along with the Book, and bring them up to Marion’s bedroom. There, you open up her luggage and slip them inside. Just in case. Then you head downstairs.<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately changing masks is a relatively simple process: Robyn for you, the Marion-golem for Robyn. Switch done, you pat your (dyed) red hair and scratch your nose, slipping into your new clothes and new life.<br/>
<br/>
“Hub,” you say, listening as your new designer home accepts your voice as its mistress. “Set lighting to ‘calm’.” You watch as the lights lower a little to something more intimate. Then you take a sip of latte and wait for Marion to come around.<br/>
<br/>
“Wha...” she blinks.<br/>
<br/>
“Get dressed, hon,” you chirp, walking into the bathroom to check your relfection. Robyn has been dieting for the past three months to get her figure like this. You pat your flat, toned stomach, and stroke your perfectly chiselled jaw. You peel back your lips, looking at the extreme white of your teeth.<br/>
<br/>
By the time you come back into the room, Marion is fully dressed, you walk over and slip her glasses on. "I'm sorry, Marion," you say, blinking. "I think I fell asleep. Guess that chai wasn't why I was hyper after all. Thanks for coming over, but I need to call it a night.”<br/>
<br/>
The new Marion smiles cheerily, and pats your wrist sympathetically. "Hey, no problem. Big day, right? I should get away. Just you take care of yourself, hmm?"<br/>
<br/>
You give your best, winning smile as the bride to be. “Come back at 10am tomorrow. And don’t forget the coursage from the florist up at Fall’s Lake.”<br/>
<br/>
Marion nods. “I’m on it. Tomorrow is going to be amazing!”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, and Marion?” She pauses and gives you a friendly smile. You drop the Robyn act for a moment. “Kiss me. Hard and full, as passionately as you can.”<br/>
<br/>
Your friend Marion, the former Robyn, walks over and seizes you, twisting her head as she pulls you forward, planting her lips on to yours and proving your mouth with her tongue. Your eyes roll back, revelling in the moment as your bodies entwine. Then, slowly, she steps back, a little confused.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks, hon. You can forget that ever happened.” You resume your innocent smile.<br/>
<br/>
Marion’s face returns to its perkiness. “See you tomorrrow! And good luck!”<br/>
<br/>
You close the door on her, wiping your stolen mouth a little, feeling a satisfying rush of power.<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t need luck,” you say. You are Robyn Martin. And tomorrow is going to be the happiest day of your life.<br/>
<br/>
The only question is whether you’re going to be a good Robyn and play the part, or if you intend to cause a little mischief in a life you will soon discard. With these masks, you could get away with anything.<br/>
<br/>
“Hub, play my soothing mix,” you command, settling down on your couch, drinking your chai. This is what winning finally feels like.</span></div></div>


path: 11113431121212212211221211
author_id: masktrix
title: Brideing Your Time
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
You shoot up in bed. Your copper locks stained with sweat, matted to the side of your face. You roll across the lavish, king-sized bed and reach for the water, taking a deep swig. A few hours ago, you accidentally thought of this room as Marion's. Of course, Robyn is now Marion, so you weren't wrong. But it was a slip that revealed how comfortable you are with this constant shift in identity.<br/>
<br/>
"Hub, light." The room gently glows until the light is on. The alarm clock reads 8am. The day of your wedding. You should be feeling excited. Robyn would; her heart flutters a little just at the thought of everything. Nerves; excitement; anticipation. It's a cocktail you're more than willing to suppress. Or it would be if you didn't have a nagging feeling in your mind that something very bad is going to happen. <br/>
<br/>
You remember the dream, a week ago now. How much of it has come to pass. The vigil; Chelsea's false tears, Hannah's - your - real ones. Caleb and Seth; Lisa and Geoff; Brent trying to reach out. The creature of soil and flame. You vaguely remember Carson going on about how 'weak keys' are some kind of error in cyphers, like the error that sent Brent Pruitt to attempt suicide. The unwilling arm - the way you fell over and shattered your, Will's, wrist. Marion's face pulling off to reveal a woman with short hair. Your face. Robyn Martin's face.<br/>
<br/>
You struggle to remember the rest of it. Now, though, it feels like the dream was prescient, a warning that you should heed. There was something to do with... it fades. Too much as passed in the crazy week of changing and exchanging lives for you to keep it in focus. All that's left is a nagging, terrible feeling that you really should not stay as Robyn Martin.<br/>
<br/>
Then the doorbell goes. "Hub," you mutter, "Door camera." Rising, you see on the local screen the grey camera image. Mom. Or, at least, Robyn's mom. You rise, stretching as you head downstairs, grabbing a silk robe to wrap around your body as you do so, arching your feet on the cold tiles. You open the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Morning," you say. Mom is almost identical to Robyn, that same ivory skintone and sculptured features, with eyes at a slight pixie slant. Her hair is your natural light brunette, and is tidied up in a more formal style. She's still not dressed in her formal clothes yet.<br/>
<br/>
"And how's my girl on her big day?"<br/>
<br/>
You muster a smile. "Your girl wants to go back to bed."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, too bad. Because we've got to get moving if you're going to look your best. You only get one moment like this in your life. All eyes will be on you."<br/>
<br/>
You feel Robyn cringe. She knows she's pretty; the idea that she has to use potions, pastes and paints to prepare... OK, actually she thinks that's kind of fun. But she's not going to let her mom know it. "You've been married three times."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the first one is more special."<br/>
<br/>
"Right now, I want whiskey."<br/>
<br/>
"Honey, we all want whiskey on a day like this. Unfortunately, you also need to walk down the aisle straight."<br/>
<br/>
You give a chuckle, and stand aside to let your mom in. Five minutes later you're in the kitchen, using your new culinary skills to whisk up the best damn omelette you've ever tasted. Your mom makes a comment about all women needing to be able to cook. You want to make a comment that you work your ass off in a kitchen for 14 hours doing multiple service every night and earn next to nothing for it, but can make crab, mint jelly and curry powder into a parcel of delicate flavors that would literally cause an orgasm. Literally. That scene in When Harry Met Sally? Le Metropolitain has seen it recreated numerous times. Nicole Roy is your mentor. Your heroine. You finish finely chopping a spring onion garnish and flick it out to decorate the omelette plate, then slip it in front of mom. Then you plant a kiss on her cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
"Needs more oregano," your mom says. Fuck you, mom; you have no idea how difficult it is to balance the flavors you're delivering. <br/>
<br/>
"Needs more whiskey," you remark, unwilling to let this spoil your day as you head upstairs. "I'm going to start getting ready. Hairdresser will be here in an hour."<br/>
<br/>
- - - <br/>
<br/>
11am. Four women are fussing over you, to the point that you can't even see the mirror. Marion has arrived with the flowers, already in the peach wedding dress that caused you so much of a headache a few days ago. Danielle and Mary are here, too, gossiping while insisting they do your nails - one hand each. Finally Kristen is working on your hair, getting everything in place. As Robyn, you seem to be a bride going through the final moments of her single life, taking stock. As Will, deep down, you can't help but feel the whole thing is a rush. You're loving the attention, the delicate pampering, the focus on your every wont and need as you are turned from a mortal into a goddess. A few moments hurt in the name of beauty - a few loose hairs tweaked out violently from your eyebrows, a few knots stroked out, and that last pinching squeeze into the bodice of the gown, but the result...<br/>
<br/>
You are a knock-out. You look into the mirror with your borrowed eyes, studying every aspect of your stolen face. The makeup has been done with such precision that you daren't touch your face. A light blush on your cheeks, a 'natural' red on your lips, an elaborate darkening and lightening of powder and mascara on your eyes to create a natural, bright look. Your hair is styled perfectly into a classic mix of flowing curls. Looking down, your elegant neck traces out into the perfect, unblemished white of the gown. You start to fan yourself, corsage around your wrist, the light blue of the flowers in your vision.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, no! Don't cry! You can't cry! It'll ruin the makeup!" Danielle starts fussing. You blink, unable to hold the tears back. Gently, hands tilt your head up, not allowing you to blemish their creation. You take a few deep breaths.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm fine," you say, straightening up. "It's just so overwhelming." <br/>
<br/>
Four heads nod in agreement. Then, in what seems like a dizzying whirlwind, you are all in the car, heading toward the park. Toward the ceremony. Your mom has already gone on ahead, to take her position at the top of the aisle. <br/>
<br/>
"You've got everything?" Mary asks. "Old... that's the wedding dress. Blue, flowers on the corsage. New, that's the additions to the dress. Borrowed... that's..."<br/>
<br/>
"I've taken care of it," you promise her. Borrowed is Robyn Martin's whole identity. Her whole life. In a few moments, you're going to arrive, walk up the aisle in front of her loved ones and friends. Her mother. Her sister. Richard hasn't got much family, so you don't believe there will be a big turnout on his side of the seats. But everyone is going to look at you as though you're Robyn, never aware that the real one is standing a few feet away, trapped in the overweight shell of Marion Pruitt, unable to resist thinking, feeling and acting like her. <br/>
<br/>
This is your last chance to get cold feet and run. Despite the joy of the occasion, despite the happiness and fun that surrounds you, something tells you that you're walking into serious danger. You don't know why, but it's a nagging feeling you can't shake in your head.<br/>
<br/>
Robyn would never get cold feet. But plenty of brides have done so before you. You wish the masks and book weren't back at Robyn's house. The only option you have is to change back into Marion. But perhaps it's the safe option.<br/>
<br/>
Or, perhaps, you should just let this feeling go and enjoy the happiest moment of your stolen life. </span></div></div>


path: 1111343112121221221122122
title: A Nice Day To Start Again
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>by Masktrix<br/>
<br/>
Your last night as Marion is fairly low-key: a quiet evening running the last errands before the wedding, up to the florist's at the Shoppes, then a quick detour on the way home, so you can gorge yourself on a takeaway 14" pie from Balducci's. Marion's chubby form means you can get away with it. Then, curling up on her sofa, petting the apartment block cat and toasting your plan for tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
Robyn. You let Marion's mind fill you with all the details she knows of her friend's - soon to be your - husband to be. Richard Fielding. A whirlwind romance. He studied over in the UK, at the University of Oxford, doing something to do with electric circuits in the skin. Handsome, fit - he was a rower - Marion has privately dreamt of having his arms around her. But, of course, she'd never act on such desires. She is truly happy for Robyn, and the thought of her bestie getting married tomorrow is giving you palpitations.<br/>
<br/>
You finish the Balducci's slice, then snuggle into Marion's bed and allow her dreams to guide you until the morning. Then you just need to make the switch, and you can enjoy whatever honeymoon Robyn is about to set out upon. <br/>
<br/>
***<br/>
<br/>
You feel giddy. Faint. Excited and nervous in equal measure. All of Robyn’s life she has waited for this moment. All of this life, viewing it through Marion's prism, you have listened as she has told you the details of her dream day with deliberate, elaborate accuracy. Now, living it, is almost an experience beyond words.<br/>
<br/>
The music rises as you stand next to Danielle, clutching flowers. For the past few hours you have fussed over Robyn, and now all eyes are on her, as she moves up the aisle, one foot forward, then another. The pure white of the dress, the artful makeup. She is radiant. You watch her as she joins Rich at the altar set up in the park, the sunlight dancing through the trees.<br/>
<br/>
Marion's mind is dancing, too. You want to start crying with joy at the beauty of it. Your friend is getting married to the man she loves and adores, under blue skies and a warm sun, accompanied by those she trusts. Could the world be any sweeter? Too bad she's going to be condemned to Marion's boring life while you reap the benefits.<br/>
<br/>
You let yourself get caught up in the moment, eyes drifting around the congregation as the priest gives a reading. On the bride’s side, Robyn's family and friends are gathered. Even her - soon to be your - sister Nadine, usually rocking a metal chick chic (she’s a drummer after all) as made a special effort to look almost respectable. Many of Robyn's guests, including the chefs of Le Metropolitain, are also on the groom’s side, as her husband-to-be doesn’t really have family in the area, and too involved in work and you to socialize. The only person on his side of the aisle, save his best man, his co-worker Greg, is a woman you don’t recognize. She's much older than the young couple, with a plain, rather forgettable face, her hair tied back more for a business engagement than a celebration. You glance at her for a moment, then turn your eyes to the happy couple and the husband you're about to steal.<br/>
<br/>
He looks so handsome, Marion’s thoughts tell you. You take a deep breath as you step up, filing your lungs with the last breaths of Summer. Richard, you remember, was adamant that the wedding take place this weekend, and in such an open space. You now understand why; he couldn’t have picked a better day.<br/>
<br/>
The excitement continues, nerves and joy, as you listen to the vows. Do you, Richard Paul Fielding... do you, Robyn Estella Martin. The rings slip on their fingers. Richard’s lips slip onto Robyns. You wonder what that will feel like, or whether you will make some excuse to avoid it. You still don't know why you long to be Robyn so badly - it's part Will, part Marion's desires. But you know it's going to be fun.<br/>
<br/>
Confetti. Tears. Laughter and cheers. Running down the aisle together. The moment he looks at Robyn, and she looks into his eyes, and he whispers “wife”. You could have stolen every second.<br/>
<br/>
***<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God! I'm so sorry!" you bumble and stumble as Marion, fussing over Robyn. The wine glass, slipped so precisely from your hand, has splashed - not showered, but just enough - the bride with wine, causing an unsightly stain to risk suddenly materializing. At once, Danielle and you are on the case; she grabbing a napkin, you fussing over Robyn's dress. <br/>
<br/>
"It's fine, hon! It's fine, juts a little spill."<br/>
<br/>
"Let's go get you cleaned up," Danielle says, giving you a dark look as she helps Robyn to her feet. <br/>
<br/>
"No, no," you mutter. "It's my fault. I'll help." <br/>
<br/>
With that, you escort the bride to the toilets, down in the park's ranger hut. It's cramped, small, but exactly the right size for what you need. Marion's ample frame easily concealed the second mask. And Robyn, focused on the stain, never saw it until you placed it on her face.<br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later you exit the ranger station, back to the marquee, your wedding dress decidedly less stained, your auburn hair slicked back into newlywed perfection. You feel the intense thrill of being Robyn Martin. No, your stolen thoughts correct. Robyn Fielding. The real Robyn follows after you, a few words and phrases having convinced her that she is Marion Pruitt, always has been and always will be. Clumsy Marion. You let her take her seat back at the table, while you slip back to the place of honor, taking Robyn's chair and running your immaculate nails along your new husband's thigh.<br/>
<br/>
You look out again at everyone enjoying the celebration, basking in the delicious excitement of 'your' big day. And then on to the mystery honeymoon Rich has arranged. Shame his parents couldn't be here. Shame none of his family could be, only the mystery woman. You realize that even Robyn doesn't know her identity, and she wrote the invitations herself.<br/>
<br/>
“Who is she?” you ask Rich, as you slide an asparagus stalk into your mouth. The food had been sensational, your chef contacts ensuring the meal enjoyed by the guests has been a mouth-watering sensation.<br/>
<br/>
“Who?” He says, setting his fork down.<br/>
<br/>
“The woman who came. I don’t remember the invite.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” he sighs, slicking his hair. Robyn knows that’s a nervous tell of his, though why he is nervous you have no idea. “Her name is Lenke. She’s a work contact.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not a colleague?”<br/>
<br/>
Rich smirks. “No. More like a rival. Different company, at the moment. Hasn’t always been. Sometimes it’s rival, sometimes mergers join things together. Sometimes they pull apart. Right now we’re both working on the same thing. Different approaches. There’s more than one way to skin a...” he looks down at the plate. “I’m sorry. Going into business mode. Forgive me.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, no business tonight,” you tease. You know Rich has been stuck for months on his project. Then, one day, as you finished cleaning the kitchen, he surprised you in the restaurant with a ring. After that it was as if his troubles, and yours, had faded to nothing.<br/>
<br/>
“Never would,” Rich says, stroking your hand. “You’re too important to me. Right now, you’re the only thing that matters.” You smile.<br/>
<br/>
“Why Mr Fielding,” you say. <br/>
<br/>
“Why, Mrs Fielding,” he responds. You kiss him softly as you watch Lady Steel take up position. Speeches soon. Then a slow dance. Tonight you’ll hit the highway to your honeymoon, some small town tucked away in the mountains that Rich promises will make you feel like you never have to leave. The night, the life, is yours. <br/>
<br/>
And yet something in your Will Prescott mind is dinging away like an alarm bell. You don’t feel safe. Your Robyn self does; she wishes that this moment never ended. But the old you, and the week of chaos you wrought as Marion Pruitt, sings loud. Something here is *not right*. You've been Robyn for a whole five minutes, and already something is telling you to climb out of her appearance and run from here as fast as you can.<br/>
<br/>
The only question is whether you listen to your instinct or have faith in your flawless disguise.</span></div></div>


path: 11113432
author_id: wolfer084
title: Shopping for faces
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You slowly opened your bag as your heart beat a thousand miles a minute. It wasn’t because you stole something; it was because you were worried about getting caught. As ridiculous as it sounds, your biggest fear was that this mall cop was going to see your mask and somehow know what you were up to. However, when you opened your bag, she looked inside and only saw a couple school books and your mask.<br/>
<br/>
Curious to what it was, she pulled it out and held it up to get a better look at it “what’s the deal with the uh… mask?” she asked.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s for a play that I’m a part of at my school.” You told her nervously. You weren’t sure if she believed you or not as she still looked skeptical. She turned the mask around and it looked like she was about to put her face into the mask when you quickly asked her “So can I go now since I showed you that didn’t steal anything right?”<br/>
<br/>
She squinted her eyes at you suspiciously before placing the mask back into your bag “Yeah… you can go… but I’m warning you. I have my eyes on YOU.” she said while trying to sound menacing.<br/>
<br/>
Zipping up your back, you immediately headed back up to the third floor. As you passed all the electronics on the escalator, you wondered if you should try somewhere else. So far none of the people you spotted earlier seemed that amazing and you really didn’t want that nosey mall cop catching you in the act of doing something worse than shoplifting. However, as you arrived at the third floor again, you quickly looked around. The place looked like it was now more deserted. At this time of the day, you doubted that you could find anywhere better to find a stranger to throw your mask on.<br/>
<br/>
The attendants that looked bored earlier were now gathered around the athletic section and gossiping. Getting one of them would be easy but if this worked, you weren’t keen to use the mask on the egg shaped man that had three chins or the grandma that looked like she belonged on the set of "Golden Girls". <br/>
<br/>
Walking back in the direction of the women’s section again, you saw that the professionally dressed woman was still looking in the underwear section while holding a pair of stockings in her hand. You hung back as you tried looking her over a bit more without her noticing. She looked like she was either in her late 20's or early 30's. Her dark brown hair was tied up a bun and wore a light grey business suit with a skirt that came down to just above her knees. She wouldn't be a bad choice if you could just get her alone.<br/>
<br/>
Continuing to walk around more, you spot an older woman that looked to be in her 40's with light brown hair that went past shoulders looking at blouses. She was curvier than the professional looking woman and looked like a MILF in a flower printed dress that left little to your imagination. Just imagining what she looked like under that dress was giving you an stiffy.<br/>
<br/>
Seeing that Chelsea Cooper's mother was nowhere to be found was disappointing but you doubt that she got very far. If this mask worked, being able to impersonate the mother of your school's queen bitch could be very useful to you later on. <br/>
<br/>
The Latina mother was alone again as she held out two skirts and looked like she was trying to decide on which one she wanted to buy while her daughter was busy looking at the dolls. At first, you were pretty determined to not become a mother until you realized that you were already seriously considering Chelsea Cooper's mother. At least the Latina looked to be only a few years older than you and would be somewhat cute if she was dressed up. Perhaps someone low key like would be a better choice.</span></div></div>


