# chapters

path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221111121212111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Team Assembles
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"The office looks very nice— I mean, it <i>will</i> look very nice, once we get it furnished," Lenke says in that same obsequious tone she's been using on Banks. "But it's going to look very bare if it's only me and the sprog."<br/>
<br/>
"I was told you can make your own staff," Banks says. "We've got a workroom set up in the back." He gestures you to follow.<br/>
<br/>
That workroom, it turns out, is the same chamber that Eric Kim had imprisoned you in. It's also been refurbished, and now holds a tall cabinet and two big work tables. It's all quite bare, except for a thin stack of paper, which Banks hands to you. "Cambridge sent these over," he says.<br/>
<br/>
They're the sigils you drew for Hyde-White on the day you met him, and they've been carefully laminated. You assume the lamination won't screw with the spell, but you'll have to make sure. "Cambridge also sent a shopping list to go with those," Banks says before you can ask. "We can pick 'em up tomorrow. The graveyard dirt might take a little longer."<br/>
<br/>
So that's what he meant by "You can make your own staff."<br/>
<br/>
"Hello?" a voice calls. <br/>
<br/>
Lenke leaves to find the visitor, and you hear muted talk from the outer office. But you stay with Banks. "Could you explain again about these groups, please?" you say. "Titan and Diana and—"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you want to know?"<br/>
<br/>
"Anything you can tell me. Is Titan a rival company?"<br/>
<br/>
Banks chuckles dryly. "Yes and no. Titan, Diana, and Spartacus are all special groups inside Fane, or inside a company that Fane controls." He cocks his head. "How long have you been with us?"<br/>
<br/>
"A little over two weeks. Maybe it's supposed to be a secret I'm not supposed to know about—"<br/>
<br/>
"No, you're not asking after any secrets," Banks says with a shrug. "Diana and Spartacus and Titan are all groups set up by Fane. Spartacus is the security service. It provides protection for executives and facilities, and does any dirty work that needs doing." <br/>
<br/>
"Like picking up four hundred pounds of dirt from a graveyard?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
He laughs. "Yes. And dirtier. Titan is a research project. They're developing something for the US army, and they've got a team working out at Fort Suffolk. That's all I can tell you about them, because that's all I know. Diana is the project we're working for, so you should know all about it."<br/>
<br/>
You don't really feel like you do, but you ask a different question. "So why is it supposed to be a secret from Titan that we're here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because you don't keep secrets by spreading them around," Banks says. "It's not Titan's business what Diana is doing, so we keep ourselves a secret from them."<br/>
<br/>
You suppose that makes sense, but there's still something that doesn't quite sit right with you. <i>Why can't Diana and Titan share a facility, and just stay out of each other's way?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Are you hungry?" Banks asks. 'That'll be Kipper outside with supper. He's my assistant, came over with me from Spartacus. We don't have any secrets from him either."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Terry Kipper turns out to be a rough-hewn thirty-year-old with a shock of dark red hair and freckles so big and numerous that they give his face and arms a faux-tanned look. He almost instantly puffs up when you appear, and a strut appears in his walk. He's brought sandwiches and chips and pickles from a deli. "Disguises, huh?" he says near the end of the meal, and his expression is hungrier than it was at the start. "Are either of you girls in disguise? How about you, Zack?"<br/>
<br/>
Banks laughs. Lenke sniffs. "I've had this look for a while," she says stiffly. "But I've got another one, underneath, so to speak." She gives you a sidelong, slit-eyed glance. "Answer the man, Paige. Are you in disguise?" she asks with a sweetness that stings.<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself turning very red. "Will Prescott" is not an identity you particularly feel like reclaiming. Nor do you want Kipper tagging you as a fag or a drag queen—as you're certain he will if you come clean. "I've got a different look under this one too," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
Lenke's laugh is a screech. "Her real name is William Prescott, and she's actually a seventeen-year-old American boy."<br/>
<br/>
Kipper's jaw drops and his eyes pop, but there's nothing like contempt or amusement in his expression. "You're fucking with me," he says. He leans in to peer at you forwardly. "That's one fucking hell of a makeover. I mean, I've seen some real convincing drag acts, but— How much work did they have to—?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck.</i> This is even worse than you'd expected, and you look to Banks for help. "How much does he know about?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Kips hasn't been fully briefed yet," Banks says. "But he'll have to be. He's going to be fitted out, same as you."<br/>
<br/>
"I am?" Kipper exclaims. "Can I be a hot girl too?" His laughter sounds like a hacking cough. "That'd be fucking sweet!"<br/>
<br/>
An expectant pause fills the room, and it takes you a moment to realize you're supposed to fill it with explanations.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a mask," you stammer. "I don't really know the science or, uh, magic behind it all. But you can make a blank mask, and when you put it on someone, it copies them. Then when you put it on, you turn into a copy of them."<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa. It copies everything? Inside and out?" Kipper asks, and you nod. "So you've got—" He pulls up short as Banks laughs and you turn red. "If we took an X-ray of you, or did some exploratory surgery—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I've got all the parts you'd expect to find in someone who looks like this," you say with quiet fury. "And this girl, I've also got her memories and personality, and I'll say that I'd like to slap you hard across the—"<br/>
<br/>
"Yikes!" says Kipper. "Does that personality override your own? Are you really just this girl?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>God, this is awful.</i> You grit your teeth. "No, it doesn't override anything. It's just very easy to fall into character, which is good because if you're pretending to be someone else you want their instincts, right? But I'm in control, and I can step out of character any time I want." And yet you can't keep a simpering, feminine tone out of your reply.<br/>
<br/>
"So you've done yourself up like a copy of a real girl." Kipper says. "What happened to her? Where is she?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you confess. You suspect that Paige Knotts was alive until at least a few days ago, for you are wearing a new mask of her. The mask you had been wearing at Cambridge is now riding around on a golem, continuing the life that you had interrupted and hijacked. Hyde-White brought you a second mask to travel under, but it contains no memories beyond those of the day you took over her life.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll be crafting new identities for you and Kips," Banks says. "Mrs. Varga, you'll only be getting new cards, as I'm told your face is semi-permanent." He turns to you. "But you'll be getting an entirely new look. I understand that these masks can also be used to craft a new face and body, one that doesn't belong to anyone specifically?" You nod. "That's what we'll do with you and Kips. Much neater than doing a replacement. Your new looks will be college age, as you'll be attending the local university." He pauses. "Kips, I believe you said you'd like to be a hot girl?"<br/>
<br/>
Kipper guffaws, and you think he blushes under his freckles. "Well— Okay, since I already said it, sure, why not." He guffaws again.<br/>
<br/>
Banks turns to you. "How about you, Prescott? We need to get moving. Male or female for you?"<br/>
<br/>
You freeze. "Do I have to decide right now?"<br/>
<br/>
"We're on a schedule," says Banks. "We need to get you enrolled for the spring semester, and for that we need a name, and for that we need a gender."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh for God's sake, just choose," Lenke says. "We already know you like cross-dressing, so just say 'girl' and be done with it."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Is that why she hates you so much?</i> you suddenly wonder. <i>She has a thing against cross-dressers?</i><br/>
<br/>
But Banks gives you an out: "We won't get started until tomorrow," he says. "You can sleep on it. I'll take you back to your hotel now."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Conversation is muted on the drive back, and you're relieved to get into your room, away from Lenke. But a moment later comes a soft knock at the door.<br/>
<br/>
You're surprised—but relieved—to find it's Banks, and he pushes his way in without an invitation. "You don't get along with Mrs. Varga," he says bluntly. "You don't want to work with her, do you?" You shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
He regards you for a long moment. "Professor Hyde-White said you did some snooping for him back in Cambridge. I can put you on a similar job here, keep you away from Mrs. Varga. But it's something only you and I would know about."</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122111112121212
author_id: seuzz
title: A River Runs Through It
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Of course, it's not as though I have any <i>pull,</i>" Professor Hyde-White says with a dry chuckle; his two guests smile faintly. "Like the museum, I am only a <i>recipient</i> of Fane's largesse. But the fact remains that I dropped a lot of not quite casual hints with those who control the collection, and the donation did land here at Cambridge."<br/>
<br/>
He brushes his water glass with the side of his hand, and you step up smartly to refill it. His guests make no similar motion, but you top off their glasses as well. The guy ignores you, but the girl shoots you a quick smile, showing a dimple in her cheek. You affect not to notice, and withdraw to the kitchen, where the next course is warming in the oven. <br/>
<br/>
You don't have to strain to hear the conversation at the table; a wide, open archway joins the kitchen to the dining room. You're in the professor's "town cottage"—a small house, actually—only a mile or so away from his university rooms. Since the latter also have living quarters, it means that Professor Hyde-White has at least three places he can call home when he wants. <br/>
<br/>
When Eric Kim told you that Hyde-White was a "senior guy" at Fane, he wasn't kidding.<br/>
<br/>
"It's really a remarkable collection," the professor is saying as you start prepping the next course.<br/>
<br/>
"Anything out of King Tut's tomb?" asks the guy. His name is Graham something or other, a Russian name. Not that he's Russian. He's American, just like the girl, Mary.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, dear me, no," says the professor. "The Egyptians play it very close with <i>that</i> treasure. But we had nearly a hundred years' run of the place—the European's had the run of it, I mean—and Fane, or one of its directors, I really don't know, managed to pull together a nice little collection while they had the chance. You really should take advantage of this donation when the museum opens it to the public."<br/>
<br/>
"Is there going to be a mummy," asks Mary. "I don't think I could handle a dead body, even if it's—"<br/>
<br/>
Professor Hyde-White laughs. "I'm sure don't know. I can check, though. I have a pamphlet or a catalog or some such thing. Just let me fetch it." The girl protests, but Hyde-White brushes her off. "Dear me, it's no trouble at all. I shouldn't like you to miss the exhibition for fear of a mummy. Nor should I like you to suffer an untoward surprise if there were one." He disappears into another room.<br/>
<br/>
"You're such a baby, Dunsdale," Graham snorts. "Who gives a shit if—"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, who gives a shit about a stupid Egyptology thingamajig at the museum," she retorts. <br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. And now he's gone to get a fucking brochure about it. Nice work. Well, at least the food's good." Graham scrapes his fork across his empty plate.<br/>
<br/>
He looks a little dumfounded when you whisk both it and the professor's plate away. Mary hurriedly gulps down a last bite of salmon and shoves her plate toward you. Again, she gives you a smile. <br/>
<br/>
At this rate, you'll have her phone number by the time you bring in dessert.<br/>
<br/>
Well, you do have a good looking form: Close-trimmed blonde hair with just a little bit of a "wave"; green eyes set over pronounced cheekbones; a v-shaped torso that fits well inside the crisp white shirt and emerald serving apron. Mark says you could get a job modeling, and Mark doesn't lie—<br/>
<br/>
Except when he's sneaking off to tom-cat around with George, as if you didn't know that's what he likes to get up to. Christopher keeps telling you to break up with him, and there are days you're sorely tempted—<br/>
<br/>
You jerk yourself from Andrew McQuillen's reverie and turn to the lamb. It won't slice itself ...<br/>
<br/>
Professor Hyde-White had remarked just this morning about how convincing your impersonations are. With a shrug, you'd replied that the masks do all the work. He'd arched a skeptical eyebrow, and asked how easy the impersonation was on the "inside." You'd asked what he meant. He'd thought a moment, then said "Never mind." <br/>
<br/>
Right now, though, you think you understand the professor's question exactly: McQuillen's psychology keeps trying to bang its way to the fore. The personality inside this mask really isn't stronger than the personalities inside other masks you've worn. But you hadn't fought the masks of Paige Knotts and Jacob Darrow, and all the others you've put on, because you'd needed those feigned personalities as part of your disguise.<br/>
<br/>
But tonight you're just acting as a food server, and Hyde-White had copied McQuillen only so you would know how to serve him and his guests at this private dinner. You don't need to "be" Andrew McQuillen; in fact, the original is probably out at a nightclub right now with his boyfriend, blissfully unaware of anything except the odd fainting attack he had when meeting with Hyde-White yesterday afternoon. And since you don't need to "be" Andrew McQuillen, you deeply resent the way that his instincts keeps drawing your eye toward the lean, towering mass of delicious muscle that is Graham Whatsisnutsky. You'd much rather be flirting back with the girl.<br/>
<br/>
"—quite safe, no mummies," the professor is saying as you slide a china plate in front of him. He folds back a glossy page and thrusts it at Mary. "You might like <i>this,</i> however."<br/>
<br/>
"Jewelry?" she says in a dead voice. She is very pretty, with blonde, curly hair pulled back in a scrunchy. But she's not wearing any makeup—and doesn't need it, for her complexion fairly glows—and for this formal-like dinner she's in a sweatshirt and jeans. Not a girl, you judge, who has a high interest in shiny things.<br/>
<br/>
"Of a sort," the professor says. "It's called the Ankh of Thoth, and I commend it to your attention for its ceremonial uses." He hands the brochure at Graham. "The Egyptians were greatly skilled at the making of watercraft, particularly the light craft that skimmed the Nile. The Ankh, according to tradition, was used in the ceremonies of blessing that gave their boats an almost occult speed and ease of handling."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, Dawes mentioned something about that," Graham says in a guarded tone of voice. "Well, he mentioned that <i>you</i> mentioned something about that to him."<br/>
<br/>
You retreat to the kitchen, tidying up and prepping the next course, and when you return to the dining room to top off glasses, the conversation has moved on the upcoming boat race between Oxford and Cambridge. All three are mourning the dominance that Cambridge's great rival has shown in recent years.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
When the meal is over, you clean and pack the dishes and garbage into the carrying cases that the caterers had dropped off. You wish the professor good night and (following instructions he'd given you before dinner) take the cases outside and drop them at the curb. You then retreat to a dark corner behind a bush and wait for the professor to find you.<br/>
<br/>
He's a very long time coming, probably more than an hour, which gives you a morbidly long period of time to dwell with Andrew McQuillen's thoughts. <i>Graham. Mm mm mm.</i> On the university rowing team, apparently. It makes sense, he's so tall and strong. Good-looking, too, being in the first blush of manhood, when the body and face have just come into full maturity, and the freshness of youth hasn't yet begun to wear away. Andrew is nearer (much nearer) thirty than twenty, and worry has begun to show in his eyes when he contemplates his reflection. <i>Got to get to the gym more often,</i> you remind yourself, and then remind yourself that that's not one of <i>your</i> thoughts. Still, Graham will prattle inside your skull that a cut body isn't a wholly satisfactory trade for a blushingly youthful face. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Trade.</i> You could just make a trade, trading this body for, say, Graham's?<br/>
<br/>
Now, who's thought is that, yours or Andrew's? But the sequel fantasy—of swaggering through Andrew's favorite nightclubs in Graham's body—is surely Andrew's own.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus, you need to get out of this mask.</i> <br/>
<br/>
You turn your attention firmly onto Mary. Now, <i>there's</i> a body you'd like to get close to, without necessarily getting inside. It's probably her blonde hair that reminds you of Chelsea Cooper back in Saratoga Falls. Chelsea was very tough, especially on losers like Will Prescott; maybe it's Mary's lack of make up that gives her a "tough" air. She certainly doesn't simper. You wonder what her relationship is to Graham. They don't act like they are a couple. But why did they come to this dinner together?<br/>
<br/>
For that matter, why did the professor invite them to dinner, and insist that you stick around in disguise?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're stiff with boredom when you hear a door open and close. "Mr. Prescott," the professor calls softly. You step out of the shadow, and he beckons you to follow him inside.<br/>
<br/>
Graham and Mary are sprawled on a divan, eyes closed and mouths open, snoring.<br/>
<br/>
"Which one do you prefer," Hyde-White asks.<br/>
<br/>
You suck in a sharp breath. Naturally, it had occurred to you that tonight was meant to be an audition of sorts, but the professor hadn't said anything. "What's the job?" you cautiously ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I told you to pay special attention," he snaps. "Didn't you—? Oh, very well. You must infiltrate the rowing team and see to it that they perform the Ceremony of Ankh upon their boat so that they win the upcoming race. I've already planted the idea with their stroke, but they are making no moves. Probably due to Swann's damnable interference. I suspect their cox—" He points to Mary "—is being difficult, so that may be the better imposture for you. But Mr. Lundesky is Mr. Dawes's roommate, and that will put you close to him. He seems to have the most influence on the crew."</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221111121212122
author_id: seuzz
title: The Girl at the Back of the Boat
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What will you do with her?" you ask Professor Hyde-White. You stare at a spot on the bathroom wall, halfway between the professor—who is standing in the doorway—and the bathtub, which holds the naked girl. Even knowing that you'd soon be walking around under a facsimile of her body, you'd found it mortifying to peel the clothes off her.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll put her someplace for temporary safekeeping."<br/>
<br/>
"Where?"<br/>
<br/>
The professor's tone turns chilly. "That's not really your concern, Mr. Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
You glance over at him. It surprises you a little that you should challenge him now, when you didn't challenge him over Paige Knotts. Still, you say nothing.<br/>
<br/>
But that glance seems to discomfit the professor a little. "Well, what would <i>you</i> do," he asks with faint asperity. "You've had some experience—recently, too—in keeping people out of the way during an impersonation."<br/>
<br/>
Your face burns a little. <i>Why are you so worried about what the professor will do with these victims?</i> As he says, you're just doing more of what you had been doing before. You don't voice the bitter suspicion you harbor: that the professor's organization—this "Fane" company—might not have qualms about killing your victims. <br/>
<br/>
Instead, you just answer his question. "I'd hide her under a mask."<br/>
<br/>
"As you say," the professor replies. "We have any number of places to put Ms. Dunsdale. Under the mask of Paige Knotts, for example."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you said you put that mask on a golem."<br/>
<br/>
"The golem can go in storage, and Ms. Dunsdale can go under the mask. For the duration."<br/>
<br/>
A pit forms in your stomach, but you ask the question anyway: "What did you do with Paige?"<br/>
<br/>
"That <i>really</i> is not your business. But something similar. There's any number of anonymous faces we could hide someone under."<br/>
<br/>
You choose to be mollified by this. And just in time, too, as the mask comes out of Mary Dunsdale.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Oh, wake up, Lurch," you hiss, and shake Graham Lundesky more roughly. This time, at least, a little groan escapes his throat. "Did you have to use so much of that crap on him," you ask the professor.<br/>
<br/>
"Better too much than too little," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You sigh deeply at Lundesky. How to wake him up? Well, if he's anything like his roommate ... "Turn around and don't watch, okay?" you snap at Hyde-White. A supercilious sneer crosses his face, but he leaves the room.<br/>
<br/>
You stroke Lundesky's sunburned cheek with the palm of your hand. "Graham crackers," you softly call him. You lean in close and let your warm breath enwreathe his face as you continue stroking him. You press a knee between his legs and gently press it into his crotch. He grunts again.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck, why is it less weird to do this as Mary than it was to fantasize about doing it as McQuillen?</i> Maybe because Mary actually doesn't feel that much for Lundesky? (Which is why she calls him "Lurch" behind his back.) You put your face to his and, without kissing him exactly, rub your lips back and forth across his.<br/>
<br/>
He takes a deep breath, and you feel a hand on your butt—<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, that's enough foreplay," you snap, and slap him sharply on the cheek. "Get up."<br/>
<br/>
"Ow!" Graham comes alive with a jerk, and blinks rapidly. His eyes gradually focus on you. "What the fuck, Dunsdale?"<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, get up, we should go." You try to pull him from the sofa; you might as well try dragging a cement truck.<br/>
<br/>
"What happened?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"It was that anise shit the professor gave us. It knocked me for a loop and knocked you out cold."<br/>
<br/>
"The hell you say. Where is the fucker?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up. He went to get our coats or something. We only just noticed you'd passed out. That stuff was hard liquor, Lur— Lundesky. You don't slam it like beer."<br/>
<br/>
He turns very red. "I didn't— I wasn't—" He blinks rapidly. "I don't remember." With a deep groan he leans forward. "I feel like someone punched me in the head."<br/>
<br/>
<i>I wanted to,</i> you don't say.<br/>
<br/>
He looks up at you from under his eyebrows. "Were you—? Did you try—?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." You feel yourself redden as his eyes narrow. "I don't care what it felt like, Lundesky. I was just trying to wake you up."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh." With another deep groan, he gets to his feet, where he sways a bit.<br/>
<br/>
The professor comes in with two coats over his arm. "Ah, well, it's been a delightful evening. But all good things, as they say." He hands you a fleece-lined jacket, and a knee-length coat to Lundesky. "I am so delighted you accepted my invitation. It makes one feel young again," he says with a wistful tone, "to be in the company of young people. Do give my regards to Mr. Dawes."<br/>
<br/>
You thank him for the evening, and with a further clutch of "Good nights" you and Lundesky head out into the dark night and back toward your rooms. Neither of you talk much—you'd exhausted most of your derision for the professor in asides when he was out of the room—and soon part for your separate quarters. You're not sure what irritates you more: that Lundesky didn't invite you back to his rooms with Phil Dawes, or that by not inviting you he didn't give you a chance to tell him to go fuck himself. You just make your way back to Wyndham Court. You glance at the door across the hall from yours before going into your rooms.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>A week ago:</i><br/>
<br/>
"Get a lock of her hair," Dawes says. "Or at least a few strands."<br/>
<br/>
You've got a few strands of his chest hair twined in your fingers. His skin is dry and a little rough, just the kind of dry roughness that makes you want to rub yourself up and down all over him. You straddle Dawes, then lay atop him, and scrape your cheek down his. "Whose hair? What hair? For what?"<br/>
<br/>
"That girl we were talking about. Miss Mousypants across the hall from you."<br/>
<br/>
You raise up. "What do you want her—? Have you got some kind of kinky—? Do you have some of <i>my</i> hair?"<br/>
<br/>
Dawes laughs. "Nah. I want hers for a project."<br/>
<br/>
"For a kinky sex—?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," he says firmly. "Something to help us in the race against Oxford."<br/>
<br/>
"Like a good luck charm?"<br/>
<br/>
"Exactly. Something to, you know, put on the boat."<br/>
<br/>
"You've got a whole girl—me—in the boat."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but you're not a virgin. Oof!"<br/>
<br/>
You punch him again in the chest. "What the fuck does—? Guys are such assholes," you spit. "Always obsessed with girls' virginity." Dawes's snicker turns into another gasp as you punch him a third time. "You don't hear girls always speculating about—"<br/>
<br/>
"You know we got a virginity detector back home, in Medfield," he says.<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes. "You don't need a detector, Dawes, you just need a—"<br/>
<br/>
"It's on the local college campus. It's a statue of Cesar Arno."<br/>
<br/>
<i>The fuck is he babbling about?</i> "Who's Cesar Arno?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Some asshole who paid them to put his statue up, I guess. He's seated out in front of Higgins Hall. But anyway, yeah, the statue's a virgin detector." He grins. "It stands up when a virgin walks by."<br/>
<br/>
"You're fucking with me," you gasp. "People have seen this happen?"<br/>
<br/>
He stares at you. "Oh God, Dunsdale," he groans. "Why do you have to be such a stereotypical blonde?"<br/>
<br/>
"How can a statue stand up?" you insist. "How can it know when a virgin—?"<br/>
<br/>
"It <i>doesn't</i> stand up! Don't you get it?"<br/>
<br/>
"If it doesn't stand up, how can it be a virgin detector?"<br/>
<br/>
"It stands up when a virgin walks by," he shouts. "But there aren't any virgins at Medfield College, so it never stands up! Jesus!"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't get what you're talking about, Dawes." Despite your irritation, you lay back next to him, wrapping your arms about his bare torso and your bare legs about his. "You know, if you weren't such an asshole, I might have a thing for you."<br/>
<br/>
"That's okay," he says. "I've got a thing for you."<br/>
<br/>
You raise your head fractionally. <br/>
<br/>
He grasps your hand and guides it down to his cock, which is swelling again. "And there it is."<br/>
<br/>
This time he only laughs when you hit him. "Just get me some of that girl's hair. I don't need a statue of Cesar Arno to tell that <i>she's</i> a virgin."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But Mary never did. And after badgering her for a few days, Dawes dropped the subject.<br/>
<br/>
It preys on you, though, as you bend over Dunsdale's homework for tomorrow. <i>See to it that they perform the Ceremony of Ankh,</i> Professor Hyde-White had told you. <i>You need not participate in it yourself, but be sure they have the supplies for it, and the intent, and that they follow through on it.</i><br/>
<br/>
So, the very least—and maybe the very most—you need to do is get the hair that Dawes asked for. The girl across the hall ...<br/>
<br/>
<i>Does it have to be a virgin,</i> you wonder. <i>Or was that just Dawes being a prick?</i> There's no way you could tell just by looking at her, but you're pretty sure Dawes is right. The girl is rather pretty, or would be if she lost those thick glasses. She has flame-red hair that trails behind her as she hurries from place to place, and a quick, darting manner; she jumps a little every time someone talks to her. Not that Mary has paid much attention to her. Between her Health Science classes and her coxswain duties for the rowing team—you glance at the wall calendar showing the practice schedule—Mary hasn't got much time for anything. Which is why she mostly socializes with the rowers.<br/>
<br/>
At least that will make it easy for you to concentrate on doing the job that Hyde-White has given you.</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212211111212121221
author_id: seuzz
title: Trouble Given and Received
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You have to knock a second time before the door opens. "Miss Mousypants" peeks out.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I'm your neighbor from across the hall," you say with a smile. "Do you have any shampoo I can borrow?"<br/>
<br/>
The girl's eyes widen, and she swallows. <i>Christ, is she actually scared of you?</i> She hesitates, then nods briefly and closes the door in your face.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> This is the only idea you could come up with for getting some of her hair, and you'll be damned if you're going to let a door come between you and it. Luckily, she hadn't locked the door again, and you're able to step into her rooms. "My name's Mary," you call, and the girl appears in another doorway with a shocked look on her face. "We haven't talked to each other, I know, even though we're—" You point back to your room. "My name's Mary," you say again.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm Grace," she says in a barely audible murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"Nice to finally say hi," you say. "You're a local? I mean, you're English? I'm from America. Sorry for busting in on you. Maybe it's not polite."<br/>
<br/>
Grace murmurs something else. "I, I don't know if, if what I've got, the shampoo, would suit you," she stammers when you ask her to repeat it.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, don't worry about that," you say. You glance around. <i>Hairbrush, hairbrush.</i> Damn, it must be in the bathroom. "I just want something to wash my hair with before going around to the shop to pick up more. Don't you just hate going out not made up?"<br/>
<br/>
Grace says nothing, but hangs her head silently a moment before retreating to the bathroom. You charge over, and almost bump into her as she comes out with a small plastic bottle. Your eye roves wildly over the sink top. "Hey, that's a cute little brush," you exclaim, and grab it up. Truth to tell, there's nothing remotely interesting about it. "Where did you get it?"<br/>
<br/>
You're too busy yanking long strands from it to notice that Grace hasn't replied. When you look up, you see she's staring at you with a frightened expression.<br/>
<br/>
You know that Americans have a reputation in England for being really forward, but this looks less like embarrassment and more like sheer terror. But you can't afford to notice it. "I just love hair thingies," you prattle desperately. "Ever since I was a little girl, and my mom used to put my hair up in ponytails. I had dozens, maybe hundred of barrettes when I was a kid, with glitter and hearts and all kinds of shi—Things. I'm always buying new brushes and combs. I know, it doesn't look like it, because now I just like to wear it back with a scrunchy." You shake your head back and forth so she can see your loose ponytail. "Anyway, thanks for the hair soap, and I'll pay you back for it real soon. I'm running kind of late now." You run out the door before you can die of embarrassment.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Professor Hyde-White warned you that Hal Swann of the <i>Stellae Errantes</i> was interfering with the Ceremony of Ankh. As you emerge into the cold morning air, the usual cluster of a half-dozen anarchist idiots is gathered at the gate of the college, and you recognize Hal in their midst. They rush you, like they rush Mary on most mornings recently.<br/>