path: 111134321
author_id: wolfer084
title: Business as usual
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You positioned yourself to watch the businesswoman more, you couldn't help but feel a bit of excitement as you walked down the adjacent aisle. She was looking at the rack of stockings while she held one in her hands that was wrapped in its package. It looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind on if she wanted it or not. You impatiently waited for her to get somewhere more secluded while pretending to browse the men's shirt section across from her while periodically looking around to see if that mall cop really had her eye on you. Glancing back over at your target, you thought that she looked pretty in a professional kind of way. “Was she some kind of secretary?” you wondered as you tried to guess where she could have possibly worked. <br/>
<br/>
Finally she decided on a different pair of stockings and carried them with her over towards the changing rooms. You picked up a trendy Hawaiian shirt that was definitely not your style and followed her from a distance. Her hips swayed with each step she took in her heels, which added to her sexiness. Luckily for you she was in fact going into the woman's changing rooms. But there wasn't an attendant to check her in. She rang the attendant bell a couple of times and then looked around to see if an employee nearby. At one point, she briefly looked behind her and towards your direction, which made your heart jump out of your chest. You quickly turned your head and glanced away to avoid making eye contact as you pretended to browse another ringlet of shirts. Out of the corner of your eye, you continued to watch her as she waiting around for an attendant to show up. But after a couple more minutes, the woman became impatient and just went into the changing rooms.<br/>
<br/>
Now was your chance. You quickly walked over to the counter where the woman had been standing and briefly looked around like she did to make sure no one else was there before slipping into the changing room after her. It was almost the end of the day and the store was going to close soon. You doubted that another attendant would even return. As you entered, you cautiously peaked around at all other stalls. They were all half opened except for one towards the back; which meant that nobody else was here except you and the woman. You slipped into a stall beside hers and silently waited as your heart rapidly beat in your chest. All sorts of thoughts weighed heavily on your mind. "What if this doesn't work? What will happen to me if I get caught? What if this does actually work?" You started sweating out of sheer nervousness until you finally you heard the stall door beside you open.<br/>
<br/>
What happened next felt like a blur to you. As the woman stepped out of the changing room, you jumped out behind her, reached around and jammed the mask into her face. The next thing you knew was that your hand was suddenly covering her face and she lost her balance. If it weren’t for you catching her, she would’ve probably face planted into the floor.  <br/>
<br/>
"Fuck… fuck… fuck..." was all you could think as you stood over and looked at the unconscious woman laying on the floor as her head leaned against one of the stall door frames . At first you were worried that you might have hit her in the face too hard with the mask and knocked her out but when you looked to see where the mask went, it was nowhere to be found. You carefully dragged the woman back into an empty stall by her waist and sat her on the bench while leaning her against a wall before looking for the mask again. <br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
(15 minutes later)<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
You sat in your truck as the sweat running down your face began to dry. 10 minutes ago you were freaking out in crammed dressing room with an unconscious woman while trying to decide what to do. The woman was slumped over on the bench and out cold after you ambushed her. Luckily, she was breathing so you knew that she wasn’t dead but there was no sign of the mask anywhere. You were sure that you planted it directly on her face so there was no way it could have disappeared. As you scoured the entire area looking for it, you began wondering what you were going to do if someone barged in and found you two. You should have just up and ran away before someone turned you over to the police but you couldn’t leave the mask behind since it would incriminate you.<br/>
<br/>
In your truck, you held up the mask and looked into it as you tried wrapping your mind around what happened next as you saw an image of the woman’s face inside the mask. Amber Marie Goodman was her name. She was 33 years old and weighed 130 pounds according to her driver’s license. Originally, you were paralyzed in fear after spending several minutes searching for the mask and failing to find it. Touching her anymore than you already did made you worry that you were leaving behind DNA evidence that the police would use to track you down after she would surely wake and report being attacked. But right as you found your wits and were about to abandon your plan, a faint glow emitted from her face as the mask somehow emerged from underneath her skin. Your fear changed into awe as you realized that not only did you not drop the mask like you thought, but magic it was actually magical! It had to be; there was no other explanation.<br/>
<br/>
When you grabbed the mask, it came off her face effortlessly and you finally got a better look at what she looked like. She wasn’t unattractive but she was also someone that you would ever see on TV or in a magazine ad. She looked quite pale and had a somewhat long hooked nose, high cheek bones and a dimpled chin. Her lips slightly too thin and she had large amount of makeup plastered over her face. The best way you could have described her would be the cute librarian next door without glasses.<br/>
<br/>
You were hesitant at first about going through her purse but you wanted to know more about her. Her purse looked expensive and her wallet was full of credit cards. You weren’t sure how long she was still going to be out but you were sure that you didn’t want to be around when she woke up, so you cut your search short and put everything back where you found it without taking anything. Once the mask was back in your bag, you briskly walked out of the store and towards the parking lot as fast as you could without drawing attention to yourself. The last thing you needed was to have that mall cop stop you again. <br/>
<br/>
<br/>
~~~~~<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
You placed the mask back into your bag and put your truck into drive. As you nervously drove home, you were worried that police knew all about you and would pull you over any second. However, your trance was broken when your father knocked on your window and you realized that you were sitting in your driveway with your engine still going. “Hey Will is there a reason why you’re still in your truck?” he asked. <br/>
<br/>
“I uhh… had a rough day at school today” you told him as an excuse. <br/>
<br/>
He had that look like he wasn’t not pleased with something you did and began lecturing you. “Well if you gotten your ass into bed at a reasonable hour then your day would have probably be a bit easier.” he told you. More often than not these days it seemed that he either wasn’t pleased with anything you did or whatever you did do just wasn’t good enough in his eyes. He broke the awkward silence between the two of you that he created and said “You can mope around later Will. Your mother is putting dinner on the table; so hurry up and wash up.”<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1111343211
author_id: wolfer084
title: Looking professional
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Dinner was tedious as usual. You ate in mostly silence as your parents either praised your younger brother or talked about their day which didn’t interest you. After scarfing down your food, you made an excuse about needing to do some work for school. Once you were safely inside your room and the door was locked, you pulled the mask out of your bag. "I can't fucking believe it! Magic is actually real." you thought as you turned over the mask and looked at the woman's face that was projected inside. <br/>
<br/>
Goosebumps were all over your arms after you opened the book and saw that the next page unglued itself, allowing you to see what to do next. Based on your understanding of your phone’s crude translation, the next spell was meant to finish the mask by sealing it. Like the first spell, the book listed ingredients that you needed followed by instructions and a different sigil. Based on what you translated; it looked like you had everything that you needed already since the spell required the same stuff that went into making the mask. However, you felt a bit annoyed when you read that it had to be burned like when you forged the mask. Your heart sinks as you imagine dealing with the same stink it'll make again. <br/>
<br/>
~~~~~~<br/>
<br/>
Once you double checked and confirmed the book’s instructions, you locked the door to your room; so nobody could interrupt your work. It was early enough in the evening to finish the spell. Unlike when you made the mask, everything was done quicker and more efficiently. Your desk was already in front of your window with an electrical fan to blow out outside as much of the smoke as possible. The new sigil was already on another sheet of paper as you mixed the ingredients into one of your mother’s repurposed salad bowls. The mixture quickly bubbled and popped as that familiar acrid odor filled your room.<br/>
<br/>
Your father tried opening your door before pounding on it. "What the fuck are you doing this late at night Will?” before pausing “Oh, God not again… I don’t care whether or not if it’s for school. You’re not doing any chemistry projects in MY house anymore! Go stink up Caleb’s house next time." He barks before stomping off. He sounded pissed.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
After you finished burning the paste in the bowl, you read over the instructions one more time before applying the paste to the inside of the mask with a paintbrush. It dried quickly and the image of the woman’s face inside the mask was still undiminished. According to the book, all you needed to do now was put the mask on and you would wear a copy of that person’s form. You weren’t exactly sure what that meant but you were about to find out very soon.<br/>
<br/>
Once you were satisfied with getting out as much of the odor as you could, you made sure your bedroom door was still locked. It was getting late and the rest of your family was already going to bed; something you probably should be doing too. However, your newly finished mask hadn’t been tested yet and there was no way you’d be able to sleep without trying it. You turned off your lights and climbed onto your bed. Sitting back against the headboard in just your red boxers and white t-shirt as you studied the inside of the mask as one of the streetlights gave off a faint glow through your uncovered window.<br/>
You gulped as you mentally prepared yourself to try it on. As soon as you dropped the mask onto your face, it felt like all the oxygen was immediately sucked out of your lungs. For a brief moment you tried sucking for air as hard as you could under the mask as you tried to pull it off, but your arms wouldn’t move. Your chest felt heavy as your eyes felt like they were being pulled out from their sockets. A great weight and pressure wracked your body as your consciousness sunk down into dark nothingness. <br/>
<br/>
Then your mind floated back up to the surface -to reality. Your eyes fluttered open and you saw that your room still looked exactly the same but it if not slightly larger. Something was definitely different as you noticed an odd weight on your chest and hair tickling the back of your ears and neck. You lift your head and peer down to see that your t-shirt now had two mountains poking out. "Breasts! You now had breasts on your chest!" you thought. Immediately you grabbed them but when your hands came into your view, you paused. Even your hands were completely different. They were now pale and had long and slender fingers with short but perfectly shaped nails at their ends. As you grabbed the two large mounds on your chest and gently squeezed, a pair of erect nipples rose up from underneath the fabric of your shirt as a faint wave of pleasure radiated from your chest.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh fuck" you whispered aloud. The squeakier, higher pitched voice that came out of your mouth surprised you as your now smooth and hairless legs inadvertently rubbed against each other. You pulled your hands away from your chest in curiosity and brought them down to greet your thicker, hairless thighs. You lifted one of your legs in the air as you laid back so you could get a better look at it from behind your cleavage. It was hard to decide what fascinated you more; Your long and shapely legs or your giant breasts that couldn’t be contained with your hands?<br/>
<br/>
A realization hit you. There had to be much more that you haven’t seen yet. You needed to find a mirror quick. As you quickly sat up, you felt the strange sensations of having both longer hair hanging off your head and an unfamiliar weight bounce, jiggle and hang off your chest. A soft feminine giggle escaped your lips once your breasts settled down. Once you stood up, it became more noticeable that your boxers felt quite constricting, so you hooked your thumbs and slipped them off you and down to the floor. It was difficult to see down past the large breasts on your chest but you were barely able to catch a glimpse a dark curly bush between your legs where your junk was supposed to be.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 11113432111
author_id: wolfer084
title: Being unprofessional
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You quietly tiptoed over to your closet and opened it to get to the mirror that hung on the backside of the door. When you finally saw your reflection, you couldn’t help but gasp at it. The woman from the department store was staring back at you with an equal look of surprise that you had but she also looked different. Her brown hair was hanging straight down instead of being in a bun, and her face looked different without any makeup on.  Unlike when you saw her earlier, she was now completely bottomless and you could see a dark patch of curly hair between her meaty thighs as she cupped her breasts while wearing on your t-shirt. <br/>
<br/>
~~~~~<br/>
<br/>
"This is insane. I can’t believe it worked" you said to yourself softly as you smiled at your reflection in the mirror. Even your voice was completely different. You brought one of your hands to your new face as your reflection mimicked you. It has hard to believe that you were staring at a semi-nude woman that was right in front of you but it was even harder to believe that semi-nude woman was YOU!<br/>
<br/>
You examine your face closely in front your closet mirror. "Hi, hello, hey.” you quietly said to yourself with a sly smile. You really wanted to test out your new voice more but you didn’t want to risk waking your family up and trying to explain why some busty, almost naked woman was in their son’s room in the middle of the night. This woman definitely looked different without all that makeup on. Her largish hooked nose was probably her biggest detracting feature along with some faint wrinkles that she had on her forehead. Under her eyes had some bags that looked like they came from either too much work or not enough of sleep. It’s now obvious why she was wearing so much makeup when you saw her in the store as you ran both of your hands ran through your now longer, dark brown hair until it stopped just past your shoulders. You then stuck out your tongue and proceeded to make a few goofy faces before running it along your teeth and finding out that even your teeth were different. You then flashed a big smile as if you were just told that you won the lottery and got a great look at your perfect teeth. You were definitely this Amber Goodman woman.<br/>
<br/>
The next thing or rather things you really wanted to see were her tits. You were amazed by how they pleasurable and different they felt so far, but now you wanted an uncensored look. It was a surprise to you when you saw how big they were when you first woke up; especially since when you saw this woman in the store, it didn’t look like she was this busty. Reach down, you pulled your white t-shirt off over your head as your new breasts spilled out and bounced around. As you looked at them, you guessed that they had to be at the very least a D cup. Despite their size they didn’t sag that much and had large brown nipples that were still erect.  As you pinched your nipples and felt them tingle, you rated this woman’s tits at a solid 8 or 9. She may have an average looking face but her tits definitely made up for it. You did think that she needed to go on a diet or hit the gym as you ran your hands down to your belly and pinched the bit of pudge on it had on it. It wasn’t that bad yet, but it would get much worse if she didn’t do something about it. You tried a few jumping jacks but found that they weren’t very comfortable –particularly when your breasts bounced wildly around. <br/>
<br/>
You bend forward and ogle your breasts in the mirror as they hang down in all their naturally glory from your chest when you begin to notice how they’re straining your back. With the initial excitement of seeing and playing with titties wearing off, you glanced up and became excited again when you noticed your bare ass sticking up. You doubted that this women ever got excited when she saw her body naked in the mirror. She was used to seeing it but for you it was something new and exciting. It wasn’t an everyday thing to wear the body of another person –let alone a woman that had big tits and a vagina. Tired of feeling the dull ache in your back that your unsupported breasts were causing, you stood back up and turned around so you could get a good look at your ass in the mirror over your shoulder. You compared this woman’s ass to the women you’ve seen in porn as you squeezed both of your ass cheeks. It wasn’t very big but it definitely was larger than most of girls at school. You felt a bit disappointed when you slapped it and it didn’t jiggle like the women in porn videos did. Still it was pleasant to look at despite seeing a bit of cellulite on it. The fact that your hands were free to squeeze this woman's ass as much as you wanted was amazing –even if the ass belonged to you for the moment.<br/>
<br/>
You peered down past your breasts as a warm but wet feeling came from your crotch. As you refaced the mirror stared down towards your crotch area, one of your hands wandered down and ran its fingers through the dark curly hair between your legs until they stopped at a fleshy slit. "I can’t believe the first pussy that I ever touched was between my own legs." you thought as a shiver ran through your body. <br/>
<br/>
It was only briefly that your fingers slid into the vagina that was nestled between your legs before stopping out of fear that your moans might wake your parents. As great as this woman’s body felt, you were really curious to find out who this "Amber Marie Goodman" really was; so you tiptoed back into your bed and grabbed your phone. To your surprise, your phone wouldn’t unlock when it saw your face. You tried it a couple of times before giving up and manually typing in your password. A quick Google search of her name as well as your hometown came up with a couple results. The first result you found appeared to be a website of a local law firm. When you opened the link, it brought you to a page that stated: "Our Team" and had a portrait of her on it! She was a bit more tanned and looked happier than when you saw her at Nirdlingers. Her bio read:<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
"Litigation attorney, Amber Goodman, recently shifted her practice and joined Rosenberg's Injury Attorneys in order to focus on representing individuals that have been harmed by the negligence of others. Ms. Goodman graduated cum laude from Colorado State University School of Law in 2012 and also holds Bachelor’s degrees in both psychology and political science from the University of Denver. After law school, she served as a law clerk for the Honorable Rachael Owens at the Colorado Court of Appeals. Ms. Goodman then began her career as a litigation attorney serving as an Assistant Chief Counsel for the Department of Homeland Security, as well as an associate attorney in another law firm in Colorado. Ms. Goodman is a member of the State Bar of Colorado. From the beginning of her practice, Ms. Goodman has always handled cases in active litigation and has spent the past 4 years at Rosenberg’s focused on handling law suits that deal with catastrophic injuries, premises liability, and dram shop liability.<br/>
Amber is an Colorado native that prides herself on being able to advocate for community members in our community that have been injured and are also unfamiliar with the process and procedures of civil law suits."<br/>
<br/>
"Holy shit!" you thought to yourself. “I'm wearing the body of an expensive lawyer...”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Closing your phone, you pulled the covers over your head and spend a bit more time caressing your breasts and exploring the fleshy folds where your cock used to be. Your body was easy to stimulate and was quite pleasurable. However, you couldn’t go as far as you wanted since you're in your own house and were terrified of being discovered by your parents. If they found some strange woman masturbating in their son’s bed in the middle of the night, there would be all sorts of trouble that not even the real Amber could get you out of.<br/>
<br/>
After a couple hours, you realized that you were extremely tired and that you needed to get up in a few hours to go to school. Even though you ended up getting distracted, you learned more than enough about what this mask could do and it needed to come off. You climbed out bed retrieved the book from your bottom dresser drawer. While using your phone’s screen to illuminate the page that you were on earlier, you searched for that part about removing the mask as your borrowed breasts distracted you as they dangled off your chest. According to the book, all you need to do is recite an incantation and the mask will come off. <br/>
<br/>
Once you got the mask was off, you saw that it was so late that it was now basically early. You were extremely tired and figured that a couple hours of sleep would be better than no sleep at all.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 111134321111
author_id: wolfer084
title: Who needs school if you're a Lawyer?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You were woken up by pounding on your door and the screeching buzz your alarm clock.<br/>
<br/>
"Will? Are you getting up?" your mom yelled out as you heard your doorknob rattle.<br/>
<br/>
Glancing over at your clock, you see that your alarm has been going off almost half an hour when you heard more banging on your door again. “Will! You better be getting up. If I find out that you are late to school again, you’re going to be grounded all weekend.” she told you.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" You grumble aloud before irritably lying to her and saying "I'm up!”. You feel the dread of getting out of bed as you rubbed your eyes but as you quickly stopped as you glanced at the clock again. This time you were more awake than before and noticed that it was already 7:51. “Fuck…” you grumbled as you realized how far behind you already were.<br/>
<br/>
You jumped out of bed in a panic as your mom called out to you again. "Will, are you going to take a shower this morning or are not?” she asked again as something fell out from your bed and onto the floor when you got up.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit..." you mutter before answering back "I'm coming!" as you found your discarded boxers from last night on the floor and put them back on again. As you pulled them up your legs, last night's adventure come rushing back to you. <br/>
<br/>
You quickly rushed over to the side of your bed and picked the mask up off the floor. At a quick glance, it looked undamaged which made you feel relieved. You hastily hid it in your bottom dresser drawer along with your book before shouting "I'm hoping in the shower now Mom.” even though you were sure that she was no longer outside your door. <br/>
<br/>
While it felt great to have your manhood back, your memory of wearing Amber's body last night was enjoyably different and it made you yearn to put the Amber mask back on again. “That'll have to wait for tonight.” you thought to yourself as you felt a growing erection in your boxers.<br/>
<br/>
You were pretty sure that Guinness Book of World Records should have you listed as having taken the world’s fastest shower ever. While racing to school and eating a Pop-Tart at the same time, you managed to get to school in 12 minutes when it was normally a 20 minute drive. Strolling around the corner and into your first class, you make it to Mr. Walberg's class with seconds to spare. Everyone was already mostly seated and Kelsey Blankenship cursed at you when you accidentally bumped into her desk as you tried to get to your seat. “Watch where you’re going loser.” she told you. <br/>
<br/>
Geoff Mansfield snickered at you like you were walking around with a giant dick on your forehead. “Cocksucker.” You muttered under your breath as you walked past him. It was bad enough that your ex, Lisa dumped you for him but lately he seemed to always make it a point to rub in your face that he was superior to you.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
As you take your seat, Caleb is also smirking at you. "What happened to you this morning man? You look like you took a shower in a car wash." he said coyly.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
"Don’t start with me today asshole. I woke up late and I’m not in the mood." you told him through your teeth as Mr. Walberg started teaching his class.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
"I wake up late all the time, but you don't see me looking I got dressed while taking a shower. Did you even turn the water off before you put your clothes on?" he whispered back as he pretended to get something out of his backpack.<br/>
<br/>
~~~~~~~<br/>
<br/>
Your day at school so far had been miserable and put you on edge. Even Caleb’s comments were like pouring gasoline over a fire. Going to school has always felt like being in a rat race… one that you couldn’t do anything about until now.<br/>
<br/>
Thinking back to last night when you put on that mask that you made and became a perfect copy of Amber Goodman gave you an epiphany. Why even be here? Not just school but as Will Prescott. Your life was pretty pathetic right now; especially since Lisa dumped you. Your academic prospects looked dismal at best, you didn’t have very many friends and most people in school regarded you as a loser. But with this new book of yours, you could change all of that. An idea already began forming in your head…<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the day went by smoothly. Stuff that should have irritated or pissed you off no longer seemed to bother you. After all, they weren’t going to be your concerns for much longer. Your new plan was going to kill two birds with one stone. The first one was to get out of this shitty life of yours and the second one was to continue learning more spells from your new book so you could grow your power.<br/>
<br/>
Money and privacy is what you needed most. Since you didn’t have a job, you were completely at the mercy of your parents giving you handouts; which often had strings attached such as explaining or showing them the fruits of your purchases. At the moment you didn’t have any more money to buy the ingredients needed to make another mask; let alone whatever else that would probably be needed afterwards for other new spells. But you did already have a mask of Amber Goodman…<br/>
<br/>
She wasn’t your ideal candidate but assuming her identity had plenty of upsides. Just thinking back to when you explored her form last night reminded you of one. She wasn't the most attractive woman by your standards but she looked reasonable and felt even better when you wore her body. However, the best part about becoming Amber had nothing to do with her looks and everything to do with her life. Since she was a lawyer, she surely had to have more than enough money and resources that you needed to carry out the second part of your plan. The thought of making more money in an hour or two than what your dad made in an entire day sounded very appealing. But the first problem with your plan was that you didn’t know much about her aside from the brief bio you found on her law firm’s website.<br/>
<br/>
As soon as school was out, you hopped in your truck and raced home. There was a few things you needed before you could start working on this new plan. In your room, you grabbed the Amber mask, your spell book as well as several other school books. Only your mother was home and you made up a story about how you were worried about falling behind in class and that you would be out late getting tutored. Surprisingly enough, your mom bought your story.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1111343211111
author_id: gogostopgogo
title: Wolfer Plagiarized my Chapters (Beware.)
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Hello everyone sorry to interrupt this great story, but the last 5 chapters you read posted by the User Wolfer were actually written by me (under an account I deleted about one year ago.)<br/>
<br/>
 When I read these chapter I was baffled to why they were reposted in another part of the story Titled exactly the same as before, However the ones I originally posted have just been deleted! I had hopped my anonymous account with the postings would stay up forever, instead I see them taken down and have another user come and steal my work. This is scary because I often post stories here and then delete my accounts leaving the posts with an Anonymous user name, but now people can take credit for the old writings I have done! <br/>
<br/>
Its nice to have a fan of my work but to make them plagiarized is not cool. I am willing to even continue writing these old chapters (I wrote about a few years ago) if people want a continuation of it, (As this is where I left of about 1 year ago)<br/>
<br/>
I will also NOT be deleting my accounts again to not allow someone to ever plagiarize my writings on here again.<br/>
<br/>
More stories will follow...sincerely the author of the last 5 chapters. </span></div></div>


path: 111134322
author_id: nirxor
title: The MILF
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The debate took you too long to make a solid choice. When you returned to the business woman, she was already on her way out of the store, leaving you with the Latina shopping for her daughter. Looking back you see the woman draging her child into the changing room. In which the little girl tells her. "I have to potty!" The chat between the two breaks them apart long enough for you to get close enough to prepare yourself to move. She takes a door sign for the changing rooms, in which she has a few articles of clothing for herself as well, as she close the door, you slide in, effortlessly placing the mask on her face, before she falls back, you grab her arms and gently put her on the bench inside the changing room. with glee you smile as the mask sinks into her face, you sit next to her, studying her, you can clearly see she is very much a youthful woman. Her skin has a few scratches here and there, but her face is gorgeous, is doesn't look much older than you, maybe she isn't as old as you thought, when you remember, exactly where you are, and, how many things can go wrong. Quietly you wait, hearing every footstep, whisper, knock, and, every little noise, it feels like hours have past. The door handles are being rattled, but soon it stops when you hear the lady's daughter outside, asking for her mother. She is lead away by what sounds like the same woman who hassled you earlier. You breath a sign of relief when the mask appears again.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Yes! Yes! Yes! I got her, now to get out of here!"</i> <br/>
<br/>
You think, listening until the announcement of one little girl named "Julia Luna at the front desk." You check to make sure you have everything, but before anything, you look at the clothes the woman had grabbed, not thinking about it, you take the bras and panties with the one pair of jeans and shirt she chose, and slip out. The same security lady sitting at the front with the girl, she tries to entertain her, but the port child is having a hard time calming down. It drives a knife into your heart, reluctantly, you approach the two, hoping you don't get a shake down for trying to help.<br/>
<br/>
"Excuse me, I think she was in the changing room. I saw her and her mother sperate at them maybe she got the wrong set of rooms." You say to the lady, she pauses and looks you over, then speaking into her walkie-talkie, another assistant confirms it and begins to check all the rooms. <br/>
<br/>
"I haven't stopped watching you. This isn't going to get me to stop." She says crossing her arms. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Don't worry, I need to check the sizes, of the clothes." You tell, akwaradly failing to get your point across. She raises her eyebrow at you, sending you suspicious readings. "Am going to play a female role in the play." You blurt out. <br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." She says, looking at you with more of a unsurprised face. "And I guess you like to cross dress too?" <br/>
<br/>
You feel your checks redden, the blood rushing to them isn't for show, but in a slow, akward, and, very odd way, you nod your head. Her eyes pop, almost flabbergasted by the commitment you have to your role, she cracks a smile.<br/>
<br/>
"What's cross dress?" The little girl asks, innocently looking at you.<br/>
<br/>
"It's for a play, am playing a woman." You tell her. The toddler looks you over, she blinks with her eyes a couple of times, then says as bluntly as possible.<br/>
<br/>
"Your too ugly to be a girl." The security lady howls with laughter. Tearing up at your misfortune of playing the part. The girl just giggles as you agree with her. Eventually the mother is found and all is well, she doesn't even remember you plundering her with the mask. Not that it matters. You have a body, a face, and some clothes. <br/>
<br/>
"Hey." The voice of security calls once more. "Sorry I pegged you for a theif, we don't have the best surveillance here." She says as you leave. <br/>
<br/>
"No it's no problem, I uh don't normally shop like this." You say motioning to your body. She smiles and waves as you exit the building. You can't help but grin as you slip out of the store and head home.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">*****</div><br/>
<br/>
Supper wasn't as bad as it could have been, you lied to your parents telling them you caught up in school work with someone in your class. Your dad doesn't say much other than you have extra chores to do Sunday after church, while your mother asks about "the girl" you studied with. It ends quickly, but your barely able to stop your self from throwing the mask on right there, the sealant takes some time to make and requires a good rub down. You had some prepared ahead of time, but you can't wait to try the mask on. You wait until midnight to place the mask on your face. <br/>
<br/>
<i>"Where am I? Last thing I remember is the changing room and that boy."</i> Her mind races, she looks about the house confused and shocked by where she is, until you arise from the depths of her subconscious, the depths of Sophia Solis, mother of four, dancer, cook, and, personal trainer. It's practically her life, she cooks for her family, does yoga, works for these insane curves her husband loves so much!  Then she dances the night away, her kids are dependability, but the they rely on each other more, her daughter loves to cook for the family and her child love her food too.<br/>
<br/>
"Wow..... Am her..... Am her in everyway......"<br/>
<br/>
You say to yourself, you go into your bathroom, luckily you have your own bathroom, and you examine your prize. She is a perfect milf. She isn't aged by stress or anything, no, she is the image of fit milf. She is flexible, tender, and, has bounce to her ounce. It's practically a wet dream being her like this, feeling how it is to be a milf. She is only in her early thirties, hell she had kids way young! She isn't even fully aware of it, but she didn't care, her husband has stuck with her. Lucas, he knows you so well, how he took you from Mexico City all the way here, with your first child, you were fifteen, he was seventeen, he got a job and got into college early, he never gave up. He became a doctor, and he  kept his promises. God, you could use him right now! Standing nude in front of a mirror admiring yourself? That's his job! You can feel Sophia's body wanting to explore, to be tamed, but you wanted to try the clothes you stole too, going to your bag, you take the bra and panties, fitting then just right, and slip into her chosen attire. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh wow! I look good like this, a casual mom! I wish they had some cute sandals and shoes, I could totally use a good pair, oh well! William's mom might have some that can fit my feet!" <br/>
<br/>
You say, Sophia's mannerisms already out, you return to looking at her body, posing sexily at your mirror. Taking the time to get used to it, you realize something important.<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't showered today."<br/>
<br/>
So you correct that, slowly removing your clothes, dancing and popping to the beat of a song only this woman can hear, you shake it all off and dance more in your shower.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">******</div><br/>
<br/>
The next day at school is you sleeping through most of the first few classes. You didn't realize that women could take hours getting to and out of bed. Luckily your dad and mom had already left the house. You were late, but that wasn't something to be worried about, after all Sophia did make you an omelette, with all of her motherly love. You savored every little part of it, before you left, you tossed her clothes in a Walmart bag and tossed it into a crawl space, a place your parents and brother never touch. It's almost sad, but you want to see what other people are like, maybe you could use her to get some more faces, or maybe grab some local ones. You smile at the prospect of being another one woman, that's when you see Chelsea Cooper walking to her afternoon class. Its sad you didn't get her mom, but maybe Chelsea is still available, or maybe you need to check the book out some more. There might be a little more information about these masks.</span></div></div>