<br/>
"Down with the boat races! Down with privilege! Water's a common liquid, not a noble gas!"<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme through, you fuckwipes!" you yell at them. "Sexist fucks! Too chickenshit to fuck with my guys, so you'll fuck with a girl?"<br/>
<br/>
A few of them—not that you feel like extending them much credit—actually stop short at that, and look a little worried.<br/>
<br/>
"Lemme guess, you can't get laid," you snarl at the fattest of the bunch, a guy with long, tangled hair and a goatee. "This is the only way you can talk to a girl! Go on and push me, you motherfucking queer! Then you'll finally know what it's like to <i>touch</i> a girl!"<br/>
<br/>
"She's right, lads!" Hal calls in a clear voice. "It's the boors with the oars who're the real oppressors!" Almost as one, his flock scatters and regroups, trotting briskly along toward King's College.<br/>
<br/>
"Stay away from my crew, you assholes!" you shriek after them. But you've a class to get to, and Mary's sense of righteous fury can't fully suffocate the strutting pride you feel at having sent Hal's gang packing.<br/>
<br/>
But you feel much more ambivalent about your victory a few hours later.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Those pathetic little shits?" you gasp. "They're the ones that--?"<br/>
<br/>
Phil Dawes glares at you, and you pipe down. No one else in the lobby of the infirmary seems to notice your outburst, but you shouldn't make a scene. "Yeah," Phil says. "The pisser of it is that I don't think we hurt any of <i>them.</i>" Scarlet shows at his brow, and his lips curl back.<br/>
<br/>
"Press charges! You're gonna press charges, aren't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Against who?" Phil retorts. "We don't know any of their names, or where they live. I don't even think they're students here. Just a buncha clowns—"<br/>
<br/>
He stops as Lundesky comes in from one of the corridors leading to the exam rooms. He shrugs as he sits next to Phil. "Ding got a sprain," he says, "but it looks like Lewis has a fracture."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck! There goes all our practices, there goes any chance of winning this year against Oxford."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the doctors say Keys's leg is practically healed. He'll be fine in time for the race," Lundesky says.<br/>
<br/>
"But not for practice," Dawes says. "If Ding and Lewis are benched, we're finally short on men."<br/>
<br/>
"The rest of us can still practice," you say. "So we're short. That doesn't mean the rest of us can't work out." Dawes glares through the wall opposite. "I know we've had a real shit run of luck. All these injuries. But—" You put your arm through Dawes's. "If it's luck you want—" You stretch to whisper in his ear. "I got some of that girl's hair, like you asked for."<br/>
<br/>
Dawes turns to look at you, but there's no happiness in his eye. "Pssh."<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, Dawes," you say. "We'll make it work. Luck's just something in your head. And if you really think it'll change it, like I said, I got that hair for you."<br/>
<br/>
Dawes frowns deeply at the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you tell Graham about that thing, the luck thing with the hair," you ask. You look at Lundesky when Phil doesn't reply. "Did he tell you about that?"<br/>
<br/>
Graham's expression is tight. "You mean that ankh thing?"<br/>
<br/>
Mary doesn't know anything about the actual ceremony, and you barely stop yourself from nodding. "I don't know about an ankh thing," you say. "Dawes asked me to get some hair off that girl who lives across from me. Said he wanted it for luck in—"<br/>
<br/>
"It doesn't matter now," Dawes says. "It's all over."<br/>
<br/>
Everyone is silent for a bit. Then Lundesky speaks: "In a situation like this, you grab every advantage you can, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Dawes looks over at him sharply. Again, there's a lengthy silence. "And the other guys?" Phil finally asks.<br/>
<br/>
"How many does it take?"<br/>
<br/>
"A half dozen, at least."<br/>
<br/>
"There's you and me, then." Lundesky glances over at you. "Dunsdale, maybe."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think she'd—"<br/>
<br/>
"After what happened today, I bet Lewis and Ding would do anything just to spite those assholes. That's five. I'm sure you could count on Keys."<br/>
<br/>
Dawes leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "And this is my last term here," he mutters.<br/>
<br/>
You hug him more tightly. "I'll do whatever I can to help us win," you say. "And to make your last term the best one."<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a sidelong glance, but says nothing more about it.<br/>
<br/>
Jack Lewis and Adam "Ding" Bell eventually appear, their arms in soft casts. You follow them back to the room that Dawes and Lundesky share, and drink beers with them until everyone is more mellow.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Getting Dawes to perform the ceremony proves easier said than done. You don't want to push him too hard, but the few times you mention it to him over the next few days, he gruffly pushes the subject away. In theory, you've got a lot of time before the great day of the Cambridge-Oxford race, but you'd like to get this assignment over quickly. As trim, pretty, and athletic as Mary is—and you do enjoy stretching and testing this form you've assumed—you don't enjoy her classwork, and she doesn't enjoy it enough herself to correct the deficit. Your only consolation is that Swann and his swarm have stopped pestering the crew. But even that worries you; you'd rather that you knew where they were.<br/>
<br/>
And then, five days after you assumed the role of Mary Dunsdale, something happens that makes you wish Hal Swann was the worst thing you had to worry about.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122111112121212211
author_id: seuzz
title: Not the Reinforcements You Need
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a Saturday, and it dawns bright and cold. You rise early, and despite the threaten of snow in the afternoon pull on jogging shorts and a tight halter top; your only concession to the weather is a thick headband wound around your forehead and over your ears; warm, fingerless gloves; and a thick, woolly socks inside your jogging shoes. Mary likes running in the cold—so bracing!—and especially like getting back to her rooms after a five-mile jog, and to and the hot shower and hot, lemony tea that waits. <br/>
<br/>
Lots of heads turn as you go by. Many of them, you guess, are people who can't believe a girl would dress so skimpily when the air is so cold. More of them, you flatter yourself, like the sight of a healthy girl out taking good care of herself.<br/>
<br/>
After your jog and clean up, you take your phone and iPad around to a tea shop and have yourself a decadent drink. Ten minutes into your retreat you get a call from Sarah Miller, another American student in one of your health classes, and she meets you for more tea and gossip. It's a frothy, silly time you have with her, chatting between the moments when you're not checking text messages; and from behind the façade of Mary Dunsdale you slowly undress Sarah with your eyes. Her plain American name notwithstanding, her mother is from Algeria or Albania or Armenia or some such place, and she has long, lustrous hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes in a lean face. The way the top of her exposed bosom slowly rises and falls holds you particularly entranced, and despite Mary's strongly heterosexual preferences you are soon feeling quite humid under your clothes.<br/>
<br/>
Then around eleven-thirty your phone rings. "Dunsdale!" Dawes says in a jolly roar. "Get yer ass over to my rooms! Got someone for you to meet!"<br/>
<br/>
"Say please."<br/>
<br/>
"Team business," he retorts.<br/>
<br/>
You snort, and part with Sarah.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It sounds like a party in Dawes's rooms, and you can hear them all the way from the stairwell: Raucous voices and hoarse laughter roll up and down the hallway. You rap sharply on Dawes's door, and it's instantly opened by a grinning, red-faced Jack Lewis. "Dunsdale!" he yells, and pulls you in. "Dunsdale! Dunsdale!" the call goes round. Someone thrusts a bottle of beer at you, but you push it away.<br/>
<br/>
"Where's Dawes?" you shout.<br/>
<br/>
"Dawes! Dawes!" Ben Keys shouts in turn. There's a good dozen people in the room, and since the smallest man in the room is more than six-foot-three, that makes it hard to see anyone behind the screen immediately around you. But Dawes steps into view, his beaming face almost as red as Lewis's.<br/>
<br/>
"Dunsdale, over here!" He gestures. "Have a beer."<br/>
<br/>
"It's a little early, isn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"You'll wanna celebrate after you meet him."<br/>
<br/>
"Meet who? Celebrate what?"<br/>
<br/>
"The guy who's saving our ass." He points. "Say hi to Frank."<br/>
<br/>
You turn, and freeze hard. Probably only this sudden petrification stops you from crapping in your pants.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He's the shortest guy in the room, but maybe because you know him and what he's capable of, he seems very much the largest. His shapeless grey pullover and loose-fitting jeans can't quite cloak the physical power of his broad chest and wide shoulders; his hard, dark eyes and bristling hair—he's trimmed it since Saratoga Falls, so that it's got little spikes in it—seem to crackle with electricity. He is still pale and severe, and as he tips a beer bottle to his lips, it looks more like he's taking on fuel than refreshment. But his eyes twinkle, and—<br/>
<br/>
"Cinch your jaw back up, Dunsdale," someone beside you laughs. <br/>
<br/>
You whip around and punch that someone in the torso. Then, with face burning, you turn back to this nemesis. "Hey. So your name is Frank."<br/>
<br/>
"Frank Chatham." He puts out a hand, and his lips twitch into a smile. "You're Mary Dunsmore, the team's coxswain?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Shut up!" you shout, for you're sure you heard someone hoarsely shout "Team cocksucker." "Nice to meet you. So what's the celebration for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Frank's joining us as a practice partner," says Dawes.<br/>
<br/>
"As a what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, we ran into him at the Society Café."<br/>
<br/>
"You know this guy," you ask with alarm.<br/>
<br/>
Dawes looks irritated. "We just met him. I told you—"<br/>
<br/>
There follows a disjointed conversation filled with vexed cross-talk. The gist is that Dawes and Ludensky stopped by the Society Café for an early lunch and chanced to fall into conversation with this Frank Chatham character, who claimed to be a recent high school graduate bumming around England on his parents' dime. But what really caught their attention was when he claimed to be an amateur rower. So then one thing led to another, and now Frank has offered to help the team practice while Lewis and Ding and the others are out with their injuries.<br/>
<br/>
Dawes and his friends are elated—more so than you think they have reason to be—and can't understand why you look so upset. "I'm not upset," you tell them. "I just think you should have talked to me before you made this deal with Chatham here."<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, Dunsdale," Dawes says, rolling his eyes hard. "Mother, may we please play with Frank—"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you, Dawes, this is about showing me some respect!"<br/>
<br/>
"Your cox is right—" Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up!" you shout, for you're sure you heard someone hoarsely shout "My cock is always right!" "Not you," you stammer to Frank.<br/>
<br/>
He's not flummoxed in the least. "I should ask permission," he says, and flashes a wide, warm smile.<br/>
<br/>
<i>No way,</i> you want to say. Bad enough having Hal Swann in the vicinity. To have Frank Durras—for that's who he is, no matter his alias—in the same boat as you is much too much. And if Frank is here, then his brother will be around as well, you're sure. "I'll have to think about it," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Groans go up from around the room. "What's your problem, Dunsdale," Keys yells.<br/>
<br/>
Frank raises his hand. "Hey, I don't want to cause any problems," he says in a loud, strong voice. "If your cox doesn't want me—"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up!" you yell, even though no one hoarsely shouted, "My cock wants you bad!"<br/>
<br/>
"—then it's okay. I'll still hang out with you guys if you let me."<br/>
<br/>
Cheers break out.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Damn it.</i> The only thing worse than having Frank in the same boat with you is having him popping up unexpectedly, the way Swann does.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I've thought about it," you say. "Welcome aboard, Chatham."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're not in the mood to party, but you stick around anyway. "Don't look so grumpy," Dawes tells you when you wind up in a corner by the window with him. "Just because Frank's practicing with us doesn't mean you have to sleep with him."<br/>
<br/>
Naturally, you bridle. "Well, who says I—"<br/>
<br/>
Dawes chortles. "Oh, come on. Who on the crew <i>haven't</i> you screwed?"<br/>
<br/>
You don't want to punch him. You want to kick his balls through his backside. "I haven't, and I don't care what any of those cocksuckers— I swear to God, Dawes, I will quit as your cox if you don't wipe that fucking smirk off your face."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just trying to tell you, it's okay if you sleep with him. I won't be jealous."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't give a fuck if you—!" Now you are sick of the party, and you slam your nearly empty beer bottle onto the nearest level surface and stalk for the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Oooohhh!" An amused roar goes up from your crew. But you're out the door before anyone can shout anything in particular.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
A package is lying next to your door when you get back to your rooms. It contains a blank mask, a jar of sealant, and a note from Professor Hyde-White. "You must obtain an imprint of the girl who is to be used in the ceremony. Immediately upon the completion of the ceremony, return the mask to me."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> After that awkward morning when you got her hair, it'll be fucking hard to talk to your neighbor. About the only thing you could do is burst in and assault her with the mask.<br/>
<br/>
No sooner have you had that thought than there's a sharp rap at your door. You stifle a shriek. At least you've the wit to shove the mask into your disordered bed before opening for your visitor.<br/>
<br/>
And you almost shriek again. It's Frank. "Hi Mary," he says, and leans in on the door jam. "You ran off before we could talk."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know we had to. Talk, I mean." You try to swallow the quaver in your voice.<br/>
<br/>
"We don't have to." Frank peers down at you with a twinkly smile. <br/>
<br/>
You grimace at the echo with what Dawes said: <i>You don't have to sleep with him.</i> "Do you want to talk?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"At the very least, I want to thank you for letting me work with your crew. I also want to tell you that I will take it very seriously and work very hard. I don't do things half-assed."<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks, D— Chatham." Your bowels loosen a little at your hairbreadth escape from calling him "Durras." "But you should know that we're not really popular around here." Frank cocks his head. "Dawes tells you how Lewis and Ding got hurt?"<br/>
<br/>
"He said they got in a fight."<br/>
<br/>
"There's some guys, socialist anarchist types, always picketing and yelling at us."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't back down from a fight," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Good. But just so you know."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't back down from a fight," he repeats.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at each other. The moment grows awkward.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit,</i> you think. <i>Did Frank hear what Dawes said to you? Does he think he's got a chance with you?</i><br/>
<br/>
Should you give him a chance? <i>Friends close, enemies closer,</i> they say.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221111121212122112
author_id: seuzz
title: Nerves, Good and Bad
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Would you like to get coffee some time?" you ask Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"I'd love to," he says. His smile widens, and he bends his face toward yours. "Like, right now?" he asks in a low voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I can't do it now," you stammer. "Not <i>right</i> now. I've got an errand I've got to— In an hour, maybe?"<br/>
<br/>
"In an hour, then," he says, and takes out his cell phone. "What's your number? So I can call you in case you forget."<br/>
<br/>
"I won't forget."<br/>
<br/>
"Then in case something comes up."<br/>
<br/>
"Something won't come up." You curse at the blush you feel spreading from your bosom to your bangs. <i>Why do you have to keep babbling nonsensically as he stares at you with such intensity and obvious interest?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Maybe not on your end," he says. "But I might have something come up." There's a slightly ironic lilt in his tone.<br/>
<br/>
"Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just let me have your number. I need it anyway, if I'm going to practice with you guys."<br/>
<br/>
So you give him Mary's number. He lingers a few more seconds, letting his smile twitch a little as he devours you with a very hungry gaze. You have to splash some cold water on your face after he's gone.<br/>
<br/>
Now for that errand. You've got to get rid of that mask Hyde-White sent you.<br/>
<br/>
No, first you've got to alert him that Frank is in Cambridge. You whip out the phone—<br/>
<br/>
And freeze. You just gave this cell number to Frank. What if they've got Hyde-White's phone under some kind of occult surveillance, and they notice that "Mary Dunsdale" calls him? Better to go see him in person. <br/>
<br/>
But if he's under surveillance, the only thing worse than Mary Dunsdale calling him would be Mary Dunsdale showing up to see him.<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate long and hard. Maybe it's not such a risk. Hyde-White has offices in the big medical building, where Mary often has business. There's an excuse for being in the area. And you could take care of two necessary errands if—<br/>
<br/>
You tuck the new mask under your sweater and peek out your door, looking both ways. The coast seems to be clear. You hop lightly across the hallway and knock rapidly at Grace's door. The girl moves so quietly that the door's opening completely startles you. But you probably don't look any more startled than she does.<br/>
<br/>
"Hi neighbor," you gasp. "I just need to borrow your face a moment." You shove the mask at her head so fast and hard that she flies back several feet and falls onto the floor. You leap next to her and feel at her, but there doesn't appear to be any serious damage to her head.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, there doesn't appear to be any damage at all. Not a bump or a cut or anything. You scramble back to shut her door, then pace the cramped room while waiting for the mask to come back out.<br/>
<br/>
For a few minutes you worry that maybe it didn't actually go into her. You didn't <i>see</i> it go into her, after all.<br/>
<br/>
No, that's just your nerves talking.<br/>
<br/>
How are you going to explain this to her when you see her again? That attack was your nerves again, you think. You were so panicked by Frank's appearance that you let him stampede you into this impossible ambush. You'll never be able to explain your action to Grace.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe you don't have to. It doesn't really concern you. Not <i>you,</i> Will Prescott. In a week or so, if things go well, you'll be out of Dunsdale's life, and Dunsdale will have to deal with whatever sequel there is to this attack. And if things go badly—<br/>
<br/>
And with Frank around, things could go very badly very quickly.<br/>
<br/>
Well, if things go badly, Grace will be the least of your worries. In fact, when you tell Hyde-White about it, he might immediately pull you out. <br/>
<br/>
The thought cheers you. In fact, maybe you should call him right now, using Grace's phone. You start searching for it.<br/>
<br/>
But before you can find it, you see the bluish glow of the emerging mask. You snatch it up and hastily return to your own rooms, where you lock the door and put out the light and retreat into the bathroom. And as you seal up the mask, it comes to you how to get it to the professor along with a warning about Frank, and to get them to him without being detected.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You clutch the bundle tightly to your chest and hurry through the streets and squares of Cambridge with a burning face, hoping no one sees you. Praying, even, that no one sees you, for a little prayer-like chant keeps running through your head. It would be a prayer if it were sincere, and if you were really Grace Simpson the chant would be sincere. But you're not Grace Simpson, which doesn't stop her mind and personality from slapping at you hard. <i>You awful boy, you terrible sinner, you're going to HELL for what you've done and what you're doing now,</i> she tells you.<br/>
<br/>
You duck your head and pick up the pace. Using Grace Simpson's face to scuttle from Wyndham to Hyde-White's office isn't the worst thing you've done, but it may turn out to be the stupidest. It will be very easy for you to fuck up, for you don't just have Grace Simpson's thoughts upbraiding you, you've got her distraught nerves as well. What if you get caught by the real girl? Did she leave her room after you jumped her? Is she out here someplace, gaping in horror at this twin she has acquired? What if you run into Frank or Joe?<br/>
<br/>
Your heart hammers.<br/>
<br/>
And then there's the outfit you're wearing. <i>Oh, this is terrible, so terrible.</i> You clutch the package more tightly to yourself, and with head down try willing yourself into invisibility. Grace is rather taller than Mary, and differently built, so that Mary's jeans and slacks couldn't possibly fit her. So you're wearing a skirt, and since Mary likes to flash thigh, it's a short skirt that slaps very high against the thighs of the long-legged Grace Simpson. That's why you so desperately clutch the box containing Mary's mask with both hands: It's to stop you from tugging down a skirt that you're convinced is flashing your cotton panties to every pervert at Cambridge with every puff of wind. Your face burns, burns, oh how it burns!<br/>
<br/>
You're sniffling long before the medical building comes into view, and it's not from the cold whipping across your bare legs.<br/>
<br/>
And to think, after you'd gotten Mary's mask off, you'd eyed Grace's with a certain greedy anticipation. <i>A leggy redhead, eh?</i> you'd gloated a little to yourself, and now with Grace's personality inside you, you shudder at the thought of that spotty, bristle-faced little pervert entertaining himself by coveting Grace's body. <i>That's what it is, covetousness! Oh, you evil, evil boy!</i><br/>
<br/>
You almost bump into the front door of the building, for in your shame and mortification you've not been closely watching where you're going. Also, you're nearly blind without Grace's glasses.<br/>
<br/>
Inside, it proves a four-story, three-dimensional maze, and even after you've got onto the right floor you keep getting turned around, for the numbering system on the doors doesn't seem to make sense. If 423 is at an intersection of two hallways, why does one hallway continue with 415 and the other with 456? Grace's mother warned her that there was much wickedness at Cambridge, but she couldn't have guessed that the wickedness would even encompass the numbering system.<br/>
<br/>
So baffled, blinded and buffeted, you don't pay close attention to where you are going, with the consequence that you are upon and then through a shadowy figure before you realize it. Grace's instincts kick in fast, and you half turn to make a timid apology.<br/>
<br/>
It freezes in your mouth as the figure turns, showing a wide face topped with a thatch of blonde hair, from under which shine blue eyes. He seems to look through you, and only when a little squeak escapes your throat do they seem to sharpen and see you. Joe Durras stares at you a moment, then cocks his head and shines a beguiling smile at you.<br/>
<br/>
You turn and flee without stopping to find the professor.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You make it to your room in time to change back into Mary's mask before Frank shows up. But you're still breathless when you open the door for him. "Are you okay?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm just— I rushed back here, you know, to be on time." You feel yourself crimsoning all over. Why is it that when he's around you keep blurting out things that make you sound like a middle school girl with the world's nastiest crush?<br/>
<br/>
"I think it's decaf for you, then," he says with a light laugh. "Where are we going?"<br/>
<br/>
But you've still got a chance to back out. "Actually, I rushed back because I had to tell you—"<br/>
<br/>
Grace comes around the corner, and now your flush turns to pallor as she catches sight of you. A black look of hatred crosses her face, but she says nothing. Frank follows your gaze and turns to look at her, but she ignores him as she presses past to fumble at her door.<br/>
<br/>
"What was that about?" Frank asks when she's gone.<br/>
<br/>
"We just don't get along," you mutter. And after seeing Grace, you decide you'd rather get away from your room in case she comes knocking or something. "So, there's a Starbucks close to Christ's College," you tell Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"Is that what you rushed back to tell me?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I meant— Never mind." Again, your face reddens. Frank laughs, and touches your elbow lightly to pull you out into the hall.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit crap fuck,</i> you think to yourself as you walk out of Wyndham in his company.</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212211111212121221121
author_id: seuzz
title: Coffee Date with Doom
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Shit crap fuck,</i> you think to yourself as you walk with Frank from Wyndham College to Starbucks. "So tell me about yourself. Where are you from?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Detroit," you instantly answer, and follow it with a silent curse <i>Why can't you watch your fucking mouth? He's bound to put two and two together after </i>that<i> slip. What are the chances of his running into a girl from Saratoga Falls right after he and his brother have—</i><br/>
<br/>
Wait, <i>did</i> you say "Saratoga Falls"? Or did you say—?<br/>
<br/>
"Motor City, huh?" Frank says, and you almost faint with relief that Dunsdale's instincts had taken over. <i>Watch it, Duns— Prescott,</i> you warn yourself. "Doesn't seem like a training ground for coxswains." Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, it's not <i>all</i> ruined factories and post-apocalyptic shit," you retort. "There's Grosse Pointe and Ann Arbor and— Not that <i>I</i> come from those places, my neighborhood was closer to the ones you see on the news. But I knew people who had better circumstances, I hung out with them—"<br/>
<br/>
You fall silent as vivid memories flood back. Humiliating memories of church outings, where those from your metro parish mingled with those from the posher parts of town. The fucking condescension of the kids from Bloomfield Hills and the other tony districts, the way their words were oh-so-achingly polite even as their faces sneered. The way they tried not to look at you without being obvious about it; the way they'd talk about what they wanted to do at the lake without asking your opinion, and the way they'd wander off without inviting you along. The way you had to bully yourself into their company, matching your resentment of their snobbery against their resentment of your company.<br/>
<br/>
"Sarah Silverthorne." The sound of your own voice surprises you.<br/>
<br/>
"Who was that?"<br/>
<br/>
"One of the girls I knew. Her and her family used to invite me out on the lake a lot." The cold wind cuts your face, and you blink back stinging tears. "Her boyfriend was on a rowing team at their high school. He's the one who got me into it. We even dated awhile after he and Sarah broke up." <i>Paul, that was his name.</i> Why did you have to reach for it but you could remember Sarah's name instantly? It should be the other way around, since you sucked him off and sucked him off until he finally broke up with that prissy bitch.<br/>
<br/>
"Is that what brought you to Cambridge?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I worked my ass off to get here. But it didn't hurt. I actually came along with one of my friends from Michigan—we were at the university for a year—and he got recruited as a rower. Fucking Ivan." You shake your head. "Washed out as both a rower <i>and</i> an academic. What about you?"<br/>
<br/>
His story—maybe entirely fraudulent, maybe larded with truth—comes out fluently. He claims to hail from Syracuse, New York, where he learned boating on the nearby Finger Lakes. "So is your family rich?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"That's a blunt question," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Get used to it."<br/>
<br/>
"No, we're not rich. In fact, that's how come my folks are paying for this trip. My dad says it'll be cheaper than college and at least as educational."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't most places only want to hire college graduates," you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Only if your grades are good," he says. "And I'm kind of a dumbass." A sudden laugh explodes from him.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't seem like a dumbass."<br/>
<br/>
"Well thanks, Dunsdale," he says. "I try not to act stupid, but I'm no one's idea of the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree." Again he laughs, but this time stifles it.<br/>
<br/>
By the time you reach Starbucks, you're feeling much more at ease with him. Despite his dark, foreboding looks, there's an effervescence of spirit to him: a warmth in his eyes when he turns them on you, and a lightness in his voice. You peer at him sideways a couple of times. You don't remember your time inside Frank Durras, but this pixie spirit doesn't chime with the impression you still carry of your dour, serious-minded adversary. As he opens the door to the cafe for you, you are actually entertaining the hypothesis that you've made a mistake. Maybe Frank Chatham <i>isn't</i> Frank Durras, but only one of those natural and perfectly ordinary doppelgangers that crop up from time to time.<br/>
<br/>
But then you remember Joe, loitering outside the bioengineering offices not thirty minutes ago.<br/>
<br/>
The Starbucks is relatively empty, so it's only five minutes before you can place your order. "Non-fat soy latte," you tell the barista. Frank just orders the "dark roast." "You got something against complicated orders?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just feel like something simple," he says, and guides you to an empty table with a clear view of the pick up counter. "Anyway, a non-fat soy latte isn't my idea of complicated."<br/>
<br/>
"Glad to hear it," you say dryly. "What <i>is</i> your idea of complicated?"<br/>
<br/>
"A half-sweet decaf cinnamon dolce latte?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm, that sounds good," you say. "I've never had one of those."<br/>
<br/>
"Me neither. I just like the sound of it. I like an order that's got rhythm. Three pump, skim milk, no foam, extra hot, grande chai tea!" he chants. "They'd kill me if I ever ordered it, but I like to say it."<br/>
<br/>
You laugh.<br/>
<br/>
He leans in on you. "Or a triple venti, two-percenty macchiato frappuccino? Never mind ordering it, just try saying it!"<br/>
<br/>
"A triple venti <i>what?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Triple venti two-percenty—"<br/>
<br/>
"—macchiato frappucino," you finish in unison. "It's like Dr. Seuss or something," you giggle.<br/>
<br/>
Frank grins. "So tell me more about the team," he says. "You guys have a big rivalry with Oxford, I hear." You nod your head grimly. "How are you going to beat them?"<br/>
<br/>
"With lots of—" Something surges in your gullet. "Practice," you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"You got any secret weapons, secret plans?"<br/>