path: 1111344
author_id: seuzz
title: Tackling a Teacher
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You need a test subject for this mask that you made. You're going to have to put it onto someone's face—that much is obvious—but how are you going to talk someone into doing that? And if you can't talk them into doing it, how are you going to force it onto them? By mugging them with it?<br/>
<br/>
Either way, you need to get someone alone, which is a pretty good reason not to go looking in the theater or the library; and though that girl in the tutor's office was by herself, she was obviously waiting for the tutor to come back.<br/>
<br/>
No, as dangerous as it seems, your safest option is to try the experiment on a teacher.<br/>
<br/>
But who?<br/>
<br/>
Not one of the teachers you currently have. You don't want your fingerprints on whatever happens. For the same reason you shouldn't try it on a teacher you had last year, or the year before. Maybe one of your freshman teachers wouldn't remember you, but that still seems too risky.<br/>
<br/>
Also, you probably shouldn't try it on a teacher whose room is in a wing where you currently have a class, for they might remember you if they see you struggling through the hallways between classes. So that rules out an English teacher or a math teacher or a science teacher—<br/>
<br/>
Then it hits you. You know <i>exactly</i> where to find a teacher who doesn't know you and will probably never see you again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You flinch at the slap of shoes on the hardwood floors; the bang of a ball hitting the backboard; the hoarse, shouted curses, echoing off the bleachers and rafters. The horror of your freshman and sophomore P.E. classes comes washing back over you even before you step from the gym foyer onto the court.<br/>
<br/>
It's after-school practice, but they're playing a full-on game, five against five. A full contact game, too. As you watch, Gordon Black, the hulking captain of the basketball team, wheels with the ball and knocks Jonas Martin clean off his feet and out of bounds. But Black doesn't pause, and drives down the court toward the basket on your end of the gym. Three opposing players rendezvous to block him, but he explodes past them, like a semi blowing through a roadblock of police cruisers, and hoists the ball through the basket. Jeremy Richards—who used to be your friend back in middle school, before a growth spurt went to his head—retrieves the ball, and the players race back down to the other end.<br/>
<br/>
You watch for another minute, then let your eye drift up to the bleachers opposite you. There's maybe two dozen students sitting there. Most of them are occupied with their cell phones, but they lift their eyes occasionally to watch the practice. There are more guys than girls, but the spectators that count (assuredly!) are the three cheerleaders sitting halfway up at the half-court line: Chelsea Cooper, Kendra Saunders, and Gloria Rea. Chelsea is at the very center, naturally, for she's not only the squad captain, she's also dating Gordon Black, and that, you suppose, makes her the queen of the school. She's snooty enough to be royalty, anyway. The only times she's ever looked at you is to sneer, and it's a tired sneer, too, as though she resents even the effort to put you in your place with a look. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i> You've been staring at her and her friends too long, and they've noticed. To your horror, Kendra, her eyes still locked on you, leans over to whisper to Chelsea, and she looks up from her phone stare at you. You lower your eyes and fight the mortifying blush you feel stealing up your neck and face. You hope she doesn't decide to do anything about this social faux pas. There are plenty of stories of her siccing her brutal boyfriend on people who have offended her; and Gordon Black—all six and a half feet of burly muscle—is the jealous type anyway.<br/>
<br/>
You duck your head and hurry to where you were going: the offices of the P.E. coaches.<br/>
<br/>
They're on this side of the court, inside the wide mezzanine that separates the gym's two full-sized basketball courts. You pass through a doorway and hook a right. Before you stretches a narrow hall, with office doors, like the entrances to rabbit holes, on either side.<br/>
<br/>
The first few doors are closed: Coach Tesla, Coach Stokes, Coach Porter. Coach Acuna's door is ajar, but when you knock softly and push it open you find it empty.<br/>
<br/>
But the next door down is wide open. "Coach Schell," says the name plate on the door, but you concentrate on the woman behind the desk.<br/>
<br/>
And well might you concentrate on her!<br/>
<br/>
Half the PE coaches are men: grizzled and hairy when they aren't grizzled and balding. The female coaches, in general, aren't much better. Coach Tesla, for instance, looks like an old bag lady, and has the face and voice of a bullfrog. Coach Carter was probably once a real looker, but twenty years of hard sunlight have turned her skin to stiff leather. But Coach Schell ...<br/>
<br/>
Well, she immediately reminds you of Chelsea Cooper. She could be Chelsea's older sister. Or an older cousin.<br/>
<br/>
She's in her twenties, you'd bet, and her oval face is framed by dirty blonde hair that falls to her elbows. Her eyes are dark green, and her unblemished skin glows a light gold. She's wearing a tight blue t-shirt under a jeans jacket—a large, neon-pink backpack rests on her desk, so it looks like she's getting ready to leave—and her large breasts strain against the fabric of her shirt.<br/>
<br/>
She must be a new hire. You surely would have noticed her your freshman or sophomore years, when you had to troop out to the gym for P.E. classes.<br/>
<br/>
She looks up before you can knock, and if she's caught you gaping at her, she pretends not to notice. "Yeah?" she says, and her eyebrows go up.<br/>
<br/>
"Guh ... Uh ... Hi," you squeak. All the bearings in your brain seize up. Now that the moment has come, you realize that you have absolutely no idea what to do or say. Your face starts to burn.<br/>
<br/>
"I, uh, found this thing," you stammer as you swing your backpack around and set it on the desk. The coach's eyebrows rise further; she probably thinks you're about to have a stroke or something. "Uh, I found it out ... Uh ... There." You wave your hand in the general direction of New Jersey. "And I thought maybe someone should, uh, look at it? Say what it is? Maybe you know whose it is?" With fumbling fingers you get your pack open and yank the mask out. Your bag falls off the desk, dumping books and papers all over the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"We have a lost and found," she says. But you ignore her, and drop the mask onto the desk and dive to retrieve your stuff. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh, do you?" you gasp as you scoop your shit together. Your heart hammers at your breastbone. "I guess I could drop it there. But I thought maybe you, uh, might know whose it is."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Dammit, dammit, dammit,</i> you think to yourself. How the fuck are you going to talk her into putting the mask to her face when you can't even get your tongue to work right? As for jumping at her and putting it on her yourself, even to you that would feel like one step short of rape. <br/>
<br/>
As you pull your stuff together, you're aware that she's fallen silent, and you sit up and peek over the top of the desk, to find her holding the mask and examining it curiously. "It's, uh, like a Halloween mask," you croak.<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a look. "No eye holes," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure there are," you blurt out. "It's transparent. Behind the eyes. You have get it up real close to your face," you add as she cocks a skeptical eyebrow at you. "Seriously, I freaked out when I noticed it."<br/>
<br/>
Her brow furrows and her lips twist into a skeptical smile. But she raises the mask up and peers into it. "It doesn't look translucent," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"You have to get it close." Sweat pops out all over your body, and you rise into a crouch.<br/>
<br/>
She pulls it closer to her face.<br/>
<br/>
For a hanging moment you do nothing.<br/>
<br/>
Then, you reach up and shove the mask at her. It and your hand meet her face with a hard blow.<br/>
<br/>
The mask vanishes, and you stifle a yelp.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It went into her. By God, it went into her! There's no other way to describe what happened. You pushed the mask onto her face and it ... sank through the skin and bone and went right inside her. Like pushing a grape into a bowl of Jell-O.<br/>
<br/>
Except it didn't leave a hole or indentation behind.<br/>
<br/>
Then her eyes crossed and she face-planted right onto the desk. After staring at her in mute horror for a solid minute, you finally had the presence of mind to slam the office door shut and lock it.<br/>
<br/>
You are now pacing the narrow space in front of her desk. <i>Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!</i> What to do? Panic? You're already doing that. Call for help? Get the school nurse? And tell them what, that you punched a coach in the face with a magical mask? That you were passing on by and you found her like this?<br/>
<br/>
She is still alive, at least. You checked her for breathing and a pulse, and she's still got those. Her eyes are open, but unseeing.<br/>
<br/>
Should you run away? No one saw you come in. If you could get away without being seen, then someone would find Coach Schell and take her to the hospital and no one would know you had anything to do with it.<br/>
<br/>
Except you and your conscience. <br/>
<br/>
How did you fuck up? Maybe you weren't supposed to put the mask onto her face. But what else were you supposed to do with it? Why couldn't that dumb book have clearer instructions?<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe—and this really feels like you're grasping at straws—it's doing exactly what it's supposed to do, and if you stick around you'll see it all turn out okay.</span></div></div>


path: 11113441
author_id: seuzz
title: The First Mask
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You lean against the office door—now closed and locked—and chew on your fingernails. When you've torn the ones on your right hand to bloody shreds, you start on your left.<br/>
<br/>
Voices sound in the hallway: a man and a woman, talking. You double-check the lock, shut off the lights and hold your breath.<br/>
<br/>
Three hard knocks sound against the door, right where your ear is, and your heart tries exploding out of your chest. The knob rattles. Voices mutter.<br/>
<br/>
A ringtone sounds in the dark, and your racing blood pounds in your ears. More knocks at the door, and a woman's voice now sounds clearly from the other side of the door: "Cathy?"<br/>
<br/>
A man's voice says something, then over the still ringing phone you hear footsteps moving down the hall. You wait for a count of ten, then flip on the lights. Frantically you search all about the unconscious Coach Schell until you find her cell phone and shut it off. You fight down the vomit that is welling up inside your chest.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Screw it.</i> You'll count till ten again, then take your chances on an escape. Your nerve fails, though, and as you fight to regain it you notice a glow from the desk. You blink. <br/>
<br/>
The mask has reappeared, wedged between Coach Schell's face and the desk. As you watch, its glow dims and fades away.<br/>
<br/>
With your heart in your throat you gingerly pull it out. You check long enough to see that she's still breathing—and she is—then force the mask back into your bag.<br/>
<br/>
You're not going to waste time counting to ten again, and flee the office, lingering just long enough to make sure that the door latches securely behind you. On trembling legs you trot down the hall, then sprint out of the gym. No one stops you, and if anyone sees you, you don't see them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a few hours before you're able to find out what you've made and done. As soon as you get home your mom sends you out to pick up some groceries; then on your return you are dragooned into helping to prepare dinner and to set the table. <br/>
<br/>
Then your dad corners you with an ultimatum: Are you going to apply for that job at Salopek?<br/>
<br/>
You'd dearly love to say "no." Aside from wanting to maximize your free time, it sounds pretty awful. Salopek is an engineering company—aerospace of some kind, but you pay as little attention to your dad's work as you think you can get away with—but you're not qualified to do any real work there. From what your dad has said, it sounds like it would be a lot of grunt work: delivering mail, sorting packages, maybe cleaning up some of the engineering bays. <br/>
<br/>
But that mask you made consumed almost all of the cash you had on hand. If you have to buy any more stuff, where are you going to get the money? Your dad is unlikely to give or lend you any right after you tell him you're not going to take that job.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell you tomorrow?" you ask. "I want to talk to Caleb first?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's Caleb got to do with it?" he asks. His eyes narrow. "Something to do with that chemistry experiment?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." <i>Damn.</i> He remembers that stink you made up in your room when you made the mask. But of course. He remembers every stupid thing you've ever done. "He was just talking about maybe he wanted it."<br/>
<br/>
"Does he need the money more than you?"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug, even though you know that Caleb—who lives with his single, working mother—could use the income. "Let me just talk to him. We'll flip a coin or something."<br/>
<br/>
You wince after the words are out, for it sounds like you've just said you'll take the job if Caleb won't. But your dad only grunts and orders you to wash up for dinner.<br/>
<br/>
So it's not until after eating and helping to clear the table that you finally get to the mask and the grimoire.<br/>
<br/>
You're astonished—and more than a little disconcerted—to see that there's been a change to the book since you last looked in it. A light oval patch, almost like a stain, has appeared on the page with the spell on it, and at first you wonder if you'd carelessly set a plate or a glass on it at some point. But then you recognize that it's about the same size and shape as the mask. With a prickling anticipation, you lay the mask on the page. When you lift it, the page comes away with it, and turns.<br/>
<br/>
You take out your cell phone, and sentence by sentence, and word by word, you translate the passage of Latin on the other side. It's a set of instructions for finishing the mask, and after you've set down a crude translation—and fiddled with the precise wording—you settle back to see what you've made, and what you can do with it.<br/>
<br/>
It confirms that the mask has now "absorbed the form" of the person you set it on, but it still doesn't say if it's only the face or the entire body. But it now adds that the mask has to be "sealed" before it can be used. If you don't seal it, but lay it against another face, it will absorb that form as well, and merge it with the first form to create a new one. The additional abbreviation "Etc." suggests to you that this process can continue indefinitely.<br/>
<br/>
But how do you "seal a mask"?<br/>
<br/>
You turn to the next page—it looks like a new spell. It begins, as the first spell did, with what looks like a set of ingredients, followed by instructions and a sigil. Some translation work shows that you have on hand all the ingredients already—it's much the same stuff that went into making the mask—and that it has to be burned as the other stuff did. Your heart sinks as you imagine the stink it'll make. You decide to put off making it until tomorrow, after school, when your dad won't be home. <br/>
<br/>
You try turning the page, though without much hope. And yes, it's stuck firmly against the pages that follow, just as the previous pages had been. It looks like you'll have to perform this spell before you can unlock. That's another reason to get it done tomorrow afternoon: so you can see if the spell that follows will require lots of new ingredients.<br/>
<br/>
Having exhausted the book, you pick up the mask to see what, if any changes, have come over it since your adventure this afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
At first glance, it looks the same. It's still the color of a cloudless summer sky. It still has highlights playing over its surface. But now those glinting highlights don't shift as you turn the mask this way and that, and as you study them they seem to form a pattern. They gleam just under the surface, and follow the curve, so that it looks like there's another face inside the mask, whose chin and cheeks and nose and lips fit against those of the mask.<br/>
<br/>
You don't recognize it, so you can't be sure, but it looks a little like ... Coach Schell?<br/>
<br/>
The book says it would copy her form. Does that mean that this is her face inside it?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div> "Suppose I got you that job at my dad's work," you say to Caleb the next morning as you're hanging out before classes start.<br/>
<br/>
"What, are you the hiring manager out there?" he retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"Let me finish! Suppose I got you that job. You know, if I told my dad you'd be perfect for it."<br/>
<br/>
"Like you said you were going to do."<br/>
<br/>
"When did I—? Shut up!" You glare him. "If I got you that job, would you lend me some money? Give me, like, your first paycheck?"<br/>
<br/>
His eyebrows arch. "This sounds suspiciously like you're angling for a kickback."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm only asking for a loan! I need some money."<br/>
<br/>
"For what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb rocks backward on his heels. "Look at it from my point of view, Will," he says. "If I was a bank—"<br/>
<br/>
"You're not a bank, man. You're supposed to be my best friend."<br/>
<br/>
"It's the principle I'm talking about. Oh, but hey, speaking of principal," he says, "if I lent you this money, would you pay interest on it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't even got any interest in talking about this anymore, cocksucker!"<br/>
<br/>
"Fine. Then you don't get a loan. I've got a use for that money." He rubs his hands. "If and when I can get my hands on some."<br/>
<br/>
"For what?"<br/>
<br/>
He peers down his nose at you. "Loan me a hundred and I'll tell you my business plans."<br/>
<br/>
You flip him off, and that's all that gets said.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You race home from school and hurl yourself into your bedroom before your mom can catch you. Rapidly—for you'd gotten up early to set out the ingredients for the spell—you assemble a little work area in front of the open window. For good measure, you fetch an oscillating fan from the hall closet to blow the stench outside. You mix the ingredients together in a bowl, set them on the sigil, and stick a lighter into it. It bursts into a low flame.<br/>
<br/>
But no ghastly stink comes rolling out as before. Maybe you did something wrong?<br/>
<br/>
The flames dance and lick  up all the ingredients. When they snuff themselves out, a thick slurry is left behind.<br/>
<br/>
When you pick up the bowl, the fan blows the page up and flips it over. You set the bowl aside and snatch up your cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
Half an hour later, after translating two pages and doing a little online research, you have discovered two things. First, that you have now made that sealant, and if you apply it to the mask you will be able to put it on and transform yourself into "the exact image" of the person it copied.<br/>
<br/>
Second—and this preys more on your mind, for your dad will be home in a little while—you're going need at least a hundred dollars to buy stuff for the next spell.</span></div></div>


path: 111134414
author_id: seuzz
title: In Bed as a Stranger
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>According to the instructions, the stuff you made has to be applied to the inner surface of the mask—brushed on, like paint. You're in the garage, searching for a brush, when the door goes up and your dad slides the family SUV in. By the expression on his face, you can tell he wants to talk to you, and you can bet what it's about.<br/>
<br/>
"I talked to Caleb," you blurt out before he can say anything. "He's got something else lined up, so he's not going to apply for that job at your work."<br/>
<br/>
"And you?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Damn. Time to improvise.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I also talked to Keith," you say. "He said that it looks like there's going to be an opening at the donut shop where he works. I think I'd rather work there."<br/>
<br/>
Your dad stares. "A donut shop?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's something, right?" You flush. "Anyway, the way you talked about it, the job out at your work is—" You veer away from the phrase <i>a lot of scut work</i> as your dad's lower lip turns down. "Like, mail delivery and stuff, right? Manual work? And I know Keith, I'd be working with him."<br/>
<br/>
Your dad snorts. "Salopek would look better on a resume." He turns away with a frown, then turns back and takes out his wallet.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll need a haircut if you're going to work in the service industry," he says as he takes out a bill. "Get yourself one." He hands you a twenty.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Sweet!</i> That's twenty dollars toward your next purchase!<br/>
<br/>
Then, on the way back up to your bedroom with a small paint brush, it occurs to you that your dad will want to see results from that twenty dollar investment. Which means you <i>will</i> have to use it on a haircut, not on magical supplies.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're called into the kitchen to help with dinner before you can get any more work done on the mask, and after eating you decide to be a good boy and get your homework done. Besides, you suspect that you won't be able to do anything—not anything really fun—with the mask until after everyone has gone to bed.<br/>
<br/>
So you struggle through your Calculus homework and push deeper into the selections from <i>The Iliad</i> for English. For Career Planning you go online to visit a couple of corporate websites as part of an assignment, then get distracted by YouTube.<br/>
<br/>
But your eye never wanders far from the mask resting atop a pile of books at the corner of the table, or from the bowl of sealant atop your dresser. What will happen when you seal the mask? Probably nothing. What will happen when you put it on?<br/>
<br/>
You've dodged experimenting on yourself thus far, and briefly you consider ambushing your brother with it and forcing it onto him. But there are too many risks there. Seriously: The only thing worse than if it fucked him up in some magical way would be if it worked perfectly, for then you'd have to explain to him—wouldn't you?—how you managed to turn him into a twenty-something female P.E. coach. Or, at least, gave him the face of one.<br/>
<br/>
So your pulse races while you do your homework—which itself might be a first—as you try not to think about the experiment to come.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, at around ten, when you've finished all your homework and exhausted the possibilities for goofing off online, you pull the mask and the sealant toward you. The latter goes on quickly and smoothly when you apply it to the interior of the mask. It clears as it dries, so that the luster of the mask is undiminished.<br/>
<br/>
Then you hide it in your sock drawer and search for other ways of wasting time. You make a couple of trips downstairs, ostensibly to check the refrigerator, but really to keep an eye on whether your parents seem headed for bed.<br/>
<br/>
But even after the downstairs lights are off, you hold back, for Robert's light remains on under his door. You wait quietly in your own room for almost half an hour before you hear him in the hall bathroom, brushing his teeth.<br/>
<br/>
Not until well after eleven do you make your own trip to the bathroom, to brush your teeth and clean your pores. Even then, to your mounting irritation, you see that Robert's bedroom light is still on.<br/>
<br/>
So it's not until midnight, when you make another quiet trip to the bathroom, with the pretended intention of getting some Kleenex to blow your nose, that you're satisfied that the house is entirely quiet. But maybe not asleep? You watch some videos on your cell phone until an alert tells you that it's twelve-thirty.<br/>
<br/>
That's when you get up and retrieve the mask from your sock drawer.<br/>
<br/>
You haven't given any thought, up till now, about where you would test the mask out. Here in your bedroom? In the closet? Locked in the bathroom? Now that the point has come, you decide that under the covers is the place to try it. There's a locked door between you and the rest of the house, and it's dark. But even though blankets and sheets are little added protection, you'd be glad of an additional veil.<br/>
<br/>
You climb back into bed with the mask and nestle under the covers. At the last moment, you twitch your boxers off, in case they interfere with the transformation.<br/>
<br/>
At this very late moment it occurs to you: If this is a full-body transformation, you're going to lose that very important organ you keep down there. For a moment you hesitate.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ah, fuck it.</i> You pull the sheets up over your head and bring the mask up to your face. You're already stifling under the covers, and when you slide the mask onto your face it's too much. You suck hard at the mask— trying to pull oxygen into lungs that are suddenly starved for air—and reach for the mask. But your arm is paralyzed, and so is your chest. You feel your eyes bugging from their sockets.<br/>
<br/>
A great weight seems to drag you down.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Then you seem to bob to the surface again. You suck in a hard breath and bat the sheets away. You sit up, your heart hammering in your chest.<br/>
<br/>
Of course the room is unchanged from a moment ago. A distant streetlight casts its milky glow through the curtains on your window, and your desk and books are a humped shadow in the corner. You kick at the sheets and blankets and try to get your bearings.<br/>
<br/>
The mask. You put it on, and you almost suffocated. Where is it? Did it slip off? You glance around, blinking into the dark.<br/>
<br/>
A lank limb, like a hairy tentacle, falls across your face.<br/>
<br/>
You shriek and bat at it, and bounce off the bed. Things like fingers, but soft and limp, grope weakly at your shoulders. You tumble to the floor and scramble across the floor, trying not to scream, and bang your head against the corner of your dresser. Stunned, you fall to one side and catch your breath.<br/>
<br/>
How long you lay like this, you're not sure. But at some point it penetrates your addled brain that there's something heavy resting on your chest—a weight that is trying to slide off. It's when you look down, and notice that your breasts have swelled up into great, fleshy balloons, that it finally sinks in what has happened.<br/>
<br/>
Your body has changed. You've acquired a bosom.<br/>
<br/>
And when you reach up to your head, you find that those tendrils—those hairy tentacles—are locks of thick, bouncy hair.<br/>
<br/>
<i>My God! Breasts? Long hair?</i> You put on a mask that copied Coach Schell and now you've got—<br/>
<br/>
You swallow hard.<br/>
<br/>
You scramble back into bed and feel about the sheet. The mask is gone—you must be wearing it, somehow—but you find your cell phone. With trembling fingers you turn the camera on yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Even by the dim light of your twilit bedroom, you recognize Coach Schell's face on the screen. Her eyes are wide—but so are yours—and she breathes raggedly through a mouth that hangs open—but so do you—and her hair drapes in her face, as it does in yours. You push your hair back, and so does she. You swallow again and compose your features.<br/>
<br/>
You have her face. And you have her hair and bosom.<br/>
<br/>
And even before you check, you are certain that you have her—<br/>
<br/>
You shift the camera to your left hand, and slowly put your right hand under the covers. You grit your teeth as you explore, down the side of  your stomach to the place where your legs meet your hips. There's a patch of hair there, which is to be expected, but it feels shorter and curlier. You wince as you probe further down and in and—<br/>
<br/>
There's nothing there. No shaft, no member. A cold sweat breaks out all over you.<br/>
<br/>
But as you probe and push you find something else. A slit.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Jesus!</i> The phone slips from your hand. You're Coach Schell <i>all the way down and inside and out!</i><br/>
<br/>
You rub the spot, but it is cold and unyielding. Aren't those tissues supposed to be soft and tender, aren't they supposed to burst into life when they're touched?<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe it only works that way when their owner isn't freaking out. And you are most definitely freaking out.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
For a very long time you lay in your bed, gently touching and stroking yourself here and there. Mostly you hope to stimulate yourself into something pleasurable. But part of you, you can feel, resists. Maybe it's because you're in your own bed, and are terrified of being discovered. Maybe you're just mortified by what you're doing.<br/>
<br/>
But after half an hour or so, you decide that you've learned enough of what the mask can do, and that it's best to beat a retreat. You put on the desk lamp and—while trying not to look down at yourself—you retrieve the grimoire. There's an incantation that you have to recite to get the mask off.<br/>
<br/>
And when it comes off again, you know nothing more until morning.</span></div></div>