<br/>
"The ceremony of Thoth." A wave of nausea sweeps over you, so powerful it even overwhelms your panic and surprise at your words.<br/>
<br/>
"Ceremony of Thoth? What's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know for sure," you say, and the nausea gives way to dizziness.<br/>
<br/>
"Is it something magical?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," you say faintly.<br/>
<br/>
"Who's in charge of it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dawes is."<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>do</i> you know about it?"<br/>
<br/>
"That it needs the hair of a virgin," you croak out around the massive lump in your throat.<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd you find a virgin?"<br/>
<br/>
"Grace Simpson, that girl across the hall from me."<br/>
<br/>
"You got some hair from her already? When?"<br/>
<br/>
"A couple of days ago." The world reels, and you sink, overwhelmed by inky darkness, until something strong and electric catches your arm. You blink into Frank's intense eyes. <br/>
<br/>
"Whoa there," he says. "When are you guys going to perform the ceremony? You don't know, huh?" he says after you mumble at him. "Well I tell ya what, <i>I'd</i> really like to be there when you do it. Fuck, yeah, sounds like a blast!" He glances over at the pick up station. "There's our stuff. You're looking a little pale, Dunsdale. I'm gonna get mine to go, but you better stay here." He cups your chin in his hand, and liquid fire burns in his eyes as he bends over your face. "You're really not in any shape to go anywhere or to talk," he says in a low, firm voice, and you would fervently agree if only you could get your larynx to work.<br/>
<br/>
Then he darts in and kisses you hard and deep, and something sharp seems to bite your tongue. You go very numb from the neck up and slouch in your seat, and remain there for much longer than you could ever have intended, not moving, even after Frank has set your latte in front of you and departed.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your limbs feel heavy with poison when you finally stir. You groan and put your head on the table, breathing heavily. <i>What kind of a fucking spell was it that Frank—</i> With a grunt you raise your head, panting with effort. You need to get up, you need to move, you need to—<br/>
<br/>
You glance out the window. It's pitch-black outside.<br/>
<br/>
Your hand trembles as you take out your phone. You need to call Dawes, talk him out of performing the ceremony. But first you need to call Hyde-White—<br/>
<br/>
He's already called you. His name and number show up as a missed call at 8:45. It's now a little after nine. "That's right, luv," says the burly barista who's wiping down a nearby table. "We're closing up."<br/>
<br/>
You curse softly and totter toward the door. The frigid night air is bad for your fingers, but you manage to dial the professor back. "So good of you to return my call," he says with faint asperity. "I need you to—"<br/>
<br/>
"We have to call it off," you gasp. "The ceremony, we have to stop it. The Durrases are in town."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you babbling about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Frank and Joe. The <i>Stellae</i> in Saratoga Falls. They're here, in Cambridge. Joe was up by your office this afternoon, and Frank—" You shudder and retch.<br/>
<br/>
"Be that as it may," says Hyde-White, "we can't stop the ceremony. It's already begun."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you know?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never mind how. It's started, and it's too late for our enemies—"<br/>
<br/>
"But Frank knows all about it! He's with the team. He was with me." You want very badly to throw up. "He put some kind of spell on me, got me to tell him all about it."<br/>
<br/>
There's a long pause on the other end. "Did he?" the professor says in a low growl. You gulp. "Did you make a mask of that girl? Yes? Then bring it here. No, on second thought— Hold, please."<br/>
<br/>
The line goes dead, but you keep your phone to your ear as you rush back to your rooms.<br/>
<br/>
"There will be a police van waiting for you at the traffic circle of Victoria and Maids Causeway," he says when he returns a few minutes later. "Meet them in fifteen minutes with that girl's mask, and any other incriminating objects you may have."</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122111112121212211211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Running Girl
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You are woozy with fear and the lingering aftereffects of the spell Frank put on you; and gulping down draughts of cold night air isn't making you feel any better. You stagger back toward Wyndham in something between a brisk walk and a trot.<br/>
<br/>
Professor Hyde-White wants to pull you out: no surprise. How angry is he going to be with you, given the total clusterfuck you've made of everything? You quail as a vision of the professor—his lean face livid with anger, his lips quivering—rears up before you.<br/>
<br/>
But you've nowhere else to go. You're here because Fane promised you safety from the <i>Stellae</i>; if you ran, you'd just have both the <i>Stellae</i> and Fane chasing you. You glance at your phone as the gates of Wyndham finally come into view. You've ten minutes to make that rendezvous.<br/>
<br/>
You stop just inside the gates, staring as a wraith-like figure floats across the courtyard toward you. You shrink back as Grace Simpson runs lightly at the gate, her crimson hair streaming behind her. It would be bad enough to run into her in daylight, in normal circumstances, after the way you mugged her this afternoon. But something in her carriage arouses terror in you. Her arms are stiffly at her side and her chin is lifted high as she runs, and she moves smoothly, as though her feet aren't even touching the ground. She flashes past you in an instant, her head and chest thrust out. A pale light seems to shine about her. You watch as she dwindles, and vanishes around a corner.<br/>
<br/>
With a stifled cry, you hurry to Mary's rooms.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your teeth chatter and your hands flutter as you go through Mary's things. What do you need to take with you? Grace's mask, certainly. Anything else? Oh yes, that jar of sealant. What did you do with it? <i>Shit, it's not here!</i><br/>
<br/>
Oh, right, you left it in the bathroom. <i>Don't go to pieces, Duns— Prescott!</i><br/>
<br/>
You wipe a nervous hand across your mouth as you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror: Your face is blotched and puffy. Frank cursed you, he must have laid some kind of wasting curse on you! But you're wearing a mask, maybe it will only affect Mary's form? But what if it seeps through, onto <i>you?</i> Grace's mask! Maybe if you got out of Mary's mask and into Grace's! That would certainly be a safer disguise to meet the professor under. After all, if Frank is with Dawes and the rest of the rowing crew, maybe Joe is on his way to capture Mary Dunsdale!<br/>
<br/>
At any rate, it seems smarter to make a change, and you grab your face with both hands.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
As soon as you rouse yourself in Grace's mask, you see the big drawback to your idea. Your terror plays on Grace Simpson's nerves like an elephant plays on a piano. You fall into a shattered heap, and it takes a full minute of whimpering on the floor before you can rouse yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Your clothes are all wrong, they don't even begin to fit you. But never mind! You've got to get out of here. Mary's mask slips from your sweat-slicked fingers to the floor with a clatter, and your knees knock as you stoop to grab it up again. The jar! Where did you put the jar? You're blind, and peer about uselessly, and finally start tearing things off the bed and desk in a desperate bid to lay hands on it. You're sobbing by the time you remember that you left it where you found it: in the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
Then with damp cheeks slowly freezing in the night air, you're scurrying back across the quad toward the gates of Wyndham with a small bundle clutched to your chest. Where did the professor say to go? Victoria and Maidens? That's right, the traffic circle there. A police van will be waiting. That'll be safe.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Won't it?</i> Grace Simpson reminds you that Professor Jameson Hyde-White is an evil-minded schemer working for a soulless multinational.<br/>
<br/>
You'd flee the other way, but Grace has even less courage than you do, and her personality simply collapses under the strain. It's a wonder you don't collapse onto the sidewalk as well. But with a heart rising in your throat you hurry on into the night.<br/>
<br/>
You struggle though evening crowds, dodging traffic, keeping your head and face hidden. Once you're on the streets it becomes much lighter, and under the lamps you see little flakes of snow or light mist swirling. Hoarse shouts mix with the crunch of tires on asphalt. Whatever Frank did to you, the effects were not restricted to Mary's mask, for you still feel dizzy. The precipitation must be heavier than it looks, for your feet slide and skitter beneath you. You turn corner after corner, twisting about through small streets and narrow alleyways. You soon find yourself completely lost, and with mounting terror and frustration you have to retrace your steps a few blocks before you find a street that you know runs in the right direction. If the van isn't waiting for you, if it's left without you, if it's been attacked by the <i>Stellae—</i><br/>
<br/>
Maybe you should just curl up next to this wall here and wait for someone to find you. It won't matter who. You'll be grateful to see an end to it, no matter what that end is.<br/>
<br/>
You collide with someone, and shriek. He turns to glare at you. For an instant you're sure it's Frank. But it's just a man in a heavy overcoat with a cap pulled low over his face. Even in the shadow under that brim, you can tell it's no one you know.<br/>
<br/>
So your nerves are in a fine state when you finally glimpse the traffic circle up ahead. You break into a sprint. "Excuse me please!" you bleat and whimper as you rush past other pedestrians. "Excuse me!" The circle grows nearer. Cars wheel around it.<br/>
<br/>
There, on the other side! The blunt, boxy shape of a police van. A cry of relief breaks through your tight throat muscles. You just have to cross both limbs of the doughnut-like thorough-fare—<br/>
<br/>
And as you anxiously scan for an opening in traffic you can dart through, you see him: Frank Durras, advancing down Victoria. He's distant and muffled in the darkness, but you're sure it's him. Confirmation comes when he steps under a street lamp and looks right back at you. Your eyes lock.<br/>
<br/>
Really, you shouldn't be staring at him as though you know him. Too late, you remember that. He steps to the side, and vanishes in a blur.<br/>
<br/>
Fuck the traffic! You jump into the street, and a car blasts its horn and swerves, just avoiding clipping you. Is it nerves and imagination, or was that a real hand you feel grasping at your shoulder, trying to pull you back? You run across the street, following its curve to the other side. "Here! Here! You're waiting for me!" you yell at the two policeman who are standing by the van. They turn to frown at you as you run up, and they stiffen as you throw your arms out. "They're after me, we have to get away!"<br/>
<br/>
You're certainly making no sense, and down in your core you have the mordant impression you're performing an extraordinarily melodramatic rendition of the "damsel in distress" stereotype. No matter: Perhaps Hyde-White briefed the cops, but they seize your briskly by both arms and thrust you roughly into the back of the van. Two of them hop in with you, pulling the doors shut behind them. One slaps hard at the front of the cabin and shouts hoarsely to the driver. The motor turns over with a growl, and the lurch as it pulls into traffic drops you to your hands and knees. As you right yourself, you look up at the windows in the van's rear doors.<br/>
<br/>
Frank Durras smiles back at you. <br/>
<br/>
And the entire scene vanishes in a brilliant white flash.<br/>
<br/>
Briefly, you're aware of shouts and squealing tires before the world turns violently upside down. Something very hard hits you in the side of the head. It would have hurt a great deal if it hadn't knocked you instantly unconscious.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Mr. Prescott? Mr. Prescott?" The voice comes from far away, on the other side of thick blocks of cotton. A hand gently wraps around yours. "Can you hear me?"<br/>
<br/>
You blink, and blink again. The world remains white, a seamless blank without stain or crack. You blink more rapidly, trying to clear it.<br/>
<br/>
"Mr. Prescott, I know you're awake. Don't stir or strain yourself." The voice is much clearer and stronger now. It's Professor Hyde-White. You're resting on your back, on something soft. The hand that holds your own tightens. "How do you feel?"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I guess," you croak. You're barely aware of your body. "I can't see anything, though."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you've no broken bones, and only a few bruises, which have been patched up. Considering the crash, you came through quite well. Better than the girl did."<br/>
<br/>
"The girl?"<br/>
<br/>
"The girl you were masquerading as. Our own EMS teams were quickly on the scene, and we got you to a private, secret hospital where we took the mask off. It was a great relief to see that <i>you</i> were alright, mostly."<br/>
<br/>
You sit up sharply as the memory floods back. "Frank! Frank Durras! I saw him—!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, I know. Have no fears there. He attacked the van, to get at you, I suppose, but he melted away once we were on the scene in force. And he can't get to you. We're not even in England any more."<br/>
<br/>
"Where are we? And why can't I see anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm afraid that's the one effect of the <i>Stellae's</i> attack we couldn't fix," Hyde-White says. "He blinded everyone in the van. Permanently, as far as we can tell."</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221111121212122112111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Blind One
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Blinded?" you gasp, and grip Hyde-White's hand more tightly. "How—?"<br/>
<br/>
"When he attacked the van," Hyde-White says. "The <i>Stellae</i> hit everyone in it, driver included, which is why there was a wreck, as was undoubtedly his purpose. I suppose it is one of his powers, though not one I would have expected of <i>that</i> individual," he adds in a puzzled tone. "None of the others in the van have recovered their sight either, despite the fact that our doctors can find no physical damage. It <i>may</i> be a temporary but long-lasting condition, but we cannot say for certain."<br/>
<br/>
A cold chill encompasses you. "How long have I been unconscious?"<br/>
<br/>
"Three days," the professor says. "We purposely kept you sedated during the move. We are in Zurich, by the way. We thought it would be better for you, both physically and psychologically, to keep you calm and sedated, on the off chance that your sight might return before we woke you up again."<br/>
<br/>
You rub your eyes long and hard, and the professor says nothing. You're not sure what to say either, for his news has numbed you. But gradually an emotion does begin to boil up inside you: anger at Frank Durras.<br/>
<br/>
And overlaying that anger is guilt and bitterness at having fucked things up so badly that he was able to do this to you. "I'm sorry, Professor," you say in a quiet voice. "I should have told you as soon as I saw him. I should have run away—"<br/>
<br/>
"There's no point in recriminations, Mr. Prescott, self or otherwise," the professor says, and his voice is very level. "What's done is done. When you're feeling better you can tell me what happened."<br/>
<br/>
"I can tell you now," you say, for you don't feel like being left alone with your thoughts. "He showed up with the rowing crew. Some of them got hurt in a brawl with Swann's guys, and then Frank showed up. Supposedly by chance," you bitterly add. You go on to tell him about the crowded events that followed, including the way you suddenly and involuntarily told him all about the team's plans for the ceremony. By the time you finish, you are sitting up in bed and talking with a degree of animation that surprises you. Those three days of rest must have done you good, for you don't feel any injuries, only a stiffness from being still for so long.<br/>
<br/>
The professor is silent for a bit after you're finished. "Well, as I said, there's no point in assigning blame. And from what you've told me, you didn't handle it as badly as—" He stops abruptly. "Once those two had joined Swann, it was likely to end badly. And we didn't lose <i>you,</i> which means we have not suffered any kind of permanent setback."<br/>
<br/>
You ignore the implied compliment, which sounds like nothing but a pleasantry. "Did the ceremony go off?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm? No, it didn't. The <i>Stellae</i> was with them, and he interrupted it before it could begin in earnest. Then Swann appeared with some of his useful idiots. There was a rather one-sided fight."<br/>
<br/>
"Were <i>you</i> there?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, but I had Mr. Dawes and his friends under a kind of remote surveillance. I didn't watch the brawl until the end, for—" Again, he stops short in his explanation. "By that time I was trying to extricate <i>you.</i> And myself. They must have had suspicions about me as well. I know that after I was away, they struck my apartments. I am afraid it is exile for both of us."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus! I—"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't take it in that spirit, Mr. Prescott. I can thrive in most any soil, and our own projects are not threatened in the least. We were going to relocate anyway, to the United States. It only means that I, like you, shall have to adapt a new identity." The last comes out with a dry chuckle. "What's wrong?" he asks, and you realize you had made a face, and had barely avoided a shudder, at the thought of Hyde-White disguised as a girl like Mary Dunsdale.<br/>
<br/>
"Just thinking about things," you stammer. "I suppose I'm not much use to you anymore. Not if I can't see." A lump rises in your throat.<br/>
<br/>
"I know it's a shock," Hyde-White says. "And I'm sorry I didn't think to soften it. But it is not so bad as that." Now you <i>do</i> make a face. <i>Easy for an old asshole like </i>him<i> to say that it's no big deal.</i> "Here, put this on," the professor says, and  presses something into your hands. <br/>
<br/>
From its shape and heft, it feels like a mask. What good could <i>that</i> possibly do? But with a sigh you put it to your face. A feeling like liquid gold flows over your body, and you fall back into blissful sleep.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
A world of snowy whites, powdery blues, and soft greens meets you when you wake. You blink rapidly, and crush the heel of a palm into your eye. Little stars and spots momentarily obscure the room when you look again, but they shortly retreat and fade.<br/>
<br/>
You're in something that looks like a high-class hotel room. On one side of the vast bed is an ornate vanity table with a wide mirror. On the other is a sitting area with two green chairs, a dusky settee, and a glass-topped coffee table resting on a many-hued rug. Crisp white curtains frame a tall window, through which you glimpse skyscrapers glinting in the sun. The wallpaper, which is sprinkled with yellow fleurs-de-lils, is a bashful but glowing shade of blue.<br/>
<br/>
Professor Hyde-White looks up from one of the chairs. He's bent over the coffee table, and appears to have been playing solitaire. "Would you like a mirror, Mr. Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>No need of that.</i> Even as you were drinking in the room, you were sucking down the mind and memories of the mask. "Fuck me," you say. "But this is one goddamned fancy whore house."<br/>
<br/>
"There's no need to channel Ms. Knotts quite so accurately," Hyde-White says, and lays his cards aside. "You are no longer required to impersonate her. I only gave her mask to you so as to restore your sight."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Makes sense now,</i> you muse to yourself. <i>Insofar as anything about the crazy masks makes sense.</i> Paige Knotts isn't blind, so if you're wearing her mask you'll have her sense of sight as well. "But I'm still blind underneath?"<br/>
<br/>
"We can only assume."<br/>
<br/>
"So I'm stuck like this for the rest of my life."<br/>
<br/>
"No, you can have any form that you like." His brow furrows.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm stuck under a mask, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"More or less," the professor says. "Though you were going to be spending your life under a mask anyway. And one of our best technicians is working hard on a new device that will replace masks as—"<br/>
<br/>
"But I'm not going back to being myself, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"You weren't going back anyway," the professor says in a very patient tone. "You had to abandon your life—"<br/>
<br/>
But you've stopped listening to him. You slip out of bed and tug the pajamas—which flop around Paige's smaller form—back into place as you regard yourself in the vanity mirror. The dark eyes, the pallid cheeks, the pale lips; the half-head of black, lank hair that hangs down to one shoulder, and the stubble on the other side. The holes in your ears and lips and nose from piercings that Paige had mostly given up. You adjust your pajama top to settle better over your bosom.<br/>
<br/>
Hyde-White can't understand. Even before Frank blinded you, you could think of yourself <i>as</i> yourself under a disguise. You had a body, and that body was the real you, whole and healthy. It was a thing you could resurrect anytime you felt like it, and it was your real body while the masks were just a kind of job or vacation.<br/>
<br/>
But now it's been crippled. Why would you ever return to a body that has been blinded? Masks are all you've got now.<br/>
<br/>
"But we're not going back to London," you ask when the professor finishing blathering. "What did you do with the real Paige. And Dunsdale?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mary Dunsdale has been restored. Paige Knotts, alas, is a casualty of war."<br/>
<br/>
You look over at him sharply. You can't but flinch at the news that, in this assumed form, sounds like your own obituary.<br/>
<br/>
"I had her hidden under a mask of— of myself," Hyde-White says, and waves his hand over his face. "The <i>Stellae</i> chased my doppelganger down, and she did not survive their attentions."<br/>
<br/>
You turn back to the mirror. <i>Will Prescott, blinded by the </i>Stellae<i>. Paige Knotts, killed by them.</i> Your mouth purses grimly.<br/>
<br/>
"I think I'll stay like this, then, if you don't mind," you say. "As Paige Knotts."<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever for?"<br/>
<br/>
"So that the world doesn't completely lose her," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Silently, you add: <i>And because </i>she'd<i> like to fuck up the </i>Stellae<i> as much as I would.</i><br/>
<br/>
<i>To continue:</i> "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/14431" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 1942914">Cop In, Cop Out</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/14431" 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: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221112
author_id: seuzz
title: Iris Out
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You can't believe the nerve on Eric. In fact, you have to laugh. "If you think I'm going with you, you're fucking crazy."<br/>
<br/>
Eric smiles wanly. "And I don't blame you, Will. I wish you trusted me. But when you're in a shithole this deep, I don't blame you if you can't tell right-side-up from upside-down. But come on." He gestures. "I'll drop you guys off."<br/>
<br/>
"My car's out front," Patterson says. He looks around nervously, then gets up when no one interferes.<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme a ride?" you start to ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you! Walk! And keep walking. When I see you at school--"<br/>
<br/>
"If you see him at school," Eric interrupts, "count yourself a very lucky man. Personally, I wouldn't bet on your seeing two more sunrises."<br/>
<br/>
Patterson flinches, then strides off with a snarl. Straussler ignores you when you look at him. Only Eric is going to save you from a very, very, very long walk home in the dark. You follow him out, but at a distance.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You know," Eric says in a mildly reproachful tone as you're driving away from the Strausslers'. "I wouldn't have hurt you too bad. That's my training. Oh, I can make you <i>hurt,</i> but it doesn't do any damage."<br/>
<br/>
"Gee, thanks."<br/>
<br/>
"Done you a lot less damage than your friend did to me. Wow. I'd love to shake his hand. I respect the <i>hell</i> out of work like he did."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm sure he'd be happy to hear that."<br/>
<br/>
He sighs deeply, unhappily. "I'm not a bad dude, Will," he says. "It's just that in my line of work--"<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>is</i> your line of work? I thought you just owned a crappy comic book shop, hung out with losers--"<br/>
<br/>
"Dude! Will! That's harsh!" He sounds genuinely hurt. "I put a lot of work into my shop. Well, into the selection. You won't get things like I carry anyplace else in town. And Christian and them? They're really good guys, I love hanging out, chewing the fat. Reminds me of when I was--" He stops abruptly. "Well, but that's what everyone thinks I am. Because I am. Just it's not my main work."<br/>
<br/>
"So what <i>is</i> your main work?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure you won't come with me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I'm sure."<br/>
<br/>
"Then I'm not gonna tell you."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you a spy?"<br/>
<br/>
He laughs, and then abruptly turns serious. "Sort of, but not the way you're thinking. I'm an American, dude, second generation, so don't go thinking I'm-- You know, there's such a thing as <i>industrial</i> espionage. I'm not gonna confirm or deny that I might or might not be interested in certain kinds of trade secrets, but I'm not a fucking spy like what <i>you're</i> thinking."<br/>
<br/>
"But you know about magic."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I know about magic." He lowers his head, and his voice sinks. "Dude, I've seen some hard-core stuff, and I know not to tangle with guys like <i>you</i> tangled with. Fuck me, how you managed to stay alive with them around--" He puts out a hand. "Do me a fucking honor, little bro, lemme tell people I shook hands with someone who went <i>mano a mano,</i> and won, against the guy who put this dent in my skull."<br/>
<br/>
He seems transparently sincere, so you take it. His hand is greasy and sweaty, but it encloses no trick, and he only pumps your arm firmly. "I was just lucky," you say. "Got so close they couldn't see me."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck. Luck? No such thing, unless it's luck when you're born with the stuff that let's you-- Come on, Will, go back with me!"<br/>
<br/>
"I just wanna go home."<br/>
<br/>
"They'll come after you. You know that."<br/>
<br/>
"Let them. Maybe I deserve it. Or maybe my luck will continue."<br/>
<br/>
He says nothing more, and you just direct him to your house. But a few blocks from it, he pulls over. "Will, lemme do one thing for you. Something that could save your life."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You brace for a trick as he reaches into his back seat.<br/>
<br/>
"It's called a flensing. You seen <i>Men in Black</i>?" He fumbles inside a bag.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Will Smith and that grumpy old dude."<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a reproachful look. "That grumpy old dude is-- Oh, never mind. Well, I got a thing like they got. Very crude, might do you some damage, but it'll give you a better chance with those two guys."<br/>
<br/>
"Eric. I don't want--" You fumble at the car door.<br/>
<br/>
"They might leave you alone if they think you don't know anything, and if you come down with amnesia, then you <i>won't</i> know anything."<br/>
<br/>
"Amnesia? Wait, you're not--"<br/>
<br/>
He's wearing sunglasses when he turns back to you, and he raises a thing like a flashlight. "Say 'Cheese'."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are, of course, unconscious when the paramedics find you and hustle you to the hospital, and since you've no ID it is actually a full day before your parents are alerted. You wake to find your sniffling mother by your side. After a confused reunion, and some blessed sleep to relieve you from the terrible ache in the back of your head, some cops come in to give you some quiet questioning. You're only able to tell them that you were standing by the side of a road when you heard tires, saw headlights, and felt something clip your legs. You've no idea what you were doing out at that time of night.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, you've no idea where you've been for the last month or so. A battery of tests are administered, and it is determined that the head injury has knocked at least a few weeks of memories out. The last thing you remember clearly was Mr. Walberg giving your class an assignment: Get something for a time capsule.<br/>
<br/>
After a few days you are sent home to convalesce; the doctors are sure you'll make a full recovery, even to the point of getting back those memories. But your parents keep you home for the rest of the semester, and you do all your schoolwork there. You find yourself wishing you'd been hit by a car at the end of August, because you get all the learning, plus the socializing with Caleb and Keith after school, and none of the bullying. Girls even stop by to wish you well; and after a fun series of visits, you and Cassie Harper decide that you're dating.<br/>
<br/>
But your memories never come back.<br/>
<br/>
There are only a few peculiar things that make you wonder if you're missing something important. Caleb and Keith will sometimes say cryptic things about "that weird shit back in October." They'll roll their eyes and tell you you're lucky you don't remember. And one time, Caleb grabs your face, yells some weird string of words, and pulls at your forehead.<br/>
<br/>
Weirder still, a few days after your accident you get a visit from Steve Patterson, of all people. He is very cold, as he always is, but he's reasonably polite as he inquires after your health while staring intently at you the whole time. The weirdest sequel to his visit doesn't come until after the spring semester starts. You're very depressed about returning to the bully-haunted halls of Westside, but to your surprise find that everyone from Chen to Kirkham to Douglas to even the Molester himself gives you a wide berth. Rumors reach you that it's because Patterson and Black have put you on some kind of "do not molest" list. Your gratitude is only slightly lessened by the further rumors that they are being so kind because think you're a "retarded, schizo basket case" who deserves pity (and maybe a little wariness in case you snap) instead of hassling. <br/>
<br/>
Certainly you don't think you're brain damaged. As far as you can tell, except for that persistent foggy patch, the only change in your head is that you've picked up a peculiar phobia of scarecrows.<br/>
<br/>
While cleaning your room in February, you find a strange object, a bluish oval shaped like a tragedian's mask. You ask your parents and brother about it. They say that you brought it home in the fall semester as an "art project." Whatever it is, the fact that you didn't finish it didn't hurt your grades, so you just throw it away.<br/>
<br/>
Two years after you graduate, you receive a wedding invitation from a cousin you've never heard of: Rosalie Martin. It's being held in Italy, and you'd have tossed it in the garbage, but the card said that "fare and lodgings" would be paid for by the groom's family. So though you're blue from a breakup with your latest girlfriend, you like the idea of a getaway, and accept. Rosalie greets you warmly at the rustic villa where it's being held, and it turns out that, when you were thirteen, you must have briefly met her on a trip to Cuthbert, where she was living at the time. But you don't remember each other. Her fiancée, a blonde guy whose thick Italian accent fractures English into hilarious but oddly apt malapropisms, bubbles over when he meets you, but he bubbles over with everybody. His brother--taller, very dark, and very saturnine--cops the opposite attitude, though, and seems to glower at you from every direction you turn. But it's a lovely time all around, though this one English bloke <i>will</i> insist on buttonholing you to inveigh against the evils of a multinational conglomerate called "Fane," until Rosalie orders him to desist.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122112