path: 1111344141
author_id: seuzz
title: A Magician and His Money Woes
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're woken by a pounding at your door, and a voice on the other side.<br/>
<br/>
"Muh?" you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you getting up?" It's your mom. The knob rattles, and she knocks again. "Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm awake!" you lie, and rub your eyes deeply.  "What time is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you going to take a shower this morning or are you going to—?"<br/>
<br/>
You cast about for your phone, and blink stupidly at it when you find it. <i>7:47</i> the display says.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit. I'm coming!" you holler, and kick off the sheets. Something tumbles from the bed to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
The night's adventures come rushing back, and you fall to the floor to grab the mask back up. It looks undamaged, and you hastily shove it into the bottom drawer of your dresser. "I'm coming!" you shout, even though your mother has ceased battering at your door, and you hop from foot to foot as you slide into your boxers again. <i>It's good to have a cock again,</i> you think.<br/>
<br/>
Then you add, <i>But I still want some breasts to play with.</i><br/>
<br/>
Well, that'll be for tonight.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You take one of the fastest showers ever and race to school with a Pop-Tart between your teeth and your hair still sopping with water. You make it to Mr. Walberg's classroom with five minutes to spare, but trip over a desk as you run into the classroom. Geoff Mansfield smirks at you and Kelsey Blankenship rolls her eyes. <i>Cocksucker,</i> you mutter under your breath. <i>Sloppy bint.</i><br/>
<br/>
Caleb also smirks as you fall into your desk. "What, did you take your shower in a car wash this morning?" he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, I woke up late."<br/>
<br/>
"I woke up late too, but you don't see <i>me</i> looking I have to squeeze Lake Superior out of my hair. Jesus, when are you going to get that 'do of yours a trim?"<br/>
<br/>
His question reminds you of the haircut your dad demanded you get. "This afternoon," you reply with a glower. "Or I dunno. This week sometime." You slump in your seat and cross your arms. "My dad told me to get it cut."<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, you talk like you're getting a tooth pulled or something."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug and slump lower in your seat. You never liked going to the barber. You'd probably wear your hair down past your shoulders if your parents let you get away with it.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe not. With your slim build, you'd probably just look like an ugly girl.<br/>
<br/>
And that reminds you that you've got that mask up in your bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
Now when you slide further down in your chair, it's to give your cock room to run.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you're distracted all morning. It's easy to be distracted when you get to watch movie clips in a dark room during second period, and your third and fourth period classes are a lot of bullshit. And you've got plenty of thinking to do.<br/>
<br/>
You've discovered that magic is real. You've got a magic mask at home—one that turns its wearer into a copy of Coach Schell—to prove it. There are lots more spells in the book—you're only two spells in—but you can't get to them except by executing them. And that takes money.<br/>
<br/>
Probably you could still get that job at your dad's work, but you've already made yourself look foolish over it. Neither Caleb nor your dad will give you a loan. <br/>
<br/>
You haven't asked your other good friend, Keith, if he can lend you anything, and you rectify that oversight at lunch. He just snorts.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you need money for?" Caleb asks. It's just you and him and Keith, together as you usually are, in back of the school. "You asked me yesterday for a loan."<br/>
<br/>
"You change your mind?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Then I haven't changed my mind about telling you," you retort. "It's just a project."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have projects," Caleb says.<br/>
<br/>
Keith raises his hand. "I got projects."<br/>
<br/>
"Mike and Carlos have projects," Caleb corrects him. "You just hang off  their shirt tails."<br/>
<br/>
Keith turns red. "I am too part of their channel!"<br/>
<br/>
This catches your attention. "What channel? What are you talking about? Mike and Carlos who?"<br/>
<br/>
Keith's flush deepens from cherry to plum. "Fuck you," he snarls, and snatches up his lunch.<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you going?" you ask as he stalks away, but he just flips you the bird over his shoulder. You turn to Caleb. "The fuck is his problem?"<br/>
<br/>
"His problem is you don't pay any attention. He was talking about his movie review channel he's got up on YouTube. Well, it's not <i>his,</i> it's Mike and Carlos's, as I was reminding him—"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know about this."<br/>
<br/>
"You were there when he told us about it, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"When?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Sometime within the last eighteen years."<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. "Well, he shouldn't take it out on me."<br/>
<br/>
"Go tell him that." Caleb stretches out on his side, and pops the last of his sandwich into his mouth. "Then hit him up again for a loan."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you."<br/>
<br/>
"He's your last chance, Will. Though if you tell me what this project is, <i>maybe</i> I'll lend you something out of my savings."<br/>
<br/>
Except Tilley isn't your last chance. There are two more guys you know that you could ask, and after telling Caleb you'll be right back, you dash around to the front of the school.<br/>
<br/>
And that's how it happens that you spot Coach Schell at her car, in the teacher's parking lot. For a moment you gape. Then you whip around so she won't see your face. Your heart thumps hard.<br/>
<br/>
But you do peep over your shoulder at her. She's tugging a large cardboard box out of the back seat, and it looks like she's having some trouble with it. But she finally hefts it into her arms, bumps the car door shut with her butt, and goes striding off toward the gym. You note the vehicle she's driving: a green Honda minivan.<br/>
<br/>
Why do you take special note? You're not sure. You just do.<br/>
<br/>
And you're distracted again when you talk to Carson Ioeger and James Lamont about borrowing some money off them. You don't even plead when they refuse.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You pass the rest of the school day in a thoughtful mood. You need money to continue your research, but you've no prospects of getting any. But it occurs to you during math class that that's not quite true. <i>Will Prescott</i> has no prospects of getting any. Could <i>Coach Schell</i> get any?<br/>
<br/>
Oh, but how? During the thirty minutes or so that you amused yourself inside her mask, you never learned anything about her, except for the shape of her body. Maybe you had her boobs, but you certainly didn't have her brain. You got no impressions about where she lived or who she knew, or even what her first name is. To get any money off her, you'd need more than her ... Well, more than her face. You'd need her keys or billfold, or at least access to them. (But if you had access to them, would you even need her face?) The best you could do is like you tried doing with your friends: Use her face to beg money off the other teachers.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not like you could even do that. You don't have any clothes to go with Coach Schell's face, so unless you want to walk around the school naked while panhandling for spare change, you can't even use that mask.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you're intrigued enough by the idea that during your study hall you log into the school's website to check out her teaching schedule. "Cathy Schell" is her name, it turns out, and aside from third-period lunch and a free seventh period, she teaches P. E. classes all day.<br/>
<br/>
If you could get some clothes—from your mom's closet, maybe?—then after school, when she's left for the day—<br/>
<br/>
And you know what she drives now, so you'd only have to check the teachers' lot for her car to know if she was still on campus.<br/>
<br/>
—you could wander the school, cadging money off the other teachers, the way you tried cadging some off your friends.<br/>
<br/>
Couldn't you?<br/>
<br/>
Except it still seems awfully risky.<br/>
<br/>
By the time you get home, it feels like you've war-gamed out all the possible scenarios without reaching any decisions. You're antsy and still in need of something to do. For a lack of anything better, you break out the mask ingredients and use them all up. The process creates a terrible stink, which you blow out of your window, but it also creates three more blank masks. You make a face as you contemplate the job it will be polishing them up.<br/>
<br/>
And for what? You already have a mask on hand, one that's polished and that's got a face inside it. What would additional masks accomplish? Except ... You could use them to copy and impersonate someone else? An impersonation that would stand you a better chance of getting some money?<br/>
<br/>
You heft one of the blanks thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
Then with a sigh you drop it on your bed. Caleb has said he'll loan you some money if you tell him what this "project" of yours is. You bet he'd be really eager to lend you the money if you showed him the masks and the grimoire.</span></div></div>


path: 11113441411
author_id: seuzz
title: A Matter of the Mind
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span> If you're going to impersonate Coach Schell, you're going to need something to wear. So after dinner, while helping your mother clean up the kitchen, you broach the subject: "Mom, do you have any old gym clothes?"<br/>
<br/>
She looks back at you in surprise. "Somewhere," she says after a moment's thought. "Maybe. You mean like gym shorts or sweat pants?"<br/>
<br/>
"Anything for P. E."<br/>
<br/>
"I think so. I haven't worn them in forever. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"For a girl at school."<br/>
<br/>
Her eyebrows go up.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you continue, warming to the improvisation. "She needs some gym clothes, and I thought maybe I could help her out."<br/>
<br/>
There's no mistaking the light of pitying amusement that shows in her eyes. "Can't she buy her own? Or if you want to help her out, you should just lend her some money."<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't got any to lend. And she just needs them temporarily. Or maybe not. I'm not sure." Mention of money has given you another idea. "She just needs some, and I want to help her out."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I don't think giving her <i>my</i> old gym clothes is the way to do it," your mom says, and she seems to be picking her words very carefully. "She can't buy her own?"<br/>
<br/>
"Money's really tight."<br/>
<br/>
"She could go to Goodwill."<br/>
<br/>
"Doesn't that cost money?"<br/>
<br/>
Your mother cocks her head and regards you gravely. "I can lend you the money," she says gravely, "and you can lend it to her. Lend it," she emphasizes. "Not <i>give.</i> Even if you don't want to ask her to pay it back, call it a loan."<br/>
<br/>
"But you'd lend me the money?"<br/>
<br/>
She sighs. "Yes. Let me just finish up in here."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not going to tell Dad, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
She returns you a tight smile. "I don't think he'd care, but I won't."<br/>
<br/>
And later that night she gives you three twenties.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After your mother's loan of money, you rethink your tactics. She doesn't expect you to ask that mythical girl for her money back; so you're pretty sure she's not going to ask <i>you</i> for it back. Or, if she does, she'll wait until after your birthday or Christmas, when you'll get some cash. You don't often ask her for money, and now you wonder why don't try it more often.<br/>
<br/>
After school you hunt very carefully around town for supplies for the next spell, and by bargain hunting and buying a smaller (but still sufficient) quantities than you thought you'd have to shell out for, you are able to get them.<br/>
<br/>
To your relief, the new spell doesn't ask for anything to be set on fire. You just have to make a kind of metal-sheet sandwich with some pocket mirrors and sheets of copper and zinc, then carve some runes. The result is a flexible, silvery strip of metal onto which you must carve a second set of runes. You make three more while you're at it.<br/>
<br/>
It takes longer than you would like, for you have to cut and scratch deeply into the resistant material. After an hour, you lay the strip aside to do homework before returning to the task. It's nearing on one o'clock in the morning before you sit up and stretch, pop the crick from your neck, and examine the results.<br/>
<br/>
Not that there's much to see. The metal strip gleams brightly and the runes, which look like hen scratches, have a bluish tinge to them. On consulting the directions you find that there's nothing else to do, so you lay the completed strip onto the grimoire, count to three, then pull at the corner of the page.<br/>
<br/>
It turns easily.<br/>
<br/>
On the other side is a single line of Latin. <i>To know the mind of another,</i> it translates as. You blink at it. <br/>
<br/>
Then you go into the bathroom, where you brush your teeth and prepare for bed. Once between the sheets, you stare up at the dark ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
It makes sense. That would be the next step in making a disguise. Copy the body; copy the mind.<br/>
<br/>
That was the big worry in the back of your mind about using the mask of Coach Schell. You know nothing about her. Sure, you could use a mask to look like her, and with some money you could even dress up convincingly as her. But you didn't know anything about her, so you wouldn't be able to act like her, and that would make it very tricky to use the disguise to any advantage.<br/>
<br/>
But if this metal strip copies her brain the way the mask copies her body—and that seems like the only way to understand that very simple sentence—then you would be able to rectify that omission. <br/>
<br/>
There are no instructions on how to use the band, but the answer seems obvious enough: Get it onto her the way you got the mask onto her. Through the face—probably the forehead—again.<br/>
<br/>
That could be tricky.<br/>
<br/>
And would you be able to use that metal band and the mask at the same time, to make a perfect disguise? Or could you use only one at a time? Maybe the spell that comes next—which you haven't looked at—will answer the question.<br/>
<br/>
You put on the light and get out the grimoire. As you'd expected, the next spell gives no hint of what it will do, but it only uses ingredients you already have on hand, so you'll be able to execute it tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
You go back to bed, and fall asleep to wondering fantasies about what it would be like to be someone else on the inside and the outside.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Do any of you know Coach Schell?" you ask at lunch the next day.<br/>
<br/>
"Who's Coach Schell?" asks James Lamont, for you talked Caleb and Keith into eating out front with him and his friends, just so you could ask this question. "What does he teach?"<br/>
<br/>
"She," says Yumi Saito, who has decided to join the group today. "And she's a coach, so she teaches P. E. Dur."<br/>
<br/>
"P. E.," says Carson Ioeger with a snort. "I was done with P. E. in middle school."<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you manage that?" you ask in surprise. "It's a freshman requirement."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I took the requirement, Prescott," he honks back at you. "But I was <i>done</i> with it long before then."<br/>
<br/>
"Why are you asking about Coach Schell?" Jenny Ashton asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Just curious. I don't remember seeing her around when we were freshmen. Is she new?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think she got hired a year or two back," Yumi says. "But yeah, she's pretty new." She makes a face as she sucks down some more yogurt. "Still got ideals."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?" asks Paul, at the same time that you ask, "She teaches volleyball, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Coaches it," says Yumi. "Yeah. I wish she had charge of the cheerleading squad. <i>She'd</i> put a stop to Chelsea's shit, I'm sure." Yumi is a cheerleader, and the many crimes of Chelsea Cooper, squad captain, are a constant topic of conversation with her.<br/>
<br/>
"What's the fascination?" Carson asks you. He grins. "Is she cute?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you blurt out before you can stop yourself. Snickers run around the circle, and you turn red. "So I noticed one of the gym teachers is hot!" you exclaim. "So what? I hear you get a chubby in Gelding's class!"<br/>
<br/>
If you were hoping to get a rise from Carson, you're disappointed. He smiles very serenely and replies, "Sure I do. Chemistry's a sexy subject." Well, science nerd that he is, he <i>would</i> think that. Seriously.<br/>
<br/>
Keith jumps in at that point to start talking about the teachers that he thinks are hot, and the conversation wanders further off-point from there. But as you're cleaning up and getting ready to go inside, you ask Yumi, in a low voice, what all she knows about Coach Schell.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing really," she says. "I've heard good things about her. Kristina Townes has her next period. This period," she corrects herself as the bell for sixth period sounds.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You brought that metal band with you to school, but you hold off on doing anything with it and instead race straight home after school. You assemble the ingredients for the next spell and, holding your breath against a possible stink, which fortuitously doesn't come, set it afire in a bowl over the sigil. The result is another thin fluid that—so says the reverse of the page after you've turned it—can be used to glue a metal band into the inner surface of a mask. It says nothing about whether either of them have to blank, or whether they have to be from the same person.<br/>
<br/>
You sit back and ponder it a bit. So, you would be able to put a brain and a body together. It sounds like they wouldn't even have to be the brain and body of the same person, though what advantage there would be in mixing and matching you're not sure.<br/>
<br/>
You study the blank band you've completed, and the mask of Coach Schell. Yes, now you could make a complete disguise of her. If you could get close to her.<br/>
<br/>
That's still the trick, isn't it? Maybe it would better to lay her mask aside and make up a complete disguise of someone else. <br/>
<br/>
Do you need a complete disguise in order to get further into the book? You turn to the newly unlocked spell.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart sinks as you study the ingredients with a browser open to study the prices. The last spell cost you sixty dollars and change. This one will probably cost hundreds.<br/>
<br/>
And there's a further wrinkle: It calls for four hundred pounds of dirt.<br/>
<br/>
Taken from a graveyard.<br/>
<br/>
This is beginning to sound a little like necromancy.<br/>
<br/>
Beyond the icky fact about where it's supposed to come from, you worry about how hard it's going to be digging it up and lugging it around. You're built like a scarecrow, and though you suppose that with time enough and willpower you could move that much dirt, it would be easier if you had a stronger physique.<br/>
<br/>
A physique you could get with a mask?</span></div></div>


path: 111134414111
author_id: seuzz
title: Ambushed Again
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You try to tell yourself that you're not being lazy, but it's hard to pretend otherwise. You look at the unpolished masks, and you think about moving four hundred pounds of graveyard earth, and your shoulders sag.<br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, it's going to be tricky getting close to Coach Schell after you basically mugged her with the first mask.<br/>
<br/>
You expend more brainpower on that question than on your homework. But no ideas come.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're still thinking about it, in a distracted way, the next morning when you walk into Mr. Walberg's class. A chill passes over you as you thread the aisle between the desks. But that's no surprise: You get the shivers anytime you're near Kelsey and Geoff and the rest of the AP crowd. Even when you were dating Lisa—except she says that you were never dating in the first place—you got a cold, nauseated feeling when they were around.<br/>
<br/>
But the chill deepens when you fall into your desk next to Caleb. He gives you a wide, smug smile. But not until he speaks does the dreadful penny—in this case a penny as big and as heavy as a millstone—drop.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you ever figure out why you put a hair dryer in the time capsule?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw falls open.<br/>
<br/>
<i>That paper! The paper you were supposed to write for this class, about the item you contributed to the time capsule! It's due today!</i><br/>
<br/>
And you forgot to write it!<br/>
<br/>
You whip around to stare at the other students, all of whom have neatly typed papers sitting on their desks, ready to turn in.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i><br/>
<br/>
Mr. Walberg isn't at his desk, which gives you the narrowest chance of escape. "I'll be back later. Maybe," you grab up your pack and lunge to your feet.<br/>
<br/>
"Later?" Caleb says. "Where the fuck are you—? Will!"<br/>
<br/>
But you're already out the door and slithering through the crowded hallway. If you can get to the library, to one of the computer stations, maybe you bang out that paper before class ends. Technically, won't Mr. Walberg have to accept it if you get it to him before the end of first period?<br/>
<br/>
Oh, who are you kidding? The old walrus will ding you at least a letter grade, even if he does take it. Which he probably won't. And anyway, if you even had a good idea for that dumb paper, you'd have written before now and wouldn't be in this mess in the first place!<br/>
<br/>
Then you spot Mr. Walberg himself coming down the hallway straight at you. You twist around and start fighting your way back the way you came. With Walberg between you and the library you have to take the long way around, circling around F wing and approaching the library from the opposite direction.<br/>
<br/>
And that's how come you manage to spot Coach Schell.<br/>
<br/>
She's coming out of the tutorial offices and is dressed up very smartly in a yellow polo shirt and crimson, hip-hugging shorts that show off her powerful legs.<br/>
<br/>
Legs that you spent the other night caressing, along with lots of other parts of her body.<br/>
<br/>
But what you notice now is her ball cap. It's old, worn, and more than a little ratty.<br/>
<br/>
Like yours, in fact.<br/>
<br/>
You stop and blink at her retreating back as she turns and strides off toward the gym.<br/>
<br/>
Then you grab the sides of your head and dance in place. This idea you've suddenly had: It's so brilliant that it hurts!<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What's with the new hat?" Keith asks when you catch up to him and Caleb halfway through lunch. He points his plastic spork at your face.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm showing school spirit," you reply. You whip off the new cap—the one emblazoned with a dragon's head and the letters WHS, which you bought in the office, where they have a whole room of school-themed items for purchase at outrageous markups—and run your fingers through your stiff shock of hair. "To go with the haircut I'm getting this weekend."<br/>
<br/>
"That's a good idea," Keith says. "The haircut, I mean. I could give a shit about school spirit."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean you <i>couldn't</i> give a shit," Caleb corrects him. "If you <i>could</i> give a shit, it would mean—"<br/>
<br/>
"It would mean that I could shit all over it," Keith says. "And I could, too. Is that what you were doing second period?" he asks you. "Buying a hat?"<br/>
<br/>
"He was writing a paper for first period," Caleb answers for you.<br/>
<br/>
"How does that work? You have a time machine? You write your papers after they're due, then go back and—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Time capsule," you correct him.<br/>
<br/>
"No, time machine," Keith insists.<br/>
<br/>
"He forgot to write his paper for Mr. Walberg," Caleb explains. "So he skipped first period to do that. You didn't tell me you skipped second period too," he adds.<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos it was none of your business. Anyway, it doesn't matter," you grumble. "He wouldn't accept it."<br/>
<br/>
Actually, you didn't even try turning it in, because you didn't even write it, for you were so distracted by your brilliant idea. And when you spoke to Mr. Walberg at the beginning of second period, he told you not even to bother writing it for he wouldn't take it now.<br/>
<br/>
That put you in the dumps for a little while. You distracted yourself by going to the office and, as a first step toward realizing your plan, buying this new ball cap.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you gonna do with your old hat?" Keith asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," you reply, and that's the end of the topic.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But it's not the end of the plan. You complete the second step during your seventh-period study hall. Then you troop down to the gym with the result.<br/>
<br/>
As before, you skirt one of the basketball courts to reach the coaches' offices. This period it's the girls' varsity basketball team that's practicing, and you spend a few minutes watching them. What is it about basketball, or this school, that attracts ballbreakers to that sport? The girls are almost as big and mean and strong as the boys' team, and you turn away before any of them can catch you watching. Stephanie Wyatt might even come over and punch you in the face if she caught you gawking.<br/>
<br/>
As you'd expected, the door to Coach Schell's office is open, for this is her free period. You're shaking slightly as you approach. You wish you could have gotten someone else to do this part of the job, but you couldn't think of anyone. And besides, given what you're about to do, it would have to be you to make the approach.<br/>
<br/>
You tap at the door. "Coach Schell?" you say in a quavering voice.<br/>
<br/>
She looks up from her desk. It's almost a replay of the other day. The same tawny mane of hair that falls to her elbows. The same oval face with the large lips and the nose that is ... well, a little bolder, a little more prow-like than you remember from before. Her brow furrows, but there's no light of recognition—still less of anger or horror—in her eye as she looks back at you. <br/>
<br/>
She doesn't say anything, though, so you fill the silence.<br/>
<br/>
"Some of the guys from last year put together a little collection for you," you say. "We got you this." You hold out the new hat you bought.<br/>
<br/>
Her expression freezes for a moment, before broadening back out into a patently insincere smile. "Oh," she says. "How sweet. Um, the guys?" That furrow reappears in her brow. "Which ... Uh ... ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Third period? Last year?" <i>Please don't ask me for names.</i> "We're really late getting it for you, but it was just an idea we suddenly had." You advance on her desk and hold the hat out.<br/>
<br/>
She beams as she takes it. "Well, thank you, um ... " She lapses into a pained silence when you don't supply your name. "That's really nice of, uh, you guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you put it on?" you ask, and take your cell phone from your pocket. "They want me to take a picture? To show the guys?"<br/>
<br/>
Her expression turns blank, and the lines around her eyes tighten a little. But she regains her smile, and after pulling her hair back she lifts the cap to her head. <br/>
<br/>
Just before she sets it there, she shoots you a quick glance, and in that glance you think you see a glint of recognition. Your heart goes into your throat.<br/>
<br/>
But it's too late. She's already tugging the cap down onto her head.<br/>
<br/>
And her eyes go out of focus and she face plants onto her desk.<br/>
<br/>
Again, just like the other day.<br/>
<br/>
And again, just like the other day, you lock the door, then leap forward to the desk. Gently you rotate her head so as to get a look at her face. Her expression is slack and her eyes unseeing.<br/>
<br/>
And that metal band? The cap has tumbled off and you examine its insides after picking it up. That metal band is gone, but the tape you used to fix it to the inside front is still there. You look around the desk but find nothing.<br/>
<br/>
It must have disappeared inside her, the way the mask did.<br/>
<br/>
You're much less concerned about her health this time around, but you still pace the room anxiously as you await some kind of result. After about ten minutes, though, you wheel at the sound of a faint clatter from the desk. The band is now lying there, next to her forehead.<br/>
<br/>
You scoop it up and replace it with the ball cap. Then you scoop the ball cap up as well. Best not to leave any kind of evidence behind. Let her think maybe she hallucinated your visit.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the school library you sit in a corner and examine the spoils from your raid. The band looks unchanged until you turn it over. You almost drop it when you see the bluish letters that blaze out of it: ROBERTA CATHERINE SCHELL.<br/>
<br/>
You let out a low whistle. Looks like it's done its job.<br/>
<br/>
So now you have a complete "Coach Schell" disguise. Except for some suitable clothes. But do you really need them? What you need is money.</span></div></div>


path: 1111344141111
author_id: seuzz
title: Clothes Make the Woman
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>This is the second time you've assaulted Coach Schell. Could she track you down in the library? Probably not. But why take the risk?<br/>
<br/>
Besides, it's Friday, and your last class of the day is only Astronomy. You decide to bail early.<br/>
<br/>
You take the long way around the front of the school—dodging the gym completely—to the student parking lot, and dive into your truck. You take a long look around, to see that you are unobserved, then wedge yourself into the passenger-side foot well, where you will be out of sight to any except the most determined snoopers. You take out the brain-band you got off Coach Schell.<br/>
<br/>
Of course you do: A complete disguise will require clothes, and the best way to find a suitable set of clothes to go with a Coach Schell disguise, you figure, is to consult the mind and memories of Coach Schell herself.<br/>
<br/>
You study the band for a minute before hazarding the experiment. No particular instructions came with the band, but you're pretty sure that you should press it to your face, probably the forehead, the same as you did with Coach Schell. But that's not what causes you to pause.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, you are wondering what exactly is going to happen. Will the band change your mind around completely, the way the mask changed your body? Will you think that you're really Roberta Catherine Schell? Will you freak out when you find yourself inside the body of a teenage boy? <br/>
<br/>
Or will it work in some other way, like a computer terminal containing her memories that you'll be able to access if you concentrate?<br/>
<br/>
Well, the only way to find out is to try it. You take a deep breath, and slap the metal band onto your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
It's like you've opened a door into your brain, and something very black and heavy heaves itself through and into you. It grabs you and pulls you down into darkness.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The world is a blooming and buzzing confusion when you open your eyes, and your head is spinning. When you reach up to steady it, you bust your knuckles on something, and curse.<br/>
<br/>
The heck is going on? Your legs are squeezed up next to your chest, and you feel like you're sitting wedged inside a small, tight space. Your first instinctive thought is, <i>Am I in the toilet again? Fuck, how much did I have to drink?</i><br/>
<br/>
Then the world comes into focus, and you see that you're inside a vehicle of some kind. There's a bench here, like a truck bench. Hang on, you're in the foot well of a truck? The hell?<br/>
<br/>
But now that the world is in focus, your mind quickly follows. With a rush of relieved recognition, you see that this is your truck, and remember that you jammed yourself in real good here while experimenting with that—<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, fuck. That metal band. Where—?</i><br/>
<br/>
With a tight grimace you pull yourself up and onto the seat. No metal band clatters from your lap onto the floor mat, so you shove open the passenger-side door and clamber out. You feel a headache coming on—something is pounding inside your skull—and with gritted teeth and clenched eyes you search the foot well and under the seat.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, maybe the band went inside you, the way the mask did. You rub your forehead. It's slick with sweat, but it feels like flesh, and it pulls away slightly when you tug at it. But if you put it on, why haven't you got Coach Schell's memories?<br/>
<br/>
You look at the foot well and that reminds you of that toilet stall. Your sorority sisters shoved you inside on in the student union, once, when you got drunk off your ass your sophomore year and—<br/>
<br/>
The world reels, and you grab your head and catch yourself from toppling over.<br/>
<br/>
Except you are falling. Vertigo seizes you as you feel yourself plunging stomach-first into an abyss. Images rush at you—like the ground rushing up at a skydiver with a failed parachute—and you sink to your knees. There's a great collision inside your head—a crash—the world shatters—then it flies together again.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart is banging at the front of your throat when the sensation passes. The world is just as it was before. You are crouching next to your truck in the student parking lot of Westside High. It's eighth period, and you ought to be in Astronomy.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Or teaching Personal Fitness 5c in the gym.</i> A hard tremble passes through you.<br/>
<br/>
You stand back up again and look down at yourself. You know what to expect. Strong, tanned legs, probably clad in tight sweat pants. A full bosom. Hair down to your elbows. You see instead the skinny, hairy legs of a high school boy in cargo shorts, and a chest and stomach as flat as a washboard. You pull your hat off and feel at your hair. It is short—well, short for Cathy Schell—and feels in need of a hard beating with a good hairbrush.<br/>
<br/>
But this body too is not unexpected. For you know who you are. You're William Prescott. But you feel Roberta Catherine Schell's memories clinging about you, like a heavy cobweb. You've only to pluck at a strand, and not only that memory but a host of associations crowd in on you.<br/>
<br/>
Like, where do you live? A little house on Cressmore Drive, just outside the "student ghetto" area south of the university. You and three of your sorority sisters rented it your last  year in college. When you returned to Saratoga Falls after a disastrous stint in Boston working for an educational publisher, you found it was available for rent again, and took it. Mrs. Langkampf was quite pleased to see you return. You and your sisters were the last good tenants she'd had there ...<br/>
<br/>
If you could get in there, you'd know exactly where to find some of Coach Schell's best clothes. And you do know how to get in there: Cathy keeps a spare key under the birdhouse in the backyard. <br/>
<br/>
You check your phone. Assuming that Coach Schell doesn't take sick and go home early, you've got at least a thirty minute head start on her.<br/>
<br/>
You jump back into your truck and gun it for the street.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Cressmore Drive, like all the streets in that quarter of the city, curls and curves like an "S" that's trying to tighten itself into a spiral; you'd never find it if you didn't have Cathy Schell's instincts to guide you. Her house is a little brick duplex with a small yard in front and a small yard in back. It belonged to Mrs. Langkampf's brother—an optometrist who kept his practice in one half while living in the other—until he died (at a young age, she informed Cathy) and left it to his sister. Having a house of her own, Mrs. Langkampf now rents it out.<br/>
<br/>
You park in the makeshift driveway and glance about. There's a couple of girls walking down the other side of the street—college students on their way home, it looks like—but otherwise the coast is clear. You hop out and trot around the side of the house to the back. A trim little wooden birdhouse sits on a pole just inside the yard. You smile to yourself as you pry the house off and filch the key from the little hollow in the top of the pole. So clever of Thomas to think of making that its hiding place!<br/>
<br/>
<i>Thomas!</i> There's a less welcome jolt of memories, of Thomas Luna and his hot, bare chest and his meaty arms and his granite-like cock thrusting itself deep inside you as you clench him tightly to yourself and shriek at the ceiling—<br/>
<br/>
You shake your head clear of the vivid memory and jump onto the porch. You insert the key, and the lock slides back with a soft <i>snick.</i> Then you're inside.<br/>
<br/>
You step into a small living room dominated by a love seat and a giant flat-screen TV, but you waste no time gawking at a set up that is as familiar to you as your own house. You trot down the short hallway to the bedroom. You whip open the closet door and the top dresser drawer as you mentally dress yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, bottoms and a bra, only one of each, because I'm not going to be camping out inside them for more than a few hours at a time, probably. One pair of jeans, one pair of ankle socks. One polo shirt and one t-shirt and ... Oh, dammit, okay then, one crisp white blouse. In case I want to look pretty when I go out.<br/>
<br/>
I am going to be going out, right? What's the fun in looking like and dressing up as Cathy Schell if I don't do it in public?<br/>
<br/>
Jewelry? She'll miss it.</i> You can go without. <i>Shorts? All up at the school. No, wait—</i><br/>
<br/>
You dash around a corner into the laundry room, and from the hamper you pull out some blue cotton shorts. You sniff them. <i>Not too bad.</i> A shiver runs through you—it's Cathy's scent on them.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Anything else? A hair band? Friendship bracelets? What about money? Any cash?</i> No, Cathy will have her billfold at school, and the emergency sugar bowl was empty when she checked it yesterday. She half expected a moth to fly out of it, you remember with a rueful half smile.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Okay, this'll have to do. Get this stuff and yourself out while you can, Cathy! Er. Will!</i><br/>
<br/>
You race out the back, lock the door, return the key to its hiding place, and with legs about to collapse from adrenaline overload leap back into your truck. You gasp out a laugh of relief as you roar down the street.<br/>
<br/>
But what comes next? It's Friday, and you know where Cathy will probably be: with her boyfriend, out eating and drinking and dancing before returning to his place with him. You know where to go to avoid her.<br/>
<br/>
If, that is, you're going to go out in public in this disguise.</span></div></div>


path: 11113441411112
author_id: seuzz
title: Being Cathy Schell
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Cathy Schell isn't a gym rat—far from it—but she does have a membership at the Steel 24-Hour gym up by the other high school. She goes three times a week, every Saturday, Monday and Wednesday. So there's almost no chance of running into her there, even if you didn't already know her Friday night plans.<br/>
<br/>
So the gym seems like a great place to try her face and body out in a very physical way without getting caught.<br/>
<br/>
First, you text your mom, telling her you've made afternoon/evening plans with Caleb and Keith, and not to expect you back before your curfew. Then you drive onto the Keyserling campus, to one of the parking garages, and slide into a space in a dark corner on the third floor. There are no other cars around, and no foot traffic of any kind, when you pull from your bag the mask that you've been lugging around all day. You strip off everything but your boxers, then again wedge yourself in the foot well so you won't be seen.<br/>
<br/>
But now it's the mask that you press to your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Deja vu.</i> For a few seconds it's a replay of earlier as you wake in a confused muddle. <i>Where am I what the fuck how did I—?</i><br/>
<br/>
But the confusion passes almost immediately. You heave yourself out of your hiding hole and fall back onto your truck bench.<br/>
<br/>
Your skin prickles. Your thighs prickle. Your boobs and your nipples prickle.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh my God. The breasts are back.</i><br/>
<br/>
They are round and firm, with tips that point just slightly upward, as though nosing at the air. You gently cradle them. <br/>
<br/>
It's an unusual feeling, for Will Prescott hasn't got boobs like this to cradle, and Cathy Schell doesn't cradle them this way either. Oh, she examines them often, but in a clinical way, for asymmetries and blemishes, not for the erotic thrill.<br/>
<br/>
And a parking garage is not the place for an erotic thrill either. It is dark and empty, and more threatening. Cathy's memories warn you that this is this a bad place for a young, naked woman only a few years out of college to be. With an involuntary chill of fear, you push off your boxers and snatch up the panties.<br/>
<br/>
Despite your vulnerability, little ripples of delight run all over you as you pull the tight panties up your legs and snap them onto your hips. Then the shorts. You wrinkle your nose: So disgusting going to the gym in a pair of dirty shorts. Thomas can get away with it—you clench your back molars as you think of his hot breath on your neck—because he's a guy, and hot, sweaty guys are a turn-on. (You clench your teeth harder.) But you like to be fresh.<br/>
<br/>
<i>No, Will, focus! Cathy Schell likes to be fresh!</i><br/>
<br/>
Except that you're becoming more and more like Cathy as you snap her bra on and pull the t-shirt over your head. Your instincts now rebel against the wardrobe choices you made: You need to be in a sports bra, and in something less sloppy than this t-shirt, which is more of a lounge-around-the-house or doing-some-cleaning kind of wear. You'll have to content yourself with a light, non-strenuous workout this afternoon.<br/>
<br/>
Which is probably wise, as you can still feel some of the tightness from the workout she gave herself yesterday.<br/>
<br/>
A workout with Thomas. It's not just in the bedroom that they get physical.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Dammit, stop thinking about him!</i> you tell yourself as you pull on the socks. But telling yourself not to think about it is just another way of reminding yourself that Cathy's semi-addicted to Thomas Luna and his cock.<br/>
<br/>
So your brain burns with irritation as you look around for the shoes. <i>Where the heck did you—?</i> A groan bursts from your chest. You didn't bring any <i>shoes!</i> How could you have forgotten?<br/>
<br/>
Well, it's too late now to chance a return to Cathy's house, so you slide on your old sneakers. They are too large, and even after pulling the laces tight you feel like you've donned a pair of clown shoes. But they'll have to do.<br/>
<br/>
You slide over behind the wheel, take a deep breath, and try to calm yourself. You brush your hair back—<i>dammit, you should have snatched up a hair tie</i>—and take several more calming breaths. You close your eyes and let your chin droop to your chest. Your sorority sisters always said you got too excitable, and Felicia taught you this calming routine so you wouldn't spaz out before tests. <i>She taught </i>Cathy Schell<i> that trick,</i> you remind yourself. <br/>
<br/>
But of course you're about to go out in public as Cathy Schell.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Embrace it,</i> you tell yourself. <i>If you're going to do this thing, do it right. You've got Cathy Schell's body, now put yourself in her brain, and put yourself in her place.</i><br/>
<br/>
You cover your face with your hands and take your deepest breath yet.<br/>
<br/>
When you let it out, it's like expelling a ghost. The shoes still flop about on your feet, and the clothes are all wrong for a trip to the gym. Your hair is a mess when you look in the rearview mirror as you adjust it.<br/>
<br/>
But Cathy Schell looks back at you. For now it's Cathy Schell who is looking into the mirror.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And who is Cathy Schell? In this calmer frame of mind, with a short, dull drive ahead of you, you've time to soak in her memories and personality.<br/>
<br/>
You're twenty-four years old, which is young enough to have fun and ripe enough for the means to pay for it. In other words, Cathy Schell has a good job with good prospects that can pay for the drinking and dancing and sex she enjoys on the weekends. Saratoga Falls—to your own personal amazement—agrees with her. It's a big city relative to Martinvale (pop. 3000), the little burg thirty-five miles away where she grew up and went to high school, but not as overwhelming as Boston. No, Saratoga Falls is small enough that she can't get lost in it, but is big enough that she can have the sort of fun she craves. <br/>
<br/>
She came to Saratoga Falls to attend Keyserling College, where she majored in English and Sports Education. The latter was originally something she took only because she was taking lots of P.E. classes anyway—Cathy has always been an exuberant, outdoorsy girl—but when the job at Diadem Educational Publishing in Boston didn't work out, she fell back on sports when she heard about the coaching opening at Westside High. As the most junior member of the staff, she's stuck teaching volleyball and the freshman and sophomore P.E. classes. But it pays the bills, keeps her busy, and keeps her in contact with high school girls.<br/>
<br/>
And high school boys. They weren't this cute when she was in high school, were they? If so, why didn't she notice?<br/>
<br/>
During the drive you toy with her memories of Martinvale, with its stone courthouse and stone bank and Galen's Popular Dry Goods. The little pink house where Cathy grew up, and the middle/high school—ancient even when her mother attended it—with its faint smell of turpentine in every classroom. Pajama-clad sleepovers in the church recreation hall, and the wet kisses and grinding embraces caught outside in dark corners of the church parking lot with football players who'd snuck over.<br/>
<br/>
That kind of memory leads inexorably to memories of Thomas Luna. He is much on Cathy Schell's mind since he joined the Westside tutorial staff at the beginning of the year. She was instantly smitten by his dark charms, and the glint in her eye must have kindled something in his, for he was quick to ask her out the day that she stopped in the tutorial offices to ask for some change for the Coke machine. He was new to town, so she introduced him to the gym—he too has a background in Physical Education—and to the rest of the school staff and to the better restaurants. <br/>
<br/>
And to her bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
You've warmed to Cathy's body and clothes as you stride toward the gym doors, and thinking of Thomas warms you even more. Now you don't even clench your teeth as you think of him.<br/>
<br/>
You don't have ID, a purse, or even a gym bag as you enter Steel. But Evan at the front desk knows you, and you and he just exchange a wave as you stride through the lobby. You've no clothes to change, so you make a circuit through the various rooms to make sure the coast is clear, then find yourself a StairMaster. That will probably give you the best workout that will let you feel this body.<br/>
<br/>
And yes, within the first five minutes you're giving yourself a wonderful burn, all the way up your legs from your strong calves to your tight ass. You grimace as you pick up the tempo, but it's a grimace of pleasure. So this is what it's like to be in shape!<br/>
<br/>
But it's not long after that that you sense eyes upon you. At first you ignore them—it's not unusual for a woman like Cathy to get stares—but finally you look around.<br/>
<br/>
He's on the StairMaster behind you. He's cute, with short, dark hair and olive skin, with a fringe of beard down his jaw to his chin. There's something Italianate about his looks. Maybe it's his coloring; maybe it's his nose, which is very strong without being a honker.<br/>
<br/>
He looks like he's in college. Hell, he looks like a football player. Cathy's always liked football players.<br/>
<br/>
He smiles at you. "First time here?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate. "First time on a Friday afternoon," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I haven't seen you here before. You usually here other times?"<br/>
<br/>
"I had a free spot in my schedule," you say. The gasp in your reply is less from the workout than the exertion of coming up with a reply.<br/>
<br/>
"My names's Anton," he says. He puts out his hand, but withdraws it when he sees how awkward it would be for you to reach over and take it. "I'm usually at the college gym. You know." He shrugs. "I'm trying this place out."<br/>
<br/>
You could shut him down by mentioning you've got a boyfriend.</span></div></div>


path: 111134414111122
author_id: seuzz
title: False Faces, False Pretences
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"It's a good gym," you tell Anton. "My boyfriend and I are regulars."<br/>
<br/>
Your reply is met with a deathly silence. Then Anton mumbles something. "What did you say?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I said, 'That's nice'."<br/>
<br/>
"It is," you agree. "I haven't been to Munson"—that's the name of the sports complex at Keyserling—"in a couple of years. Not since I graduated. Have they renovated it any?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno."<br/>
<br/>
You try talking a little more, just to show the guy you're not pissed at him or unfriendly. But his answers are clipped.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah, you were just looking for a pick-up opportunity,</i> you think to yourself. <i>All the girls at Munson are probably sick of your bullshit, so you thought you'd try it out here.</i><br/>
<br/>
After a quarter-hour of not saying anything, Anton steps off his machine and wanders away. You give yourself a further five minutes, then give up too. The guy's clumsy stab at picking you up as rather ruined it for you.<br/>
<br/>
You don't give up on the gym immediately, though, and hit the showers. It's a happy realization that leads you to them: Here's a chance to get naked, in public, with Cathy Schell's body, in a place where there's only a tiny chance of being caught out. Without your bag and a lock you have to fold up your clothes and leave them on a bench near the showers, and it preys on your mind a little as you let the hot water slide over you: If someone stole them, you really would be up shit creek without a paddle. <br/>
<br/>
But you do your best not to worry about it as you wash yourself all over with the complimentary bar of soap, lathering your thigh and calves and hips and washing under your boobs. When you're done, lacking a towel, you push all the water off as best you can before slipping back into your clothes. You're wet enough, though, that you dispense with the tight underthings, and it's while wearing only the shorts, the shirt, and the shoes that you clomp back out into the lobby.<br/>
<br/>
"Only a short one today, coach?" Evan calls as you pass the front desk.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, just a short one. Had some stress I wanted to work out."<br/>
<br/>
"I hear that. Did you want to sign in before you go?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do I have to?" You'd rather leave no evidence behind of your visit. "I don't feel like I was here long enough to count."<br/>
<br/>
Evan shrugs, and tosses you small wave as you glide out the front door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you managed to waste only a little more than forty-five minutes at the gym. It's not even five-thirty as you pull back out onto Twentieth. You've got an alibi set up for five more hours of fun, but what can you do? Cathy herself would like to hit a club. You have just enough money, probably, to get in to one, and after that you'd have to rely on guys to buy you a drink, and after your encounter with Anton you're not so keen on that.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, as you drive around, your mind goes back to the grimoire, and to the supplies you need to gather for the next spell. You need money for that, though, and you've borrowed from everyone you can possibly tap.<br/>
<br/>
But Cathy Schell could borrow some money, couldn't she? That was an idea you had, to scrounge around the school begging a ten here and a twenty there off the other teachers. Now, with Cathy Schell's memories, you realize that wouldn't be the best plan. Cathy doesn't know that many of the teachers, not that well. And even if she did, you doubt you could collect the two to three hundred dollars you figure it will cost you to buy those chemicals. So where could she—you—get the money?<br/>
<br/>
You're passing the hospital when you glance over at the Panda Garden Chinese Buffet. One thought will lead to another, and a few blocks down you dive into a parking lot to make a U-turn and roar back up Twentieth the way that you came. Your idea is a long-shot, but if it works out it'll give you all you need in one big lump.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Fifteen minutes later you're parked in front of Thai Won On, a crummy little restaurant in a shabby little shopping center next to the Walmart. But you're not here to get Thai food. You're here for the Tae Kwon Do dojo next door.<br/>
<br/>
The electronic bell on the door goes <i>bong</i> as you open it, but none of the students in their cotton robes look over. There's a half dozen of them—boys and girls, middle-school students by the looks of them—and they're concentrated on two figures in the middle of the mat. One of them is a boy of about fourteen, you'd judge. The other is a tall, bearded man. He's in black robes; the boy is in white.<br/>
<br/>
The instructor holds out a padded paddle, and each time he gives a word the student, who is bouncing lightly on his feet, throws up a leg and kicks it. You only know the rudiments of the sport, but it seems to you that his form is very good.<br/>
<br/>
There's something mesmerizing about the spectacle, and you don't break your gaze even after the instructor dismisses the one student and brings up another. Not until you hear your name—"Cathy?"—murmured almost in your ear do you spin about. <br/>
<br/>
"Twyla!" You gasp at the willowy, blonde-haired woman smiling at you. "You snuck up on me!"<br/>
<br/>
"You sure were into it." Twyla Carpenter grips your forearm. Like her husband, she's in a black instructor's robe. "You just stopping by, or here for a lesson?"<br/>
<br/>
"Neither." You can't help blushing a little. "But how are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm okay. Want some coffee? Or I've got some chai tea from next door." She gestures you to follow her to a doorway that opens into what looks like a break room. You can't help casting a glance back at the male instructor: her husband, Ben.<br/>
<br/>
The break room is actually an office with a sink and refrigerator, and you take some coffee in a Styrofoam cup and settle in to talk to Twyla Carpenter. Naturally, it takes almost twenty minutes to get the pleasantries out of the way, for Cathy hasn't seen Twyla—an old sorority sister from college—in a couple of months. So although you are anxious to get to the point, you sit back to catch up and reminisce and gossip. You ask about business at the dojo—it's good—and you tell her about your classes at the school—the volleyball team looks like it will do well this season—and you gush about this really hot guy, Thomas Luna, who you've been dating. <br/>
<br/>
Twyla's eyes flash with sympathetic excitement. "You and your guy will have to come out with us some night," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be great. Although—" You blush. "We're still at the stage now where we like it to just be us, you know, at his place or mine."<br/>
<br/>
Twyla squeezes your hand. "So he isn't just a crush?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God, no!" The words burst out without your even thinking them. "I think— No, I don't want to think that far ahead! But you know, there hasn't been anything, I mean, <i>nothing</i> that doesn't make me think, you know, that maybe—?" You have to cover your face for the furious blush that has come over it. When you think of Thomas, and how hot he is, and how smart and sensitive—<br/>
<br/>
"Careful there," Twyla says. "Remember Alex?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God!" You make a face. Alex was a guy Cathy met her junior year in college, and she was sure he was The One. Until he dumped her hard for a girl on the swim team. "I don't think Thomas would— Look, how are you and Ben?"<br/>
<br/>
Twyla raises an eyebrow. "I hope that's not following a thought."<br/>
<br/>
"No! But I've told you enough about Thomas. Tell me about Ben."<br/>
<br/>
"We're still doing great." But she shares some mild complaints—he's a bit of a slob, and is a little too forgetful when it comes to doing his share of the chores around the house.<br/>
<br/>
You still haven't edged up to the real purpose of this visit when her husband comes in to get some water, and to visit for a few minutes before going back out again for the class. That's when you ask Twyla when she has to be on the floor for a class again. "I'm done for the day," she says. "I was just about to change when you came in."<br/>
<br/>
"Then if you've got a little while," you tell her, "I've got a really big favor to ask."<br/>
<br/>
Twyla—who was always a good friend, even if she and Cathy have grown a little distant since Cathy left for Boston—listens sympathetically as you spin a tale of some emergency dental work you need done. "Insurance will pay for half of it, but I'm still short a couple of hundred."<br/>
<br/>
"The dentist can't set you up on some scheduled payments?" Twyla asks.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Damn.</i> "I'm changing dentists after this," you improvise. "I don't want to owe him anything. And I don't want to ask Thomas for the money." You flutter your hands. "You know?"<br/>
<br/>
Then you draw a deep breath. "So, could I borrow it from you and Ben? Three hundred? Just for a month. Two pay checks, and I'll have enough I can—"<br/>
<br/>
"I think we can spare that," Twyla says. She starts to get up. "I'll get you a check."<br/>
<br/>
"Isn't there a cash machine around here? I mean, it doesn't make a difference either way, I guess, but—" You make doe eyes at her.<br/>
<br/>
Twyla doesn't seem to like the idea of giving you the money in cash, but she relents and walks down to the ATM with you. You thank her profusely, and after a little more chit-chat you part.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You still have the rest of the evening clear, but you have had your fill for now of being Cathy Schell. And you've still got a grimoire to explore.<br/>
<br/>
The stores will be closed, so you can't buy those supplies until tomorrow. But cemeteries, where you need to gather dirt, are best visited at night.</span></div></div>