author_id: seuzz
title: Burning Your Old Friends
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Not much point in running,</i> you decide. Even if you slipped him here, Joe knows your name and would be pissed when he caught up to you at home. You doubt Curt Straussler could protect you from Frank and Joe; and you don't want to go back to Eric Kim.<br/>
<br/>
You dance from foot to foot until a shrill whistle pierces the air, and Joe gestures you over to the house. You slowly trot up--<br/>
<br/>
"Move it, Prescott!"<br/>
<br/>
--and end in a dead sprint. Joe pushes you inside.<br/>
<br/>
The other Joe is here too, and looks uneasily between you and his original. "Hey boss," he chirps, then covers his mouth. "Oops. Maybe I shouldn't have--"<br/>
<br/>
"What's this 'boss' business?" Joe demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Golems are slaves. This one is mine."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, whatever. How do I get it off Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
You reach for the golem's face, but Joe pushes you aside. "<i>Show</i> me what to do, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, put your hand here--" You guide him to the proper spot. "And then you say--"<br/>
<br/>
He glares at you coldly. "You're fucking kidding, right? <i>That's</i> the magic word?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what the book says, and it works."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking punster," he mutters under his breath. "I'm gonna take it off him now, Prescott," he continues. "If you've been playing my brother, you <i>know</i> what kind of mood he's going to be in."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." Your sphincter loosens.<br/>
<br/>
"So hide in my bedroom until we come find you. Don't bother locking the door, 'cos that'll just make Frank madder without slowing him down."<br/>
<br/>
You retreat as directed, and sit nervously on the corner of the messy bed. This is so much worse than the day Steve Patterson charged down into the elementary school basement. That was when everything started to go wrong.<br/>
<br/>
No, it started to go wrong when you found the fucking <i>Libra.</i> Why do things always happen to <i>you</i>?<br/>
<br/>
Your dad's variant on your favorite complaint--<i>Why do you always get into these messes?</i>--rings in your ears. You've not seen him in weeks, it feels like. You'd like to see him one more time. Give him the satisfaction of knowing he was wrong about how stupid you can be. You're a <i>lot</i> stupider than he ever thought possible.<br/>
<br/>
Five minutes pass. Ten minutes pass. An eternity goes by. Fifteen minutes. You've heard low voices outside, but no words you can make out. Frank's not screaming. He must be on the other side of fury.<br/>
<br/>
Footsteps sound, and you hunch over. The door wrenches open, and the tall, grim figure of Frank Durras steps in. His face is tense, his eyes alert. "You Prescott?" he demands.<br/>
<br/>
You nod, and stand up. He sticks out a hand. "Pleased to meet you. My brother--" Joe appears behind his shoulder. "--says you're the sharpest tack he's met out here."<br/>
<br/>
Joe suppresses a snicker as you numbly take Frank's hand. Your own grip is limp, but he shakes your hand vigorously. "You can take us to the <i>Libra</i>?" Frank asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you croak. "I think I know where it is."<br/>
<br/>
"Then let's roll." He marches back out the door.<br/>
<br/>
Joe bites his grin. "Lies," he whispers in your ear. "All lies is what I told him about you. Keep your mouth shut if your head likes sitting on your shoulders. Let me do the talking."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Frank's "Let's roll" notwithstanding, you have to stand curbside for fifteen minutes while waiting for a cab. Frank asks for more on what's been going on; Joe answers, with you only inserting a few details where they seem appropriate. "First thing is to recover the <i>Libra,</i>" Frank says when you're done. "That's the <i>only</i> thing, really."<br/>
<br/>
"What about the other kids," you anxiously ask. "The guys doing it, and the people they, uh, like they did to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, we'll round up masks, set everyone free," Joe says. "So Patterson and them will have to talk. <i>You</i> know where to find the guys at Eastman, though, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. But what about Straussler's dad, and Eric Kim? What are they gonna--?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're gonna try to get the <i>Libra,</i>" Frank says. "Along with a couple of masks, if they can. They've got a mask of Monique Travers, you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. If they put it on--"<br/>
<br/>
"Will they know how to get it off?" Joe asks.<br/>
<br/>
"They got it off <i>me,</i>" you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"What were <i>you</i> doing under her mask?" Frank asks suspiciously.<br/>
<br/>
"So we have to get her mask back," Joe interrupts smoothly, "and get back any masks that <i>her</i> mask might lead to. What about it, Prescott? Any chance they could trace things through her mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe. I'm not really sure. It might lead back to Carrie Carmichael--"<br/>
<br/>
"Who's she?" Frank asks.<br/>
<br/>
<i>If Carrie knew that Frank was so oblivious to her existence--</i> you think wryly. <br/>
<br/>
"Just a freshman girl, Frank," Joe says. "You wouldn't have noticed her."<br/>
<br/>
"But I guess you have," Frank retorts. "You would. After we get the <i>Libra,</i> you two make a sweep of Eastman. We don't need to finesse it, Joe. Get the masks, get out, and let 'em be confused. I'll beat what we need to know about Westside outta Patterson."<br/>
<br/>
You'd like to see that, but you'd be happier in Joe's company, and don't argue. "But what if Straussler's dad, or Eric, start going after Monique or them?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"They won't. They're not interested."<br/>
<br/>
"Are we interested in <i>them,</i>" Joe asks. "If Fane is--"<br/>
<br/>
"Our job is the <i>Libra.</i> Leave Fane to Hal. We'll mention it in the report to Dad."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's Hal," you ask. "And Fane?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not your business, Prescott," Frank says. "With luck, your part in all this ends tonight, and you'll never hear anything about it again."<br/>
<br/>
You're glad his tone is so calm, or else you'd take that last bit as a threat.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Night has long since fallen when the cab drops you off a block from Westside. "Give us a quick recon, Joe," Frank orders. A fourth figure materializes by your trio and sprints off toward the parking lot. Neither brother explains this to you, but you now vaguely remember that Joe can project a kind of astral twin. That must be what he used to distract those guys at the comic book shop. <br/>
<br/>
"All clear," Joe says, and the three of you sprint off toward the gym. You direct them to the side door; Frank grasps the handle, puts his hand over the lock, and pushes. The door jolts open.<br/>
<br/>
But he holds you back and orders another recon; when Joe reports all is clear you move quickly up the stairs to the loft, which Frank opens easily. "Lights, Joe," he says, and a dim glow suffuses the space. "Shit," Frank says. "Looks like someone's already been searching."<br/>
<br/>
"I think it's always like this," you say of the wreckage. Garbage--pizza boxes, beer cans, clothes, discarded gym mats--litter the loft. It reeks of sweat, alcohol, grime, and-- You gag. <i>Sex. Lots and lots of sex.</i> "They keep the stuff in there," you say, holding your breath and pointing at some cabinets.<br/>
<br/>
"You know an awful lot about how they do things," Frank says. You think you've noticed his manner growing colder and colder.<br/>
<br/>
"Like I told you, Frank," Joe murmurs. "He helped them a little, and they double-crossed him when he rebelled. Because he's got a conscience."<br/>
<br/>
"Why were you helping them in the first place? I wanna hear it from <i>him</i>, Joe," he adds, and raises a warning finger.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. "Well, after I found that book, I started playing around with it with my friend--"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>You</i> found it?" Joe says sharply. "You didn't tell me that."<br/>
<br/>
"Is it important? I found it at Arnholm's Bookstore. My friend Caleb and I goofed off with it a little, but then Patterson came in on it. He started doing worse things, made us help him--"<br/>
<br/>
"How? How did he <i>make</i> you?" Contempt drips from Frank's voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Could <i>you</i> make Prescott do things, Frank?" Joe softly asks. "Things he didn't want to do?"<br/>
<br/>
A look of discomfort washes over Frank's face. "Let's find the <i>Libra,</i>" he says, and turns with a jerk toward the cabinets. <br/>
<br/>
In one he finds a bunch of masks, which he tucks inside his backpack. "There's gonna be more riding around on people," you tell him. He just grunts. In the second cabinet is a big stack of containers--mask-making supplies--that he also bags. And in the third--<br/>
<br/>
"Score," says Joe, who like you is looking over Frank's shoulder as he draws out a thick grimoire. Frank brushes it gently, checks the title, then slips it into the bag.<br/>
<br/>
"Slide the rest of that shit in here," Frank says as he hands the bag to Joe, and points to a few more masks that were sitting next to the <i>Libra.</i> "I'll check out the rest of this place." He quickly catches sight of a white lump in the corner. "What's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"A golem," you say. "It's like a mannequin. You put a mask on it, and it turns into that person. You can also order it around, because it's a slave."<br/>
<br/>
"We'll need to take it too," Frank says. "Any more like it?" You shrug helplessly. "I guess we can-- Joe, you still got Prescott's mask?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe doesn't answer. "Why do you wanna know?" you ask Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, how late can you stay out?" he replies. "I'm thinking we can put your mask on that golem thing there, send it home in your place, while you help Joe. Gets the golem outta here while--"<br/>
<br/>
This sounds like an excuse for getting away from them. "I'm sick of fakes. I want my life back."<br/>
<br/>
Frank opens his mouth to reply, but Joe interrupts. "Hey Will, what's your dad's name?"<br/>
<br/>
"My dad? Harris. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
Grimly, Joe holds up one of the masks that was by the <i>Libra.</i> Numbly you lean forward to read the name inside it: HARRIS STEVEN PRESCOTT. "And is your mom named Umeko?" Joe adds.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Night of Quick Work
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your vision reels. HARRIS STEVEN PRESCOTT, it says inside the mask. Your dad's name. There's a mask of your cousin Umeko as well. "Son of a bitch," you whisper. "Son of a <i>bitch!</i>" you scream.<br/>
<br/>
"Settle down, Prescott," Frank says. "Look at it this way. If that mask is here, that means it'll really be your dad at your house."<br/>
<br/>
Still, the very queer turn it's given you has changed your mind. You do <i>not</i> want to go home, not until every last mask has been accounted for. "We can oblige," Frank says. "As for Lumpy here--" He gazes appraisingly at the golem.<br/>
<br/>
"Put my mask on it," you tell him. "I don't care."<br/>
<br/>
But he doesn't move. "Actually, I'm thinking about <i>not</i> sending it back in your place. If we move fast on the Eastman kids, you're going to be Fane's only link back to the <i>Libra.</i> They might come looking for you."<br/>
<br/>
Your bowels loosen. "You want to use me as <i>bait?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"No, obviously not," he snaps. "But what if they came looking for you and found <i>me</i> instead?" He turns gleaming eyes on you. "I could put it on, and jump them when they grabbed me."<br/>
<br/>
"That mask won't let you do that," Joe says. "I was wearing it. I vanished underneath it, just like you vanished under the mask of me."<br/>
<br/>
"What's the deal with that?" Frank asks you. "If people can't wear these things without--"<br/>
<br/>
"It's a special layer," you explain. "You can wear a mask, but not if you put this special layer in it. That layer is what turns someone into a slave."<br/>
<br/>
Frank chews his lip. "Then we could make a new mask of you, one without the layer, and I could wear that one. How long's it take to make one?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>If he made a mask of you, he'd know everything you know, and know that you were a lot deeper inside things than he thinks.</i> "It takes a long time," you stammer. "Longer than we've got, I think."<br/>
<br/>
"Still, it would be a way of--"<br/>
<br/>
"Leave Fane to Hal," Joe says. "As a wise man once said."<br/>
<br/>
Frank hesitates before giving up on his idea. He takes the mask of you from Joe and sets it on the golem. Your double--naked--appears, and sways backward a step as he grabs his face. He shakes his head. "The fuck am I--?" He looks around, and sighs. "I hate it when I blink in and out of existence."<br/>
<br/>
Frank swallows hard, and turns to you. "So you can boss it around?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think so," you say. "It was fighting me back at the comic book shop. That layer inside it, I think it must-- Hey," you address your twin. "Who's your boss?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not you," he says uneasily. "I'm not sure I should say more." He casts a fearful look at Frank. "I'm not sure what I should say," he adds miserably.<br/>
<br/>
"Come on, you're <i>me,</i>" you tell it. "We're on the same side, basically. We want to be. Who's been bossing you around?"<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone," he whines. "But Patterson's the one who makes me feel funny when-- <i>I don't mean like that!</i>" he exclaims, and turns very red.<br/>
<br/>
"It's Patterson's slave," you tell Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"Then Patterson's the first one I'll find. Joe, give those clothes to the doppelganger. We'll finish up here, then head out."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Travel arrangements prove troublesome. You take a cab back out to King Kong Komics. It's dark and shut up tight, but your truck--which your golem used to get out there this afternoon--is still parked in back. Frank and the fake you have to settle for using another cab while you and Joe take off in your truck, which he insists on driving. "Who do we need to see?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"The Johnsons," you say. "Two masks there to get. Carrie Carmichael's. The Paks."<br/>
<br/>
"You weren't aiming very high, were you?" Joe peevishly says.<br/>
<br/>
"I was using them to get better people," you say. "That was Patterson's plan. Trick or seduce Z-grade people to get copies of A-grade people."<br/>
<br/>
"So me and Frank were A-grade? I guess I'm flattered. Who did you get?"<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips. "Kyle Lakewood, Jenny Taylor, Jonathan Straussler--"<br/>
<br/>
"Straussler's a fake?" Joe turns sharply.<br/>
<br/>
"No, we just got a copy of him, that's all. His mask is in your garage. Same with Kyle and Jenny and Maddy Caron and Tina Branson--"<br/>
<br/>
"You got a copy of Tina Branson?" Joe grips the steering wheel and arches his back. "Fuck me, but I wanna see that!"<br/>
<br/>
"You understand why people like me would want to use the book?" you ask him with a little acid.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, derp! Just because it's wrong and I'm pissed at you doesn't mean I don't <i>understand!</i>" He slaps the side of his head. "Fuck me, Prescott, but if I wasn't one of the good guys, I'd be inside those masks so hard even Frank couldn't pry me out." He breathes heavily through his nose. "Yeah," he says in a much quieter tone. "That's how come the <i>Libra</i> is so dangerous. Because it's such a fucking temptation."<br/>
<br/>
You're both silent for a bit. You're thinking about what you've done, and guiltily mulling over how much you enjoyed it. Based on what he said, you suspect Joe is mulling guiltily over what he'd like to do.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, who else?" Joe finally says. "Whose <i>houses</i> do we have to go to?"<br/>
<br/>
"The Johnsons, the Carmichaels, the Paks," you repeat. "Also Ian Carpenter's."<br/>
<br/>