path: 1111344141111221
author_id: seuzz
title: The Graveyard
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your family is surprised to see you return home so soon. They're a little disconcerted, too, for you arrive just as supper is winding up, and you fall onto the pork chops and mashed potatoes with the gusto of one who hasn't eaten anything since lunch. Your dad, who seems in a mood to find fault, pointedly asks when you're going to get that haircut he already paid for. <br/>
<br/>
"This weekend," you promise him. "Tomorrow." Well, you're planning on going out to buy a bunch of stuff anyway. You can squeeze a haircut in then.<br/>
<br/>
And why are you home when you said you were going to be out until your curfew with friends? "Something came up," you explain between mouthfuls. "But we're getting together around eight-thirty, be out all evening." That'll be long enough, you hope, to raid the cemetery.<br/>
<br/>
Upstairs you unload your backpack, not only of books and papers but of the mask and brain-band you removed before coming home, and the clothes you stole from Coach Schell's house. The latter you fold up tight and stuff behind some old board games high up on a shelf in your closet. Then you settle in with the grimoire to double-check your shopping list for tomorrow's errands.<br/>
<br/>
And—what luck, it seems—one of the items you need is a hank of your own hair. You wonder what the barber will think when you collect some of your own hair from off the floor.<br/>
<br/>
By seven-thirty the sun has set and you begin to get antsy. You don't want to hit the cemetery until it is totally dark, but as you visualize the job to come you realize that you should get some bags to help transport the dirt. Happily, a trip to Walmart to get some sand bags will eat up some time. You take the rest of your shopping list with you, and while you're there you score nearly half of the items you need for the upcoming spell. You hide it all under the tarp that your dad insisted you keep rolled up tight in one of the storage compartments of your truck and return home long enough to rummage a shovel from the garage and toss it into the back with everything else.<br/>
<br/>
Then, even though there's still a faint wash of light in the west, you head off toward the cemetery. Though, of course, you don't tell your parents that's where you're going.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Masonic Cemetery sits in a little triangle of land between Saratoga Falls, the Acheson township where you live, and the river. It isn't out in the country, exactly, but houses are few and far between in that part of the city, even though it is bounded on two sides by important thoroughfares. Naturally, there are no lights of any kind within its walls, but the piercing mercury vapor lamps from the streets cast an acrid glow over its fringes. After turning through one of the gates onto a wide gravel path, you navigate your way deep into the cemetery to get away from any kind of light. And even after you park, you carry the shovel and box of sand bags even deeper into its park-like grounds.<br/>
<br/>
The tombstones march along in neat rows, like tiny teeth poking from the dark gums of the earth. Here and there a larger monument—an obelisk, or a long, arch-like stone marking the presence of a family—interrupt the line. You're not particularly superstitious; nor (judging by what you're about to do) are you particularly reverential. But still you skirt the graves as you circle about in a widening spiral, trying to find a spot that isn't too far from your truck but where you will be best shielded from spying eyes.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually you settle on a spot a few dozen yards from where you're parked, where a crypt and some low bushes block your view of Orlando Boulevard. You set a flashlight on a tombstone so that its feeble light spills over the grassy plot you've chosen. <br/>
<br/>
You avoid looking at the name on the stone.<br/>
<br/>
You start by cutting through the turf in a wide oval, then dig out the grass and cast it aside. Then you get down to the more serious work of lifting out shovelfuls of dry, loamy dirt. You work slowly and carefully, so as not to wear yourself out too quickly, and toss the dirt into a berm that slowly builds in mass and depth. When you've judged the pile large enough to work with, you open up the box of sand bags and start scooping the dirt into them. <br/>
<br/>
After packing ten bags, you begin to wish you'd brought a set of kitchen scales so as to make sure that you're getting enough dirt—or too much dirt?—into each one.<br/>
<br/>
There's only a very light wind, which is almost perfect for it keeps you cool without being annoying, and covers up the distant grumble of traffic, which might otherwise unnerve you. You quickly settle into a routine. <i>Shovel out a largish pile of dirt; pack into bags; transport the bags to your truck; return to dig some more.</i> You have plenty of time, and no distractions, to ponder the step that comes after this.<br/>
<br/>
It's a step that needs pondering: You're supposed to set this stuff on fire.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, the spell asks you to pile four hundred pounds of graveyard dirt onto a sigil, douse it all with some highly flammable chemicals, and set it a match to it.<br/>
<br/>
There's no way you're going to do that at your house, let alone in your bedroom. You're going to need another location. Someplace that a fire and/or an explosion won't get a lot of attention.<br/>
<br/>
Yeah. That should be easy, right?<br/>
<br/>
You can only think of one place that might work: the countryside.<br/>
<br/>
Suffolk Wilderness is the only place that comes to mind. It's a nature preserve that encompasses a scrubby wood and a low range of hills southeast of town, just next to the Fort Suffolk military installation. You and your friends don't often go hiking there, but you've been up and down the trails a couple of times. Maybe you could find a deserted hollow someplace, well off the beaten trail, where you could make the experiment. <br/>
<br/>
And—you cheerfully think—if you put it near the border it shares with the military base, maybe any explosions you cause could be put down to military activity.<br/>
<br/>
Or—it occurs to you a few minutes later—that's exactly the kind of spot that would be quickly swarming with soldiers if you did set off a blast there.<br/>
<br/>
And as you carry yet a third load of bags over to your truck another problem comes to you. How long would it take, and how much backbreaking labor would it be, to lug all the stuff up and down some rough trails, which snake up and down the sides of hills, to a remote place where you could try the spell? Not to mention, what happens if you lose the place after you've hauled most or even all of the material into the middle of nowhere?<br/>
<br/>
No, the Wilderness would only work if you had people to help you. Some friends. Caleb and Keith, maybe.<br/>
<br/>
But you'd have to tell them what it was all about. Show them the grimoire and the mask, something you've held back from doing.<br/>
<br/>
It would be so much simpler, you think with a heavy sigh, if there were another place in the country where you could try out the spell. The stupid fuck of it, you reflect, is that even though there's so much more countryside than city, it is so much harder to get to, and you don't know where to find a good spot in the middle of it.<br/>
<br/>
You've moved about three hundred pounds of dirt, you figure, when you take a break and slump to the ground with your back against one of the tires. Your joints are stiff and your muscles ache, and you don't dare stop for too long. But during the pause you let your mind drift. When have you ever been out to the country?<br/>
<br/>
And just by framing the question, you come up with another answer: the Bradshaw farm. Sure! Kevin Bradshaw's family has a farm in the middle of fuck-all, and every year for Halloween when you were in elementary school they hosted a hayride for Kevin's classmates.<br/>
<br/>
Which was a mixed entertainment at best. The hayride itself wasn't anything to get excited about, but the party afterward was usually pretty good, for Mrs. Bradshaw made lots of good desserts.<br/>
<br/>
Too bad Kevin was a bully and a bastard from an early age. The last you heard he was being homeschooled after Eastman High expelled him.<br/>
<br/>
You take out your cell phone and go onto Google Maps. It takes you a few minutes with both the map and the street views to find the Bradshaws' farm. It looks like there's a road that skirts the property, and if the satellite view is to be believed it comes to a dead end near a knot of trees by a small creek that might or might not be on their property. It shouldn't be too hard to set something up there, and it would be hidden from view.<br/>
<br/>
You make no decisions, but let the idea stew in the back of your mind as you return to work. You're getting cold now, and your muscles are groaning. But with gritted teeth you get the last of the sandbags packed away and stowed in the bed of your truck. You cover them over with the tarp and start the drive home. You notice that your truck handles more sluggishly with the load, and you take the turns very carefully. You'd dearly love to stop off at a convenience store for a cola and a candy bar, but the time is getting close up to your curfew, so you drive straight back home.<br/>
<br/>
On the way you come up with another possible place to chance the spell: the basement of the old elementary school a few blocks away from your house. True, it's public property, and an enclosed space—probably the worst place for a fire. But it's close by.<br/>
<br/>
And the last time you checked, you had a key to it.</span></div></div>


path: 11113441411112213
author_id: seuzz
title: The Warlock's Lair
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're up early the next morning, half from excited anticipation and half out of dread that if you don't get moving soon your dad will find something for you to do. "Meeting Caleb and Keith for donuts," you tell your astonished parents as you dash through the dining room. "Then we're gonna go do some stuff together, if that's okay." You give your dad a direct stare. "I'm gonna stop off for a haircut after lunch. I won't forget, I promise."<br/>
<br/>
He looks too surprised to be skeptical.<br/>
<br/>
Then you're out the door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your first stop is the old elementary school a few blocks from your house. And in this case "old" really does mean <i>old.</i> It's a tall, imposing two-story building with a bell tower at one corner, built in the 1930s or something or like that. It was closed before you were born, when a new school was built south of the village, and part of the old building was converted into a community recreation center. You've never been inside, that you can remember.<br/>
<br/>
The part of the school you want, fortunately, is on the opposite side from the community center. There, in an otherwise blank wall, a long line of windows, screened by weeds and long tufts of grass, peek up just above ground level. A sloping pit is cut into the ground at one end of this line of windows, and a short set of concrete stairs lead down to a heavy metal door that's secured with a latch and a heavy padlock.<br/>
<br/>
It's your padlock.<br/>
<br/>
Well, it was your lock last year, when you put it on the door. You'd been exploring the school grounds and feeling more than a little destructive. On finding that door, went off to get a crowbar and used it to pry the latch open. On the other side of the door was a short set of wooden stairs leading down into a dirty and cluttered basement.<br/>
<br/>
It was a huge basement, cluttered up with old desks and tables and chairs; with tall bookcases and dark, heavy cabinets; with globes and old sinks and pommel horses, and even a floor-to-ceiling mirror in a tarnished gilt frame.<br/>
<br/>
You rummaged around the place, opening drawers and peering onto shelves and finding nothing but dead insects, old paper, and piles of dust. You rearranged some of the furniture to open up a spot where you could put some squeaky old desk chairs—the kind that roll around on cast-iron wheels—and opened up a tunnel into a cranny near a back wall. Then, when you were grimy and hot and tired, you went away.<br/>
<br/>
You came back a little later, though, with a padlock of your own and hung it on the door. You put there, originally, just to disguise the fact that someone had broken in. But a few weeks later, when you returned, you found it still on the door. You watched for a few weeks, decided that the groundskeepers and maintenance staff had mostly forgotten about the basement, and showed it to Caleb and Keith. You made it a kind of "secret clubhouse" for a little while, and last Halloween you and your friends even spent the night there, drinking whiskey and trying to tell ghost stories.<br/>
<br/>
Then you mostly forgot about it. You haven't been back since Christmas, at least.<br/>
<br/>
Now, you park on a wide patch of ground next to the basement door and descend the steps. You found the old  key in your dresser drawer, and when you put it in the lock it snaps open easily enough. You loose a low whistle. It's been a year since you swapped out locks—and the staff <i>still</i> haven't tried to get in the basement?<br/>
<br/>
You spend about twenty minutes exploring it again, and clearing off a large conference table. You wish you'd remembered this place before—it would make a dandy spot for making masks. Then you move down the sacks of dirt you got from the graveyard, and the other supplies you'd picked up at Walmart.<br/>
<br/>
Then it's in to town—first to get some donuts and coffee, for you're ravenous—then to a couple of specialty shops to pick up those things you couldn't get at Walmart.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, and the haircut. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a little after two o'clock before you return home from your various errands. Your dad orders you to take your cap off, and grunts a reluctant approval of the trim you got. At least your bangs are out of your eyebrows now, and most of your ears are visible. You scooped up most of what got chopped off—telling the hair dresser that you're saving it for a "project," an explanation that she only shrugged at—and put it in a baggie along with the other things you picked up. It's all still in the back of your truck.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not home to pick up the grimoire for transport to the basement. Instead, you prop up on your bed with it and a newly purchased sketch pad. You flip open to the spell, eyeball it closely for awhile, then begin to copy the sigil onto a fresh page of heavy parchment.<br/>
<br/>
You got the idea for copying it out while at the military supply store next to your dad's workplace. You went there to pick up some fuse cord, and the clerk—who gave you a rather fish-eyed stare, you thought—wanted to know what it was for. You gave him a story about wanting to set off some model rockets for your cousins, and how your aunt insisted that little fingers be kept very far from the propellant. You doubt that he believed you, but he didn't put up any further argument.<br/>
<br/>
Anyway, after that you got to thinking again about the kind of explosives that you've been buying. You're supposed to pile it all onto the sigil inside the book. But the only thing worse than blowing up the school, in your estimation, is blowing up the book.<br/>
<br/>
So instead of using the sigil inside the book, you'll make a copy.<br/>
<br/>
You'd been dreading the work, for the sigil—a circle filled with intricate overlapping whirls and doodads—is very complicated. But once you start, you find the work strangely soothing and satisfying. The lines form very easily under your fingers, and as you concentrate on the original and on your copy it seems to you that the abstract, patterns come to resemble faces and forms: a maze that sometimes looks like a minotaur. You catch yourself smiling as you work; and when you're done and look up to pop the crick from your neck, you find that an hour has flown by with your scarcely noticing.<br/>
<br/>
You spend a further fifteen minutes carefully comparing the two copies, and are surprised, and a little worried, to find no great errors. But when a second examination turns up nothing, you shrug and take the grimoire and the sketchbook back down to your truck. Your dad is asleep on the sofa, and your mother is knitting, so no one stops you as you go out again.<br/>
<br/>
The basement is as you left it, and after propping the grimoire open for consultation, you begin to assemble this, the most complicated spell yet. You lay the sigil copy onto the conference table and, one five-pound bag at a time, weigh out the spoils of last night's raid in a set of scales you bought before piling them onto the sigil. That takes a tediously long time, after which you douse it all in liquids and powders. A large pinch of your hair you tuck into the middle of it all.<br/>
<br/>
Then you stick one end of the fuse cord into the mess, run the other end to the bottom of the stairs, and take out a lighter.<br/>
<br/>
You pause. <i>Jesus,</i> you think to yourself. <i>Am I really going to do this?</i><br/>
<br/>
Apparently you are, for without quite willing it, you flick the lighter and put the flame to the end of the cord.<br/>
<br/>
Then you haul ass like a son of a bitch up the stairs and to your truck. You turn the motor on and back into the street. You drive around a corner, park in front of the school, and wait with the motor running.<br/>
<br/>
For two minutes nothing happens.<br/>
<br/>
You shut off the motor and, with a pounding heart, trot around the side of the school. Cautiously you approach the open door to the basement. You hold your breath, and look inside.<br/>
<br/>
The dirt is on fire. Great plumes of purple flame billow and smoke off it. There is no hiss, no fizzle, no crackle—just sheets of lavender and violet that shimmy into the air. You put out your hand, then stick it into one of the flames. <i>No heat!</i><br/>
<br/>
You whistle, long and low, and watch, mesmerized, as the fire dances. Then you double-check the instructions you'd cobbled together out of translations. The fire is supposed to burn, and you must relight it when it goes out, until it will not relight again.<br/>
<br/>
There's no indication how long that will take, so you tear yourself away long enough to run home to gather up all the other supplies you've collected over the past few weeks, and transport them to the basement.<br/>
<br/>
The fire is still burning when you get back, and you busy yourself by setting up a little workshop. When you're done, you sit back and watch the fire.<br/>
<br/>
It burns and burns and burns. You take out your cell phone and check texts and surf the internet.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Finally, you can't take it anymore. You've got to do something. Finish some more masks and things? Go hang out with Caleb and Keith—they've been pestering you with texts you've mostly ignored.<br/>
<br/>
Go out in public again as Coach Schell?<br/>
<br/>
1. Make some more masks (non-canonical): "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/2236945/action/view/chapter_map/111134414111122131" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 2236945">In Which Life Grinds On</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/2236945/action/view/chapter_map/111134414111122131" target="_blank" title="Open in new window."><img border="0" height="12" loading="lazy" onmouseout="$(this).css('opacity', '.4');" onmouseover="$(this).css('opacity', '1');" src="https://www.Writing.Com/nw.gif" style="opacity:.4;" width="12"/></a></span></div></div>


path: 111134414111122131
author_id: seuzz
title: In Which Life Grinds On
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span> The fire shows no sign of abating. And even though it is giving off no heat, you don't want to leave it alone.<br/>
<br/>
So you pull out one of the unpolished masks you've got on hand, and one of the three incomplete metal bands. You have no firm ideas about who you might use them on. But with nothing else to do, you might as well work on them.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, the next spell might ask for a blank mask or brain band as one of the ingredients.<br/>
<br/>
You hope that the fire doesn't burn as long as it will take to polish another mask, though.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"The fuck you do with yourself this weekend?" Caleb asks you Monday morning. "Did your dad ground you on account of the way you fucked up your paper for Walberg?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I just did stuff. You know. Projects."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
You deflect him. "Where was Keith? You do shit with him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Meh. He's decided he wants to be a YouTube star."<br/>
<br/>
You frown, then remember that movie review channel he was talking about. "How's that going?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck if I know. You've got him for that bullshit Film as Literature class, not me."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not bullshit!" You flinch when you catch Amanda Ferguson wheeling around to glare at your outburst. "It's not bullshit!" you hiss in a lower voice. "You had Mr. Hawks last year, you think he's gonna make it easy?"<br/>
<br/>
"You thought it was gonna be easy when you signed up for it last year. You were all, <i>I'ma watch movies all next semester, yo.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"That was Keith who said it. And it turned out to be hard."<br/>
<br/>
"It turned out to be bullshit."<br/>
<br/>
You flip him off, then hide your hands under your desk when you catch Mr. Walberg glaring at you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But Caleb's got a point. You did give him (and Keith, technically) the blow-off over the weekend. So you make a point of saying that you should all eat together.<br/>
<br/>
Somehow that metamorphoses into eating lunch out front with Carson's group.<br/>
<br/>
It's just him and James and Paul, though, and none of them are very talkative. Paul hunches up and stares morosely at the passing traffic. You're tempted to ask him when the last time was he hung out with Yumi—it seems to be the high point of his day when she comes out to eat lunch with them—but decide to be nice. As for Carson and James, they seem too preoccupied to say much, and only grunt and murmur when anyone says anything to them. Even when Caleb openly chides you for fucking up on your time capsule paper, Carson only offers the laconic observation, "Yeah, Walberg's a hard-ass about things like that," and goes back to eating his sandwich.<br/>
<br/>
As for where Jenny is, that only gets an "Around" from James when Caleb asks. But a fuller answer emerges halfway through lunch when Carson's phone chimes. He squints at the screen, makes a sour face, and shows it to James, whose face also curls up into a grimace.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you wanna make yourself fucking useful?" Carson barks at you. "Get something out of my locker, take it to Jenny."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know your locker number."<br/>
<br/>
"Forty-nine-twenty-three. Combination is four, twenty-nine, ninety-nine. Date of Oliver Cromwell's birth."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?" Keith exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
Carson ignores him. "Need you to get my calculus book out and take it to Jenny."<br/>
<br/>
"Where is she, and why can't you—?"<br/>
<br/>
"She's in the gym, which should answer both your questions. Move it, Prescott! She needs to copy my homework, and I need the book back before next period. Unless you want to lend her a copy of <i>your</i> homework, and I don't know why she'd want a D."<br/>
<br/>
You just stare back. "No, tell me why <i>you</i> can't go to the gym yourself!"<br/>
<br/>
James answers. "We've got three good reasons," he says. "Four if Seth's been up in the fuck room."<br/>
<br/>
Carson clicks a ball point pen, grabs your hand, and scrawls on the underside of your forearm. "Those are the numbers. Jenny'll kick your ass if you don't get her my homework in the next five minutes."<br/>
<br/>
You glance over at Caleb and Keith. Tilley, who shrank up at the mention of Seth Javits's name, avoids your eye. Caleb openly grins, and falls onto his side and stretches out his legs.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you guys," you fume at Carson and James, but you get to your feet. "Where in the gym?"<br/>
<br/>
"The classroom under the mezzanine. Where the coaches have their offices."<br/>
<br/>
You almost fall over. But it's easier to do the errand than to explain why the P. E. offices are the absolute last place you want to visit.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wouldn't want to visit the gym anyway—even the sophomore jocks unnerve you—but after your adventure last week you've got better reasons to dodge anyplace that has P. E. coaches in it.<br/>
<br/>
So all the way to Carson's locker, and all the way over to the gym, you wrack your brain trying to remember Coach Schell's schedule. You know she has a free period during seventh—same as yours—but what lunch does she have? And where does she usually take it? Almost all the memories you had while wearing her brain band have leached away. You only remember her house and workout club—because you visited them—and that she is sleeping with Thomas Luna—because <i>blecchhh!</i> that's hard to forget—but otherwise ... <br/>
<br/>
Well, whatever the mental equivalent of <i>Crickets!</i> would be, that's what you've got.<br/>
<br/>
There's a lot of traffic between the cafeteria and the gym, and it's traffic of the worst sort: buff guys in athletic shorts and t-shirts, smelling of the locker room. But none of them notice you, and you squeeze into the gym foyer without incident. You creep over to the east court and peer in. Boys and girls, dressed out in exercise clothes, are playing clumsy games of basketball. Off in the corner, Coach Tesla, looking like a frog that has learned to walk upright, watches with a bored scowl on her face.<br/>
<br/>
You let out a sigh of relief, and hurry over to the mezzanine. <br/>
<br/>
Several of the office doors are open, and these you hustle past. Halfway down you come to Coach Schell's door. It's closed. But you're too nervous to take any solace from that.<br/>
<br/>
At the very end of the corridor is a large classroom, out of which drift girlish voices and laughter. Inside are a dozen girls, some sitting at the desks and some of them sitting on them.<br/>
<br/>
Jenny has her back to the door, and you only recognize her by her ponytail. But Yumi is sitting next to her, and when she sees you she nudges her friend, who turns around.<br/>
<br/>
You thrust Carson's book at her. "Here, Carson asked me to bring this to you. See you later." You turn.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, wait a minute!" Jenny yells after you, and reluctantly you turn back. She drops into a chair and pulls a notebook from her bag. "Just hang on, I only need this a few minutes, and you can take it back."<br/>
<br/>
"I gotta get back, I'm eating lunch," you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"She only needs you to wait a minute, Prescott," a voice says behind you, and you wheel. Stephanie Wyatt is giving you a very steady look. "Your lunch can wait."<br/>
<br/>
You wilt. Stephanie Wyatt is the gender-swapped equivalent to Gordon Black or Steve Patterson. She's a hard-muscled basketball player who has scared the shit out of you ever since you shared a fifth-grade class with her.<br/>
<br/>
So, humiliating as it is, you sit on the edge of a desk and wait for Jenny to finish copying out some of Carson's homework problems.<br/>
<br/>
Conversation resumes among the other girls, who you now recognize as members of the girls' varsity soccer and basketball squads. You do your best to dodge their eyes. But you notice one blonde girl, who's sitting behind Stephanie, grinning at you. You hunch your shoulders and turn away.<br/>
<br/>
Before long, it feels like ants are crawling up and down under your skin. Jenny works very deliberately, and a couple of times she stops to consult with Yumi about whether some of the answers could possibly be right, even after Yumi reminds her that she's taking Statistics, not Calculus. You tell Jenny that yes, Carson did the problems correctly. But she looks skeptical.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, with five minutes to spare until the bell, she folds Carson's homework back inside the book and hands it to you. You jackrabbit out the room and down the hallway before anyone can stop you. Even when a voice shouts "Will! Will!" behind you, you pretend not to hear.<br/>
<br/>
But you jump back under the mezzanine when you spot a dreadfully familiar figure crossing the gym court. As you watch, paralyzed, Coach Schell strides across and vanishes around the corner into the foyer toward the main exit.<br/>
<br/>
A hand drops onto your shoulder and you spin around. "Jesus, you're jumpy," Yumi says. "Didn't you hear me calling you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, was that you?" you gasp. You glance back into the gym, torn between the desire to make a break for it and terror of running straight into the arms of the coach you've twice victimized with your magic shenanigans.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." Yumi glances over her shoulder, and tiptoes up to you. "You noticed Katy, didn't you? She was <i>looking</i> at you," she says with a grin.<br/>
<br/>
Your gut freezes.<br/>
<br/>
"Cool," you say. "But listen, I gotta go." You sprint across the gym toward the side door, and you don't stop running until you're on the far side of the school.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was on account of some genius prank, Caleb explains to you after school Carson and James were being extra careful to avoid the gym. You only grunt and race back to the elementary school. You find the fire still burning.<br/>
<br/>
The mask you started polishing is nowhere near being finished. But you did complete a new brain band. Maybe you should put it on Carson -- he's smart and full of ideas for pranks.<br/>
<br/>
But you're also thinking about Yumi, who wanted to talk to you about a girl ...</span></div></div>


path: 1111344141111221312
author_id: seuzz
title: Picking a Brain the Old-Fashioned Way
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You waste ten minutes toying with your phone—checking day-old texts, opening apps you haven't opened in months, hitting bookmarks in your browser and hitting new bookmarks before the first website has even loaded—before working up the nerve to text Yumi: <i>Hey get tgthr for talk smplace before dinner? My treat?</i> <br/>
<br/>
It's ten minutes before she replies: <i>Just you and me?<br/>
<br/>
Yes.</i> Then you add, <i>Not a date,</i> and kick yourself hard after hitting "send."<br/>
<br/>
But Yumi only says <i>Sure</i> in reply, and you agree to meet at The Crystal Cave. You run home long enough to tell your mom that you're meeting friends and you think you'll be eating with them. "Think?" she says, and doesn't look happy when you shrug. "I'll put your portion in the refrigerator if you don't eat it tonight."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There are lots of bohemian coffee shops in Saratoga Falls. More than seems likely, even. <i>This place is like Seattle,</i> Jenny Ashton once observed, back in your sophomore year. <i>All these kooky little coffee shops.<br/>
<br/>
More like Arkham,</i> Carson replied.<br/>
<br/>
<i>You mean like in Batman?</i> you asked.<br/>
<br/>
<i>No, you sub-literate ape,</i> he shot back. <i>H. P. Lovecraft. Goes with the whole Miskatonic vibe that Keyserling's got going.<br/>
<br/>
At least it doesn't rain like it does in Seattle,</i> Paul Davis observed, which drew a withering glare from Carson.<br/>
<br/>
Some months later you found a book of Lovecraft stories in the library, and recognized some of them as really cool horror stories you'd read in middle school. You have no idea what Carson meant by comparing Keyserling College to Miskatonic University. But maybe he was just thinking of all the occult accouterments that decorate so many of the retail shops near the college. Besandwiched, an occult-themed sandwich shop, is probably the most extreme example, but coffee shops like The Flying Saucer, with its life-size mannequins of gray aliens standing in the corners, and The Milagro Beanfield Warehouse, with its murals depicting Native American gods and demons, seem to be competing for the same demographic profile.<br/>
<br/>
Who those weirdos are, you don't know. And even after the games you've been playing with that grimoire, you're not sure you want to know.<br/>
<br/>
Anyway: The Crystal Cave. It occupies a corner of 100 Twentieth Street, a ritzy building of ruby-red brick, white pillars and lintels over the windows, and a forest green canopy hanging over the sidewalk. It's a prestigious address. There's a jewelry store in the opposite corner, and Arnholm's Used Books takes up the rest of the first floor and all of the second. Luxury apartments (you've heard) occupy the top four floors.<br/>
<br/>
The front room of the Cave has a certain buttery splendor—polished brass and whisky-hued woodwork—but the real "business" of the place is in back, behind the barista station and the pastry bar. The main dining room contains twelve booths lining two walls, and ten tables in between. Each of the booths has a weird-creepy symbol painted on the wall, glaring down at the table, while each table has a wire stand holding a card printed with its own creepy symbol. <i>The booths are the zodiac, and the tables are the planets,</i> someone explained to you once. <i>They use those instead of numbering the tables.</i><br/>
<br/>
You arrive ahead of Yumi and after getting your coffee you settle into a booth. Yumi bustles in about ten minutes later, looking small and pert and very healthy in a pair of short-shorts, sandals, and a halter top. It looks like summer wear, but then September has been unseasonably warm. The high today reached the mid-80s.<br/>
<br/>
After greeting each other and going up front to pay for her drink, you settle back in the booth. Yumi smiles at you expectantly. "So you wanted to talk?" she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Um, yeah." You twirl your half-empty coffee cup between your palms. "I kind of took off fast at lunch, when you were talking to me."<br/>
<br/>
"I noticed."<br/>
<br/>
"There was someone I didn't want to run into. But you were talking about this, uh—" You swallow. "Girl?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah. Katy Conlee. You know her?" Yumi pulls out her phone after you shake your head. "She's on the basketball team."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Great.</i> At least half your interest evaporates.<br/>
<br/>
Well, five percent, anyway.<br/>
<br/>
Yumi scrolls and taps her way to a picture, then hands you the phone. On the screen is a picture of a girl with long, straight blonde hair, dark eyebrows, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She's in basketball togs, holding a basketball and smiling at the camera.<br/>
<br/>
She instantly puts you in mind of a chipmunk, the way her eyes and nose scrunch up over her grin, and her cheeks puff out. If it were a video, you'd half expect her to lift the ball to her mouth and start nibbling on it. But if she's a biter, she's an adorable biter, even if she is a basketball player.<br/>
<br/>
You recognize her, of course, as the girl who was sitting behind Stephanie Wyatt and laughing at you.<br/>
<br/>
"So this is her? Katy Conlee?" you say. Yumi reaches out to take the phone, but you hold onto it. "And why did you want to mention her to me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you. She was <i>looking</i> at you."<br/>
<br/>
"You're looking at me now."<br/>
<br/>
"Not like <i>that.</i> Like— Well, it looked like she was interested in you." Yumi cocks her head. "Did you get a haircut this weekend?"<br/>
<br/>
You lift your hat and brush your hair out.<br/>
<br/>
"It looks nice. You should keep it like that."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not gonna get a haircut every week!"<br/>
<br/>
"Not every week, but more often than you do."<br/>
<br/>
You blink a couple of times. Is there a hidden message in what Yumi says, that she's trying to impart? "Is that why this Katy girl was looking at me?" you ask. "Because of my hair?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. You should ask her."<br/>
<br/>
Your heart ricochets around inside your chest. "Have you talked to her? Does she, uh—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't talked to her," Yumi says. "I never see that much of her. I don't have her for any classes."<br/>
<br/>
"So how do you know her?"<br/>
<br/>
"I just know her. Jesus, Will," she sighs. "It's not hard to get to know people. I know <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug in a way that means, <i>Yeah, but what are you gonna do?</i><br/>
<br/>
"You want me to set something up so you can meet and talk to each other?" Yumi asks.<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath. Your reply—"Sure"—comes out as a squeak.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll see if I can set up a study group or something. Here, give me your schedule." She takes her phone back, taps at it, and returns it to you with it open to a "Notes" app. "It's gonna have to be a big group of us, but that's okay. Just don't be shy with her, alright?"<br/>
<br/>
You blanch a little, but concentrate on entering your schedule. Yumi nods over it after you hand her phone back to her. "The film class sounds interesting," she says. "You could talk to her about some of the movies you've seen in it, maybe talk her into watching some of them with you. What's 'limch'?"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Here, for fifth period, you've got 'limch.' Oh. It's lunch. Do you have Katy for any classes?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure? Because it would be really awkward if you do but haven't noticed her before."<br/>
<br/>
"I would have noticed her," you insist.<br/>
<br/>
Yumi looks skeptical, but only says, "Alright, I'll see what I can work up." She bends over her phone.<br/>
<br/>
And you use that as an excuse to use the restroom. She says nothing as you slip from the booth.<br/>
<br/>
Inside the restroom, you splash some cold water on your face and study yourself in the mirror. You look like a dork, you think, with your hair chopped back. Like a squirrel that's been to the barber. <i>Well, fuck it,</i> you tell yourself. <i>If Katy looks like a chipmunk and I look like a squirrel ... <br/>
<br/>
Shit. What would our kids look like?</i><br/>
<br/>
You flinch as though slapped.<br/>
<br/>
Back in the dining room you trudge back toward the booth. Yumi looks up at you from her phone. "All better?" she asks with a dimple in her cheek.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess." You make the "jerk off" motion with your fist, then realize to your horror what you just implied you were doing in the bathroom, and shove your hand under the table. That looks even worse, and your face nearly burns off with shame and horror.<br/>
<br/>
Luckily, Yumi is completely absorbed in her phone, and seems not to have noticed.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Why the hell would you do a dopey dipshit like me any favors?</i> is what you want to ask Yumi.<br/>
<br/>
And you do.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not doing you any favors, Will," she says. "I'm just setting it up so you can talk to a girl who maybe would like to talk to you."<br/>
<br/>
"That sounds like a favor."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a look. "Well if it is—if you think <i>that</i> counts as a favor—then no wonder you have such a hard time with girls. Have a little confidence in yourself, jeez." But then her phone buzzes, and she has to answer another text.<br/>
<br/>
Her retort leaves you abashed—and a little grumpy—so you fall silent. Yumi has also apparently decided she's done talking. "I have to go," she says as she gets up. "But if you're feeling like a brave little tiger, come around to the Dairy Queen at eight. Some of us will be out there, and maybe Katy will be with us." She sweeps out.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart plunges. You were nervous enough about meeting up with this girl under cover of a study group. Now it sounds like Yumi's daring you to be more direct and brazen.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe you will go out, you think to yourself on the drive home. See what this girl is like.  <br/>
<br/>
<i>But that doesn't mean I have to go out under my own face.</i></span></div></div>


path: 11113441411112213122
author_id: seuzz
title: Secret Agent Girl
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You can't resist the idea of crashing Yumi and her friends' party at the Dairy Queen, especially when you have a foolproof way of doing it without their knowing it, and after giving Yumi a chance to get clear of the place, you skedaddle for your base.<br/>
<br/>
It's already after seven as you dash for home, but you stop by the house long enough to pick up some homework—to score some credit by telling your parents that this weekday social outing is a study session—before racing over to the old school. You find that the fire is <i>still</i> burning in the basement, and you grimace at it hard—why the fuck doesn't the book warn you about how long the farging thing's going to take?—as you pull out your disguise for the evening: clothes, mask, and brain band.<br/>
<br/>
<i>This is going to be the real deal,</i> you find yourself thinking with a beating heart as you spread out the things. The last time you went out in public as Cathy Schell, it was a solo thing at her gym, just to see what it was like. But this time there is a chance you'll wind up talking to Yumi and her friends—depending on who is out there—and then you will have to <i>be</i> Cathy Schell.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Seven-thirty.</i> You regard your stolen alter ego in the dusty mirror.<br/>
<br/>
Your foundation garments feel grimy and itchy, on account of you exercised in them at the gym and obviously haven't washed them, but your borrowed consciousness would still give your appearance a passing grade. You yourself think you look great.<br/>
<br/>
The jeans are dark and tight. The white blouse is cut to complement your shape—billowing out at the bosom, curving inward over your stomach—and though part of you wants to cover it with the denim jacket that Cathy Schell keeps at the front of her closet, you would fight the urge even if you had it here, for you like the way it blatantly advertises your figure.<br/>
<br/>
You could do with a hair tie, but with a wry smile you acknowledge that you'll just have to manage with your curtains of blonde hair draping down around your shoulders. You tuck a long, heavy strand of it behind one ear, and settle the end so that it falls just over one of your breasts.<br/>
<br/>
Your nose is bold, your mouth full, your gaze bright and direct as you look into the mirror and picture the evening to come. You could do with some make up, but Cathy doesn't wear that much of it anyway. You could also do with a purse or gym bag slung over your shoulder, and you could really do with some identification—it occurs to you that you'll be in a <i>lot</i> of trouble if you get caught driving without a license.<br/>
<br/>
But the risks are worth it, and you enjoy the waggle of your hips as you saunter out to the truck ... <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Coach!" a familiar voice calls. You look over. Stephanie Wyatt, her eyes shining and her mouth split into a huge grin, waves as you saunter into the Dairy Queen twenty minutes later. You grin and wave back, even as inwardly you seethe. Stephanie has never so much as smiled at you that you can remember in the seven years you've known her. "You here on a date?" Stephanie's grin widens as you detour over to her table.<br/>
<br/>
You can't help blushing just a little. "No, just for a treat. What about you?" You wink at her. "Are <i>you</i> here on a date?"<br/>
<br/>
Her face shines, but she doesn't blush. "No, just meeting friends."<br/>
<br/>
"So can I keep you company till they come?" You sit. "Is this a study night for you guys?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Friend of mine wanted to get together. Talk."<br/>
<br/>
"About boys?"<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie rolls her eyes, but her grin doesn't fade. "How's your classes this semester?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, pretty good. You know I'm coaching the volleyball squad this year."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! Lacey told me. She says it's looking pretty good for them!"<br/>
<br/>
So you talk some more about the volleyball team, and its chances this year, and the players. You have to keep reminding yourself that Stephanie is someone that you—Cathy Schell—like even though you don't know her well.<br/>
<br/>
But the other you—Will Prescott—has known her since elementary school, though thankfully you have shared few classes with her since middle school. She was a jock-girl from early on; hell, she probably popped out of her mother with a baseball in her hands and a kickball between her ankles. She played on the soccer teams from the moment she was eligible to join one, and played softball and basketball too. She was even one of the best runners and catchers and tacklers at impromptu games of flag football, a fact that shamed you because it seemed like she was the one getting the flag off you every time you managed to get the ball.<br/>
<br/>
You're not bothered by the fact that she whomped your ass even though she's a girl. (Most of the guys were even worse than her.) It's the way she treats you off the field, the <i>severe lack of interest</i> that she shows in you, that rankles—the way she ignores you, or looks through you when she does look in your direction. It's like she thinks you're a bug—a bug that's too trivial to pay any attention to.<br/>
<br/>
And when she does pay attention to you—like she did at lunch, when she told you to sit down and wait for Jenny to finish copying Carson's homework—she treats you like you're still in the fifth grade.<br/>
<br/>
But as you talk, you notice Stephanie losing her exuberance. Indeed, an anxious cast begins to cloud over her face, and her talk grows distracted. She begins glancing over your shoulder at the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Is something wrong?" you ask. "Are your friends late?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? No. I just—" Her jaw works, and her gaze goes distant.<br/>
<br/>
Then she straightens up. "You were asking about guys," she says. "Would you be, uh, willing to give me some advice?"<br/>
<br/>
"About boys?"<br/>
<br/>
Her expression tightens. "Well, sort of. Indirectly."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ooh! Girl talk!</i> Cathy is intrigued. And you are gleeful at finding that maybe Stephanie has a chink of vulnerable humanity after all.<br/>
<br/>
But before you can say "Yes," she rears back and her expression freezes. You glance over and see Yumi coming in the door. She greets both of you with a smile, some short introductions are made, and Yumi sits.<br/>
<br/>
The chatter that follows is friendly but shallow, and it doesn't take long for you to figure out that your presence is crowding the girls. "I guess I'll go get my sundae," you say, and move to the table behind Stephanie after getting yourself a small ice cream. This allows you to eavesdrop without being obvious about it as you stare out the window at the passing traffic.<br/>
<br/>
Which is good, because Yumi is talking to Stephanie about Katy Conlee ... and about you!<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott?" Stephanie is saying as you settle into your seat, and you stiffen all over at the note of disbelief in her voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. What do you think?" Stephanie must have made some kind of face, for Yumi says, "What's wrong with Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing's wrong with Will, I guess. If he asks her out, he asks her out."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you think she'll say?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. She'd go out with him at least once, probably." Your heart thumps at that.<br/>
<br/>
"Does she know him?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno if she knows him or not." Stephanie's tone turns shrewd. "Did he put you up to asking me about her?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. But I talked to him a little and it got me thinking. He noticed Katy at lunch, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Noticed her how?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a pause in the conversation, and you have to fight from looking over.<br/>
<br/>
"You seem really skeptical, Stephanie," Yumi says.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Prescott's kind of a light-weight, don't you think?"</span></div></div>


path: 111134414111122131221
author_id: seuzz
title: Gossip at the DQ
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Well, he's kind of a light-weight, don't you think?</i><br/>
<br/>
Your skull rings with Stephanie's words. You only just restrain yourself form swinging around and snarling something at her.<br/>
<br/>
You tense all over and listen harder into the silence that follows.<br/>
<br/>
Then Yumi says, "What do you mean by that? Just because he's not a basketball player or a football player—"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't mean like that," Stephanie says. "Look, never mind, he's your friend, if he—"<br/>
<br/>
Their voices overlap before clarifying with Yumi saying, "—not good enough."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say that," Stephanie snaps. "Look, who else has he gone out with?"<br/>
<br/>
Your fingers curl into claws in the silence that follows. "He and Lisa Yarborough hung out together over the summer," Yumi says.<br/>
<br/>
"Hung out?" You can almost hear Stephanie's eyebrows going up.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you want to hear, Stephanie?" Yumi is starting to sound aggravated.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to hear anything. Look, Prescott can do whatever he wants, same as Katy. It's a free country, and boo-yah for him if he asks her out. I don't know why you're asking me what I think."<br/>
<br/>
"I just want to know what you think would happen if they did, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft. Is he on the rebound or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean by 'rebound'?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I mean. You said him and Lisa were hanging out—"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, they were just hanging out."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that what Prescott thought?"<br/>
<br/>
You feel the blood rushing up to your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, Will thought they were going out, but Lisa—"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus!"<br/>
<br/>
"He's not on the rebound!" Yumi insists.<br/>
<br/>
"So what's he want with Katy?"<br/>
<br/>
"He doesn't want anything with Katy! Look—"<br/>
<br/>
More confused babble of voices. You feel like you're about to throw up.<br/>
<br/>
"—thought Katy might be interested in him," Yumi says. "That's all."<br/>
<br/>
"So does Prescott own a pair of big boy pants?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's that mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"It means— Oh, hell, for a start, it means, isn't he mature enough to set anything up himself?"<br/>
<br/>
Yumi says nothing for a long minute. At last, in a very tight voice, she says, "I just noticed Katy paying attention to him at school, and thought maybe they could stand to be nudged together. That's <i>all</i>, Stephanie. And I was just wondering if you thought that was a good idea."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what I'm wondering," Stephanie retorts, "if you really want my opinion, is does he know how to act with a girl without being a total gink. He's so goddamned <i>rabbity.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Almost you get up and leave, but Yumi beats you to it. "Well, thanks for talking," she says, and she sounds snippy. "I'll talk to you later."<br/>
<br/>
"Wait, where are you going? I thought you were gonna hang out with—"<br/>
<br/>
"I suddenly got a headache. I get a lot of those after talking to you, Stephanie." Out of the corner of your eye you see Yumi march off toward the door. Stephanie drops a very audible f-bomb under her breath.<br/>
<br/>
You can't resist poking her in the shoulder, and she jumps when she turns around to see you smiling into her face.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," you say. "So I hope you don't think I was eavesdropping, but that was a pretty intense conversation you were having with your friend."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh." Stephanie's expression is very tight. "Yeah, I guess our voices carried. Sorry."<br/>
<br/>
"So, you were going to ask me about a guy earlier. Before your friend got here."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" Stephanie looks startled.<br/>
<br/>
"You wanted to ask me some advice. About a guy."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. I don't remember what." She looks around, distracted. "Maybe I should—"<br/>
<br/>
It looks like she's about to go, but the door opens, and Eva and Jessica Garner come in, and with a couple of squeals and smiles for Stephanie (and some more muted ones for you), they settle at the table with her.<br/>
<br/>
You're not counting on the earlier subject resuming, but it does, almost immediately, for Eva and Jessica spotted Yumi driving off, and they want to know what happened. Stephanie snorts that Yumi got mad, and explains what about. Eva and Jessica, who are two-thirds of a set of triplets, are friends of Lisa, and your breath comes short and quick as Stephanie tells them Yumi is trying to set you up with Katy Conlee because you're on the rebound from Lisa.<br/>
<br/>
Jessica snorts. "Will isn't on the rebound. He can't be. You have to have <i>bounce</i> to be on the rebound, and Will hasn't got any bounce."<br/>
<br/>
"That's mean!" Eva chides her sister.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe, but it's true. Katy?" she asks Stephanie. "What do you think?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't start with me," Stephanie snarls. "That's what Yumi asked. What did I think of Prescott and Katy, going together."<br/>
<br/>
"I could see that," Eva says, sounding cautious. "Katy's sweet."<br/>
<br/>
"So's Lisa," Jessica retorts. "Look how that worked out."<br/>
<br/>
"He's such a noodle," Stephanie says. "Frickin' lightweight."<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't call Katy a heavyweight," Jessica retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if she likes him, she likes him," Stephanie says. "Doesn't matter to me."<br/>
<br/>
"He's not out of her league," Eva says.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, <i>fuck,</i>" Stephanie spits. "I hate that word! 'League'! You play hard, or you play like shit. That's the only thing that matters."<br/>
<br/>
"Do <i>you</i> play hard?" Jessica asks. There's lazy mischief in her voice, and you don't have to look over to know that Stephanie has flipped her the bird. "Who plays as hard as you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not—"<br/>
<br/>
"Nobody, Jess," Eva interrupts. "'Cos she runs the boys off the court before they can even change into their shorts!" She laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"Listen, if you two—"<br/>
<br/>
You're briefly distracted by a text on your phone. It's from Yumi, telling you not to bother showing up to the DQ, as the party's been cancelled. You guess that means that Katy won't be coming. But you stay where you are, listening to the girls.<br/>
<br/>
"What is this, a slumber party all of a sudden?" Stephanie says. "Fine. Austin Dougherty."<br/>
<br/>
The Garners squeal. "Who else?" Eva demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Jeremiah James. Tyler Rawls." Stephanie sounds very impatient.<br/>
<br/>
"Oo, all guys on the soccer team," Jessica says. "Does our dear little brother make your list?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna—!"<br/>
<br/>
"What about Marcos?" Eva asks, breathless.<br/>
<br/>
"Rivera? Ych. But yes, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Cole Parker?"<br/>
<br/>
"Lightweight."<br/>
<br/>
"Really? Everyone I know thinks he's cute."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, he is cute. He just doesn't know what to do with it."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
For all her protests, Stephanie gradually warms to the topic of boys, particularly after Eva and Jessica start offering their own appraisals. Soon they are compiling a "who's hot, who's not" list. You're relieved—somewhat—that Stephanie emphatically rejects the swaggering bully-boys of the school: Gordon Black, Steve Patterson, Jason Lynch, Seth Javits, Erik Carstairs, Brian Kelly, etc., etc. And you're thunderstruck when it includes two names you'd never have guessed would win Stephanie's approval: Carson Ioeger and James Lamont.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh sure, they're going places," she says when the other girls evince surprise. "They got balls."<br/>
<br/>
From there the conversation wanders, from mutual guy friends to mutual girl friends, to gossip about the cheerleader squad. After about an hour, though, Stephanie says she has to go. That leaves the Garners to murmur at each other in low voices while you pretend to be absorbed in your cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
"She's so competitive," Jessica observes.<br/>
<br/>
"It's why she scares all the guys away," Eva replies.<br/>
<br/>
"Do you think <i>she's</i> scared? Of going out with a guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!" Eva laughs. "Stephanie?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think she is. She puts up such a tough front."<br/>
<br/>
The girls fall silent. You can hear the gears whirling in their heads.<br/>
<br/>
"So who do <i>you</i> think?" Jessica finally asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Austin," says Eva. "He was the first name she said. Like free association."<br/>
<br/>
"You noticed that too." Jessica titters. "What about Carson?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God!" Eva bursts into laughter. "Wouldn't you just love to see him ask her out? See the look on her face?"<br/>
<br/>
"She'd kill us. She'd know we put him up to it."<br/>
<br/>
Eva laughs again. Then she says, "The only thing that would be better? Seeing her face if <i>Will</i> asked her out."<br/>
<br/>
They cackle and snort asthmatically.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's almost ten o'clock before you get home, unencumbered of Coach Schell's mask and clothes, which you've left in the school basement, where the fire continues to burn. You've brought a new brain band back home with you, because you're done with your homework and have nothing better to do than to carve runes into it while trying <i>not</i> to think about what you learned at the Dairy Queen.</span></div></div>


path: 1111344141111221312215
author_id: seuzz
title: Surprise Invites
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Rabbity.</i> That's what Stephanie called you.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe it's pride talking, but if you're going to ask a girl out, you'd rather do it as your own rabbity self than under a borrowed face or with a borrowed personality. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You finish the brain band in the wee hours of the morning, then tuck it into your book bag before going to bed. The next morning, on the way to school, you stop by the basement to drop it off with your other supplies. The fire is <i>still</i> burning, and you grimly wonder if you fucked up the spell and created an unquenchable magic flame.<br/>
<br/>
You're fidgety all morning. Should you talk to Yumi? Wait for Yumi to talk to you? Should you go looking for her—and Katy—in the gym at lunch? You chicken out, though, which leads to a surprise eighth period.<br/>
<br/>
That's your Astronomy class. Stephanie is in there too—the only class you share with her—and she calls your name and beckons you over just after you sit down.<br/>
<br/>
"We're getting a study group together tomorrow night," she tells you. "I need to bone up in here, wondered if you wanted to join us."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, sure," you stammer in surprise. "What time? Where?"<br/>
<br/>
"Municipal library around eight. Dunno if we'll stay there. You got a curfew?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eleven."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. We might move over to The Flying Saucer instead, see where we go from there." She rubs her nose with the back of her fist. "How are you doing on the quizzes in here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Good enough, I think. Got a B on my last one."<br/>
<br/>
"Doing better'n me, we could help each other out." Her gaze cools as you stare back at her. "See you then?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Sure." Too late you realize you've been dismissed. "Yeah and, uh, thanks."<br/>
<br/>
"For what?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. For thinking of me?"<br/>
<br/>
She grunts, and with your face crimsoning you return to your desk. You slump there and chide yourself for being so wrong-footed when you had an idea that something was up. But you were surprised that the set-up came from Stephanie's direction. Maybe her talk with Yumi has shamed her into giving you some kind of chance.<br/>
<br/>
Not until later that night, while absent-mindedly polishing a mask, does it occur to you that you should be thinking about impressing Katy, not Stephanie.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake Wednesday morning to find that Yumi has texted you links to some of Katy's social media presences. There are lots of pictures of her with her basketball teammates, both in and out of uniform: at parties, hanging out in classrooms, sprawling on the grass or perched on some rocks out in the countryside. Katy, with her toothy smile and cheerful squint, is the cutest of the bunch—<i>cute as a bug in a rug,</i> as the old expression goes. But she also seems the least impressive, somehow. She looks like the kid sister hanging out with a more mature crowd, especially when set next to Stephanie.<br/>
<br/>
"Any chance of us getting together later?" Caleb asks you at the start of English. "Keith's making a video tonight," he adds, as though that explains why he's so desperate as to ask <i>you</i> to keep him company.<br/>
<br/>
"I've got a date," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
He does a double-take. "You? A <i>date?"</i><br/>
<br/>
"What's so weird about that?" you snarl.<br/>
<br/>
"Who with?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, it's a study date, actually. Me and some other people."<br/>
<br/>
He snorts. "That's not a date, dude."<br/>
<br/>
"With some girls, so it is! Stephanie Wyatt asked me out."<br/>
<br/>
He barks like a seal. "She asked you <i>along,</i>" he corrects you. "I could go," he adds as a seeming afterthought.<br/>
<br/>
"No one asked you."<br/>
<br/>
"You saying I'm not welcome?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. "Fine. You can go. We're meeting at Madison at eight. But I'm going for the girls, okay? Not for you."<br/>
<br/>
He twines his hands behind his head. "So'm I, Will. So'm I."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You think about warning Stephanie that Caleb will be along too, but when you see her you just reiterate that you'll see her at the library. She nods and returns to her cell phone.<br/>
<br/>
Your nerves play havoc with your appetite at dinner, so much so that your mom asks if you're feeling alright; you tell her a lie about having had a very late afternoon snack. You get some of your homework done after that, then as seven-thirty approaches you give some thought to the study date coming up. Even though it's been twenty-four hours since you were inside Coach Schell's mask, you must have a little bit of a hangover from those hours inside it, for you find yourself remembering, in a vague sort of way, that she was always impressed when a guy dressed up for even a casual meeting. So you spend almost fifteen minutes changing into and out of various shirts and pants, trying to find a look that seems groomed without being churchy, and casual without being sloppy. You finally settle on a white denim shirt and a clean pair of blue jeans. At your bedroom door, in a kind of spasm, you hurl your sloppy ball cap back onto the bed.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm meeting some guys at the library," you tell your parents as you pass through the living room. "Study group." Your dad only nods, but you feel your mom's eyes on your back. She calls your name when you're almost to the garage, and turn to find her hurrying up.<br/>
<br/>
Appraisingly, she glances you up and down. "Who's in this study group?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"'M not sure," you admit. "Stephanie Wyatt set it up. She asked me along 'cos we're both in Astronomy, and she needs help in it."<br/>
<br/>
"I see." She pulls at the lines of your shirt, and you flinch under her fingertips. "Your haircut looks good," she says. "You could brush it out a little. And shave." She scratches her chin meaningfully.<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself blush, and almost demur. You should have told her you were meeting Caleb, then she wouldn't be bothering you this way. But her point's well taken, and you dash upstairs long enough to fluff your hair out a little—you still had hat hair from the day—and to scrape some longish whiskers off your chin and cheekbones.<br/>
<br/>
Then, on a thought, you dash into your bedroom long enough to snatch up the mask you were starting to polish and stuff it into your backpack. You can drop it off at the elementary school on your way to the library, and also check on the fire.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you're late getting to the library, where you find Caleb loitering in the lobby. "So who are these girls we're supposed to be meeting?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I 'unno. Stephanie's one of 'em. Girl named Katy Conlee. You know her?" Your heart beats hard despite your attempted nonchalance. Caleb shakes his head. "Oh hey." You point up to the mezzanine behind the periodical section, where Kristy Suffolk's head is bobbing over the partition. "I bet they're up there. It's basketball players, most of them, I think."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus," Caleb mutters, but he follows you.<br/>
<br/>
"You waiting here for Stephanie?" you ask Kristy when you saunter up. She's sitting at a six-person table opposite Meghan Velasquez, a rather horse-faced member of the basketball squad.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, hey," Kristy says, and pushes out a chair for you. You hesitate and do a rapid calculation. Six people, three to a side, if you sit next to Kristy, that will put an empty chair on your other flank—<br/>
<br/>
So you take it, but Caleb promptly parks himself in the chair you were saving for Katy. You kick him hard under the table. "Ow," he says, but he doesn't move, so you kick him again. "Quit it," he says as he opens his bag. "Watch where you're putting those boats of yours."<br/>
<br/>
"It's pretty crowded over here," you tell him through gritted teeth. "Maybe you could leave that chair open until someone else shows up?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb stares at you. Then his eyes go wide, and his mouth forms a perfect circle. "Oh," he says. "Right." He moves over to the other side of the table, next to Meghan. "Mind if I sit next to you?" he asks her. She smiles—a very friendly, very white thing—and inquires after his health. "I'll be good as soon as the swelling in my ankle subsides," he says, and shoots you a grim look.<br/>
<br/>
Your quartet all share fourth-period English, so there's that to talk about. You're surprised at how cordial the two girls are. Kristy is rather reserved, but she solicits your opinion on the Virgil that you've been reading in there, and listens with evident interest to your opinion. Meghan is much bubblier, and laughs at every dry quip that Caleb makes at your expense. Inside of five minutes, you're wondering why you and your friend have been hanging aloof in Ms. Gladstone's class instead of sitting with these two girls.<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie and Katy arrive not long after. "Hey Will," says Stephanie in a tone that's about a hundred times warmer than you've ever heard her use with you before. "Glad you made it." She drops into the chair next to Caleb, which leaves Katy to sit next to you, as planned. You look her up and down as she pulls out the chair and sits.<br/>
<br/>
She's shorter than you would think likely for a basketball player—even a girl player—though she's far from diminutive. Her face is round and pale, though flushed a little, and her eyes shine brightly as she smiles at you. Close up, she reminds you more of a cherub than a chipmunk. Her cheeks are round and dimpled like apples, and her eyes almost disappear when her face rolls up into a smile. "Hi, I'm Katy," she chirps.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm Will," you say. It feels like your heart is sitting on the back of your tongue. "Um, that's a big book bag," you lamely observe of her satchel, which is bulging so hard it looks like the seams will pop.<br/>
<br/>
"Got lots of books," she says, and starts to unpack it.<br/>
<br/>
The first thing that comes out is a hardback library book: <i>The Vodou Spellbook.</i> You catch your breath.</span></div></div>


path: 11113441411112213122151
author_id: seuzz
title: Semi-Enchanted Evening
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You pick up the book. The dust jacket shows a pile of straw with a skull and a cloth doll propped up next to it. The title, in white letters rimmed with black, is <i>The Vodou Spellbook.</i> "So what's this?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie snatches it from your hand. "It's mine," she says, and she shoots Katy a hard glance as she shoves the book into her own backpack. "Katy was borrowing it."<br/>
<br/>
"You into voodoo?" you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"Research." Stephanie's attitude, so friendly a moment ago, has turned icy. "For Halloween. Getting party ideas." She darts her eyes about the table. "So what are we working on first?" she asks. "English?"<br/>
<br/>
No one says anything, and a reek of embarrassment settles on the group.<br/>
<br/>
"So maybe we should split up," Stephanie says after the silence has turned awkward. "Will, we could start with Mr. Cash's class. I definitely need some help in there." She hauls up her backpack and with a jerk of her chin gestures you to join her at another table.<br/>
<br/>
A cold feeling washes over you, but you stagger to your feet and follow. A numb spot forms around your heart, and when you glance over your shoulder you see Katy watching you go with wide eyes.<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie takes you a couple of tables over, and—intentionally or not—makes you sit with your back to everyone else. She unpacks her books silently, and you follow suit. But the third item you pull from your bag isn't a textbook or a notebook. It's that mask. With a small groan, you remember that you were going to drop it off at the elementary school, and clean forgot.<br/>
<br/>
"What's that thing?" Stephanie's question jerks you back to the present. She nods at the mask.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Erm. Art project."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what class?"<br/>
<br/>
"No class. Just a thing I'm working on." You start to put it back in your bag.<br/>
<br/>
But Stephanie darts out a hand. "Lemme see," she says. And since you've always been so goddamned intimidated by her, you let her take it.<br/>
<br/>
She holds it up and studies it with a look of concentration, turning it around and over. "Is it a mask?" she asks. "It needs eyeholes."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if you're going to wear it," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"What else would you do with it? Oh, maybe hang it on a wall? Is it like a wall decoration?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. I, uh, haven't decided."<br/>
<br/>
"It's pretty good work. What's it made out of? You carve it or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I, uh, used a mold. It's got a complicated, uh, recipe."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you got like a craft book? What's this?" She points to a spot on the cheek. "It's got a blemish."<br/>
<br/>
"No, that's where I'm polishing it. It's supposed to turn blue when you polish it."<br/>
<br/>
"Like with a stone polisher?"<br/>
<br/>
"A what? No, I'm just using a, uh, handkerchief."<br/>
<br/>
Stephanie gives you a very direct stare. "You're kidding, right? Is that what that book says to do? Use a handkerchief?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's an old book." You feel yourself blushing.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. Well, if it was me, I'd use a stone polisher. Or a car buffer. Does it take a long time?"<br/>
<br/>
"It feels like forever."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh. Well, do what you want." She hands the mask back to you, and resumes unpacking her stuff.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
After that, it's thirty minutes of reviewing the Ptolemaic, Copernican, and Keplerian models of the solar systems. Stephanie tackles it with a grim intensity, but the air between you thaws as you take turns quizzing each other on the material. She gives you a dirty look—though there's a twinkle in her eye—when you show yourself a better master of it. "Bastard," she mutters, but somehow it sounds like a compliment. <br/>
<br/>
Then you switch off, with Stephanie returning to the table with the girls and Caleb moving over to your table to do some Calculus. But he's more interested in teasing you about Stephanie. "How's your date with her going?" he chortles softly.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not a date!"<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what you told me this afternoon. Didn't you come over here to play footsie with her?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! I don't know why she dragged me over here." You glance back at Katy, who seems to be in earnest conversation with Stephanie. You hesitate, but decide not to tell Caleb about the real set-up. "Except to study for Mr. Cash's class."<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, she was waiting for you to kiss her on the lips."<br/>
<br/>
"Shut. Up."<br/>
<br/>
After another thirty-minute interval, the girls call you back to their table, but only briefly. "We're moving over to The Flying Saucer," Stephanie tells you. "It's boring here. Will, can you take someone? We're going to carpool over, I'll take everyone else."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Um." You freeze under Stephanie's unwinking stare, feeling like a bird that's been hypnotized by a snake. Your throat tightens and your voice turns very thick. "I'll, uh, take ... Katy?" You wrench your eyes from Stephanie. "I think Caleb wants—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's cool," Stephanie says. "Meet you over there." She swings her pack onto her shoulder and turns away. Meghan and Kristy follow, and Caleb saunters along too. He shoots you a mirthful glance over his shoulder, and you feel yourself blushing to your roots. Your knees are locked, and your feet feel bolted to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"So," you stammer out to Katy. "I've got a truck."<br/>
<br/>
"That'll get us there," she says. You notice that her complexion is now more pink than peach. "You like The Flying Saucer?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's okay. They're all okay. They're all kooky. Except for Starbucks."<br/>
<br/>
"Starbucks is boring."<br/>
<br/>
"You like occult stuff? Is that why you had a voodoo book?"<br/>
<br/>
"That was Stephanie's." Katy ducks her chin, and her eyes dart about. "I'm not supposed to talk to you about that," she says with an embarrassed grin.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, is that what she told you?" You can't help grinning back at her. "She doesn't want you spoiling some Halloween prank?"<br/>
<br/>
"Something like that." She turns even more pink. "We should go."<br/>
<br/>
You fall in next to her. You're tempted to link your arm with hers, but you restrain yourself as, side by side, you walk out the lobby to the parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
You don't share any classes with Katy, so you inquire about her schedule and tell her about yours. Except for her AP English class, her schedule seems even lighter than yours: a junior-level Physics class, a French-for-Reading-Knowledge class, and a basic government class. But she's also taking Plants and Soils. "On account of my parents," she says. "Can you tell I'm wrinkling my nose?"<br/>
<br/>
It's dark in the cab of your truck, so you can't. "You don't like it? Do you live on a farm?"<br/>
<br/>
"Practically. We own a nursery south of town. CC Nursery and Landscaping?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I know where that is! I was out there just a few days ago, bought some, uh—" Too late you restrain yourself. "Potting soil."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, do you have a green thumb?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hardly. It was, uh, for my mom. An errand." Actually, it was for that spell you've left burning in the elementary school basement. "So, do <i>you</i> have a green thumb?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. But my dad still keeps trying to hire me on there. He doesn't want it to be 'chores', he says, so he won't make me. But he really wants me to learn the business."<br/>
<br/>
"Wow, that's just like my dad," you exclaim. "Except he doesn't own the place he works, but he keeps pestering me to take a job there."<br/>
<br/>
It's like a bolt of electricity has gone shooting across the dark cab, and you dart a glance over at Katy. By the dim street lamps and headlights of the traffic, you see that she's grinning back at you. Talking quickly, sometimes at the same time, you commiserate about hectoring parents and their expectations. You're chatting like long-time friends by the time you enter The Flying Saucer, and hardly even notice the amused glances that you get as you join the others.<br/>
<br/>
There's no question of "studying" anymore, and you all sit around the table with coffees, talking and laughing. You are vaguely aware that Caleb has muted his usual honk, but you're too busy telling Katy about your "Film as Literature" class to pay too much attention to the rest of the table. She asks if you've watched any horror movies in there. "I like horror movies," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"She's lying," Stephanie interjects with a sharp smile—one of the few times at the Saucer that she says anything to you. "She's just telling you that 'cos she figures you do."<br/>
<br/>
So it's a fun time until the Saucer closes, when you give Katy a ride back to the library. "I think your friend kind of hit it off with Meghan," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Who, Caleb? I didn't notice."<br/>
<br/>
She titters. "We should all get together to study there more often." <br/>
<br/>
"You mean at a coffee shop?" One thought leads to another, and you think of that voodoo book. "You like weird things, like that voodoo book?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, that's Stephanie's."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't picture <i>her</i> being into voodoo."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not supposed to tell you about it, but it's for a prank. You know Hannah Westrick? She's on the soccer team? She's dating Marc Garner?" Her tone grows more exasperated with each shake of your head. "Anyway, we're going to prank her."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos no one likes her. Well, Marc does. Lots of guys like her, I guess, on account of she's, well—" Katy breaks off. "Anyway, Stephanie and some of her friends from the soccer team are going to get back at her. Scare her."<br/>
<br/>
"For what?"<br/>
<br/>
Katy relates a vague story of jealousy and wrong-doing. Hannah Westrick came over from Eastman, joined the soccer team, and has been causing problems ever since. This prank is to teach her to know her place.<br/>
<br/>
"And you're using voodoo on her?" Your skin prickles.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not <i>real</i> voodoo, 'cos voodoo's not <i>real.</i> Except, maybe, psychologically. But it's creepy, and we want to creep her out."</span></div></div>


path: 111134414111122131221511
author_id: seuzz
title: It Could Be Magic
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's coming up hard on your curfew, but after dropping Katy off you swing by the elementary school to check on the fire. To your delight, the basement is dark, and you have to fumble your way around until you find the flashlight. Is the spell done? <br/>
<br/>
But when you set a lighter to the pile of dirt, purple flames bloom off it again. You grimace with disappointment, and after staring at it for a few minutes, lock up for the night.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"So are you and Katy going out now?" Caleb asks you the next morning in Walberg's class.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you. No. I dunno. Are you and Meghan going out now?"<br/>
<br/>
Caleb makes a face but his ears turn red, which tells you that you've scored a hit. "Are you going to have lunch with Katy?" he asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Should I?"<br/>
<br/>
"Ah! So you <i>are</i> going out with her."<br/>
<br/>
"No! I told you, I don't know!" You rub your forehead: this is something you've been worrying about. "I don't know how to handle this!"<br/>
<br/>
"But you are interested in her."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. I guess." You notice that your leg is jogging up and down like a jack hammer, and you still it. "How should I handle it with her?"<br/>
<br/>
He snorts. "How about you just try doing the opposite of everything you did with Lisa."<br/>
<br/>
Now you make a face at him, then glance over your shoulder at your ex- while discreetly flipping your best friend off.<br/>
<br/>
You could go looking for Katy at the break, but instead you look for Yumi to ask her advice. "Where are you having lunch?" you ask her. "Are you eating with Katy and them? Should I show up?"<br/>
<br/>
Yumi stares at you, then breaks out in a grin. "So you had a good time last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah!" you pant. "But I dunno what to do next!"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, look, never mind lunch. Go look for her at her locker, see if she wants to see a movie or something on Friday. If you're really interested in getting to know her better, I mean. Are you?"<br/>
<br/>
You gulp. "Sure. But what about lunch? We really hit off, her and me! Shouldn't—"<br/>
<br/>
"Forget lunch. I'll bring her around to eat with you guys tomorrow, that'll be soon enough. Oh, and Will—" She gives you a pitying look. "Try to cut down on the caffeine between now and then."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you do wind up eating lunch with Katy. You and Caleb, on your way out to eat next to the Agricultural Annex, bump into her and Stephanie as they come in from there. Stephanie continues on—though with a cheerful smile at you and Caleb; yet another first in your experience—but Katy lights up at the suggestion that she eat with the you. Caleb, after hanging back, announces he's got stuff to talk about with Carson and James, and trudges off; you don't know what's happened to Keith, who is your usual third at lunch.<br/>
<br/>
So it's just you and Katy, taking lunch together on the grass behind the school. There's a little talk at the start, a shy, gushing recapitulation of last night's conversations. Talk about how much fun it was, and how you should all do it more often. About parents and their expectations. About the classes you've had so far and the classes to come. You're feeling desperately short of topics when you remember Yumi's suggestion about asking her out to see a movie. You check show times on your phone and find that a new horror picture will be opening on Friday: <i>Cravenmoor.</i> "That sounds great," Katy says. "I'd love to see it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you really like horror movies?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure!"<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos Stephanie said that you don't, that you—"<br/>
<br/>
"Stephanie can go, uh, suck on an egg," Katy says. She blushes deeply. "I do like them!"<br/>
<br/>
You snap your fingers. "Oh, right, because you and her and all your friends are into voodoo."<br/>
<br/>
"We're <i>not</i> into it!" She blushes harder. "We're just looking for, like, Halloween ideas!"<br/>
<br/>
"To scare this Hannah girl."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Right, I told you about that. But that doesn't mean we're into voodoo! It's like putting peanut butter in her hairbrush, something like that. Only creepier." She giggles.<br/>
<br/>
"So what are you going to do to her?"<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know yet, not for sure. Or maybe we are. Stephanie and Anita are in charge of it, they don't tell me much." Her brow crinkles. "Why are you so interested?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just interested in what you're doing. Would you hit her with a hex for real? If voodoo was real?" After your experiences with that grimoire, you're no longer sure that it isn't.<br/>
<br/>
"Jeez, I don't know. I don't think we'd want to <i>hurt</i> her."<br/>
<br/>
<i>You don't? How well do you know Stephanie?</i> you want to ask her. <i>Because if this Hannah girl has pissed off Stephanie, then I think </i>hurting<i> is definitely on the table.</i><br/>
<br/>
And Katy more or less confirms your cynical take when she adds, "If we wanted to hurt her, we wouldn't be using voodoo. You know, Stephanie wanted to get her drunk—Hannah, I mean—and put her with one of the football players." She leans in close. "Hannah is a <i>total slut</i>," she whispers, "if you put as much as a wine cooler in her." She leans back and nods primly and knowingly. "Stephanie wanted to set it up so she'd wind up making out with some jerk, really screw things up between her and Marc. But Anita told her we couldn't go <i>that</i> far."<br/>
<br/>
You fall onto your side and prop your head in your hand. Katy—with her chipmunk cheeks, her dimples, her peaches-and-cream complexion; her shy, twinkling gaze—does <i>not</i> seem like the kind of girl to act on a grudge, and you rather suspect that she's being swept along in a mob-like frenzy by her friends. "Mostly," she says, continuing, "I think everyone would just be happy if Hannah quit the soccer team. Or got forced off it."<br/>
<br/>
"Because she's so bossy?" That's the word Katy had used last night. "But you're on the basketball team, what do you care?"<br/>
<br/>
Katy seems to catch her breath, and her eyes widen. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, it doesn't bother <i>me,</i>" she says. "But it bothers Anita and some of the other girls. Because Anita is team captain, and Hannah thinks that <i>she—</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, it's because you're friends with Anita, that's how come you don't like Hanna?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, sure." The air seems to be leaking out Katy. "And I mean, it's not that I don't like her. I hardly know her. But Stephanie and Anita—"<br/>
<br/>
You don't want to push her too hard, so you nod and change the subject to talk about Caleb, and just how well he got along with Meghan last night. She's brightens again at that topic, and tells you that Meghan thought Caleb was really funny.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You haven't forgotten about the fire; nor have you forgotten that offhand comment that Stephanie made, about using some kind of mechanical polisher on the masks. When you get home after school, you search the garage and are rewarded with a car buffer, still in its box. After telling your mom that you're going to meet up with Caleb but that you'll be back for supper, you sneak it out to your truck and drive over to the elementary school. You find that the fire has gone out again, but with a flick of the lighter you relight it.<br/>
<br/>
A cursory search discloses a power outlet on the wall near the stairs, and you plug in the buffer. With the base locked between your knees, you crouch on a table and run the mask over the floppy cloth head. It takes longer to polish than you'd like, but much less time than the first mask took: forty-five minutes. You're in a cheerful mood when you return home, so cheerful that you don't even get in a fight with your brother at the dinner table.<br/>
<br/>
You've got thoughts about masks in the back of your mind all evening, even as you try to concentrate on your homework. You now have another mask and brain band combination, and the prospect of being able to make at least four more. You have no idea what plans Stephanie and her friends have for Hannah, but you bet you could use the masks to make trouble for Hannah.<br/>
<br/>
But why would you do that?  It isn't your fight. You don't even know who this Hannah girl is. In the second place, even if you did make trouble for her, how would Stephanie and Katy and them know that you're responsible for it? They don't believe in magic, so they wouldn't believe you if you told them you'd put some kind of a hex on Hannah. And in the third place, you're not sure what kind of a thing you could do to Hannah with the masks.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you do have some vague ideas, based on the kind of misadventures you've already had. You used Coach Schell's mask to borrow money off one of her friends: If you disguised yourself as Hannah, you could probably make trouble for Hannah in a similar way. Maybe like Katy said Stephanie wanted to do, by going out and getting drunk as her and making out with a guy.<br/>
<br/>
Or could you use Coach Schell's mask in some way? Maybe barge into one of her classes while disguised at the coach, and yell at her or humiliate her in some way?<br/>
<br/>
Katy said they want Hannah off the squad. What if you got a copy of the soccer coach—not that you know who that is—and used that disguise to somehow scare Hannah off the team?<br/>
<br/>
After noodling around with these ideas, though, you have to return to the fact that this isn't your affair, and there's no reason for it to be. Not unless you made yourself part of their group. <br/>
<br/>
Or you made them part of your ... magic circle?</span></div></div>