"You replaced Ian but not Jonathan? Dumbass."<br/>
<br/>
"So, we'll also have to go by Keith Tilley's," you say, ignoring his comment. "That's where the real Ian is. Also, by Jason Lynch's, because that's where the real David Johnson is."<br/>
<br/>
"Your plan isn't making any sense to me," he complains. "<i>David Johnson</i> was someone's idea of an A-lister?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's complicated, and it made sense at the time," you say. Joe looks over at you skeptically. "I was wearing Frank's mask while we were--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, say no more," he shrugs. "If you were using <i>Frank's</i> brain--"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You go to Ian's first, and Joe insists on being the one to fetch him out. Ian gives you a queer but passing glance as he slides in next to you. "How come you're hanging out with yourself," he asks Joe.<br/>
<br/>
"I think I'm cool," Joe says, sounding wounded. "Don't you think I'm cool, Tilley?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're a dork," Ian snorts. "And if Joe Durras thinks you're cool, he's an even bigger moron than everyone thinks."<br/>
<br/>
You redden; Joe laughs. "I suppose you think you're hot 'cos you're hanging out in Ian's skin?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well." Ian shrugs. "Where are we going?"<br/>
<br/>
"See an old acquaintance," Joe says. He changes the subject, and spends the rest of the drive drawing gossip from your friend. You slouch uncomfortably between them.<br/>
<br/>
Ian falls silent as he begins to recognize the neighborhood. "How come we're here," he asks when, following your muted directions, Joe parks in front of Tilley's own house.<br/>
<br/>
"Will, go get Keith while I explain a few things to Ian," Joe says. You clamber over Carpenter and out of the truck.<br/>
<br/>
Golem-Keith has a dopey expression--of course--when he comes to the door, but he willingly follows you out. He draws back sharply, though, when he sees another Keith--unconscious--in the truck. "Get in the back with him," Joe orders. "Get him undressed."<br/>
<br/>
The golem resists, and you have argue and cajole and pull at him before he follows you into the truck bed and disrobes. You hand the clothes to Joe, but he just throws them onto the lawn. A minute later he drags out a still unconscious but now naked Keith and dumps him on the lawn as well. Tires squeal as he pulls away from the house; you hang on for dear life as Joe rockets back to Carpenter's house. Once there, he hops into the back with you, pulls Keith's mask from the real Ian, and similarly dumps him and his clothes onto the front walk.<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't we going to explain things to them," you gasp as you climb back into the cab.<br/>
<br/>
"No time," Joe says. "And it'd be a mess, and the less they know the safer they'll be."<br/>
<br/>
"But at school--"<br/>
<br/>
"Like that's important," Joe says. "Might be rough for 'em for a day or two, but that's all."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Joe works with similar dispatch at the other houses, and you wince at the way the freshman girls will be waking in a state of total nudity on their own porches. "They're gonna remember it was <i>you,</i> Joe," you point out to him. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm not going back to Eastman," he retorts. "If Frank finishes up tonight, we'll pull up stakes in the morning and no one will ever see us again." He claps your knee. "You'll have to play dumb, pretend the same weird thing happened to you. I don't think your old friends will like thinking that <i>you</i> were behind it all."<br/>
<br/>
"They will when they hear that 'Joe Durras' was the one who pulled their masks off." You slouch in your seat. "I'm supposed to be you."<br/>
<br/>
"We're supposed to be ourselves," Joe retorts. "That's the point of fixing things." What he says, you decide, is inarguable.<br/>
<br/>
But you get a chance to reopen it when Frank calls a little after eleven. "Problem," Joe says when he hangs up. "We can't find Patterson."<br/>
<br/>
"What you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was a fake at his house when Frank finally caught up to him." He scratches his chin. "We'll have to continue the search tomorrow. You wanna go home now, or hang out with us until it's all sorted?"</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212211222
author_id: seuzz
title: Confessions, Accidental and Otherwise
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I don't wanna go home until you've settled Patterson's hash," you reply. <br/>
<br/>
"You'll have to face him sometime," Joe says. "Is he really that bad?"<br/>
<br/>
"It'd be like facing Frank," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing's as bad as facing Frank," Joe says in a very serious voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe. But it's like the choice between being shot in the face with a gun or a cannon. You're dead either way."<br/>
<br/>
"If you'd rather face Frank, that's your choice," Joe says. "We're supposed to catch up with him now."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You end up at a park. It's very dark, but you spot a car that you recognize as Patterson's. A head bobs up inside it, and the white face of your doppelganger peers out through the window before slouching down again. "Back here!" Frank calls from the other side of the car when Joe shouts his name.<br/>
<br/>
He is sitting on a very angry looking Steve Patterson. "I thought you said you couldn't find him," you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"This isn't him," Frank says. He pulls at Patterson's face, and a mask comes away. You lean in for a closer look.<br/>
<br/>
It's Jonathan Straussler.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," Frank says, though no one has spoken. "Ten to one the real Patterson is back at Straussler's pretending to be Jonathan."<br/>
<br/>
And since you've filled him in on all of the afternoon's events, Joe chimes in. "And a hundred to one Curt Straussler's got the mask off him and locked him away." He grimaces. "Fat Eric will be mobile by now, and he's probably there too."<br/>
<br/>
"But I don't understand," you stammer. "This afternoon Gordon told me that <i>he</i> wanted to replace Jonathan. That's why I went out there, so I could--"<br/>
<br/>
Too late you realize you've said way too much about exactly the wrong thing. Frank turns his head fractionally in your direction. Joe puts his arm around you. "It was nice knowing you, Prescott," he sighs.<br/>
<br/>
No one says anything for a very long time. Frank finally grunts. "We'll talk later. And this isn't a problem, I guess, except maybe for Patterson. We've got the <i>Libra</i> and the supplies, a lot of the masks--"<br/>
<br/>
"But not all of them, Frank," Joe says. "And if Patterson gets a bunch to Fane for them to reverse engineer--"<br/>
<br/>
"They've already got Monique's mask for research," Frank says. <br/>
<br/>
"In the meantime, what do we do about tall, blonde and stinking, stinking rich?" Joe asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Take him home. He's done nothing wrong, and Straussler will be wanting his son back. Besides, that's where we're likely to find Patterson. We still oughta question him."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
They drop your truck and golem off at your house--where the latter will surely catch hell for being out so late--and the three of you take Patterson's car back out to Jonathan's. "Recon, Joe," Frank says when you park a hundred yards from the gate.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I can eyeball the outsides," Joe retorts. "But I can't open doors. That's your department."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck. There's gonna be motion sensors all over the grounds. Well, let's do it. You--" He shoves a strong finger in your face. "Stay."<br/>
<br/>
You huddle miserably as they drop Jonathan in a gulch by the tall wall that circles his estate. Then they disappear toward the gate. <br/>
<br/>
As you wait, you try to blame Joe for your cock up. <i>If he hadn't made you so relaxed, you wouldn't have let your guard down for that one fatal moment. He was treating you so decently that you--</i> It doesn't work. The fact that he <i>was</i> being so decent makes you feel guilty for even trying to be mad at him.<br/>
<br/>
In the distance, lights go on, and alarms honk. Dogs bark. You sit up nervously and watch. Your hand goes to the ignition, but Frank has taken the keys. Tensely, you wait.<br/>
<br/>
A dark figure sprints up, and Frank leaps in; without a word he jams the car into drive and roars off down the road at a breakneck pace. "What about Joe?" you cry.<br/>
<br/>
"Joe's fine," he says. "That astral twin of his doesn't leave a scent or a footprint. It's already inside the house. Joe himself is way off over there, behind that screen of trees. He'll catch up to us later."<br/>
<br/>
<i>And find Frank picking his teeth over your headless corpse,</i> you think glumly to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
Frank drives for a couple of miles, until he's at the junction with the old highway, before he stops. He stares in the rearview mirror, and over his shoulder, long and hard before finally relaxing. "It'll be twenty minutes at least," he mutters. "Plenty of time."<br/>
<br/>
"Time for what?" you ask in a small voice. "To kill me?"<br/>
<br/>
"For Joe to search that place," Frank says. "If Patterson's there, we'll go back, and I'll bust in to get him. It'll make an unholy racket, but I don't care by this point. I need something to hit.<br/>
<br/>
"And I'm not going to hit <i>you,</i> Prescott," he continues after you say nothing. "I already knew the story that got fed me was bullshit. Patterson--and his golem, neither--wasn't home when I first went by there, so I went to see Gordon Black. He thought I was you, and I let him, until he'd spilled a lot. Then I beat the rest out of him, got leads on where to find a bunch of other victims. Got most of them turned loose before I went back to Patterson's. So yeah, I was waiting for you to step in it." He looks over at you. "I'm just glad to know it was Joe lying to me, not you to both of us. He was always a softer touch than me."<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't see him at the comic book shop this afternoon," you murmur. "He threatened to beat me to death with my own arm."<br/>
<br/>
Frank chortles softly. "He always says he's got nothing to learn from me, but I know he's been picking up tricks. Like I pick up some from him. Knowing when to keep quiet and when to talk." He pauses. "When to keep my temper in check and let people beat on themselves."<br/>
<br/>
It sounds like a pointed invitation for further confessions and apologies. "I'm really sorry, Frank," you say. "I knew what I was doing was wrong. But I was afraid of Patterson, when we were back at Westside, so I went along with it. And after I got over to Eastman--"<br/>
<br/>
Your tongue turns very thick, but you have to continue, for Frank is saying nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"I got a mask of Joe. I went back to your place, pretending to be him. I should have told you what was going on, got your help in stopping Patterson then, and freed Joe. But I fucked up. Because I am a fuck up. I know I'm a fuck up, and I didn't--"<br/>
<br/>
Your breathing becomes labored. Frank is still utterly silent.<br/>
<br/>
"It's because you and Joe are the <i>opposite</i> of fuck ups, Frank. I didn't have any of that special stuff you and Joe have, but even without it, you guys make Patterson and Black look like kindergarteners. And I'm way worse even than them. So--"<br/>
<br/>
You grind the heel of your hand into your eye socket. "Do you have any idea how <i>awesome</i> it felt to be you guys? To be so smart, and so good at doing things? I had Eastman so totally-- So freaking wired. I had those girls eating out of my hand, and I had the guys-- This one guy, Lynch, who's like a psycho bully? I only had to look at him while I was being you, and he totally shat himself. I mean, I just <i>looked</i> at him, and he knew I could make him cry like a little girl. I didn't want to give that up, I wanted to keep it forever." Your voice turns very hoarse, for your throat is tight and your mouth very dry. "It's like the way some people would want all of Straussler's money--"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, you can shut up now," Frank says. "This is getting embarrassing."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want you to think I'm <i>gay</i>--"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I get it. I know what you mean. Everyone knows what you mean, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
He turns to gaze out the window.<br/>
<br/>
"All of us, we all see someone who's got more of something we want," he says. "If it's money, we want their money. If it's their car, we want their wheels." A pause. "If he knows how to talk to girls, how to be free and easy with them-- Well, we want that talent he's got. So if it's not one of their possessions, if it's something that they <i>are,</i> then we want to be them. In some way or other, even if it's just to ape them, ape their style. You guys just took it a little farther, because you could."<br/>
<br/>
You suck on your cheek. "I don't mean to narc on your brother, but he told me this evening that he thought the masks were really tempting."<br/>
<br/>
"Did he? I'm not surprised. Joe likes playacting. If I don't stop him, he'll put some of those masks on before we leave, swan around the house pretending to be those people, just for kicks." His face turns grim. "Me? I'm not tempted."<br/>
<br/>
You wonder, but say nothing, and neither of you speak until a breathless Joe leaps from the dark. "Place is empty," he gasps. "Not a trace of anyone."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I don't know why you won't let me do this!" Joe shouts, yanking the mask from his brother.<br/>
<br/>
"Because you'll goof off and not get it done!" Frank yanks it back. "I'll have it done before lunch!"<br/>
<br/>
"Let Prescott decide," Joe says. "It's his face!"<br/>
<br/>
It's the next morning, and you've agreed to let one of them go in to school as you, to free the last of the golemized people at Westside. It'll be faster than waiting for after school.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122112221
author_id: seuzz
title: What the Cool Kids Are Doing
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You let each of them make their case. You find Joe's appeals very glib, and he looks highly irked when you snort in his face. But you'd probably find Frank's arguments compelling in any case. "They're gonna know it's <i>you</i> who got the <i>Libra</i> back from under their noses, and stole all those masks," he says. "They're gonna come looking for you. Who do you want them to find when they grab you? Flirty McFlirtson?" Joe's eyes roll so hard you think you hear them squeak. "Or a guy who can make-- What was his name? That guy shit himself?"<br/>
<br/>
So you take one of the blank masks you'd found in the loft and put it to your face, and as it's only six-thirty you're able to intercept your golem with a phone call so Frank can slip into its place. You eye him critically as he comes out of Joe's bedroom, looking like you and wearing the clothes the golem had brought. "Something wrong?" he asks, and you twinge at the raspy whine. <br/>
<br/>
It's very strange, but you feel a lot more hurt and abashed to see your face when it's Frank wearing the mask than when it's a golem. Or when it was Patterson. "Just wondering if you find it a trade down," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a hard look--one you doubt Jason Lynch would shit himself over--and adjusts the dirty cap perched on his thatch of hair. "It's what's inside that counts," he retorts, and lifts his bag to his shoulder. "Catch up to you guys after school."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't run yourself down, Prescott," Joe says after he's gone. "Girls don't think it's attractive."<br/>
<br/>
"Is that why you're always puffing yourself up around them, bragging about--?" <br/>
<br/>
"When the truth helps, why not use it?" he laughs, and goes into the kitchen. "How do you like your eggs?"<br/>
<br/>
"Scrambled. Oh, thanks. And it's not just girls." You hunch on a barstool near the stove. "I was telling Frank last night about why I didn't want to stop being you guys. About how you're so much better than me at <i>everything.</i> You're so fucking competent, so cool--"<br/>
<br/>
You break off as Joe fluffs out one of those ridiculous paper chef's hats and puts it on.<br/>
<br/>
"You're almost always so cool," you resume, diplomatically refraining from jeering at his headgear. <br/>
<br/>
"Almost?" he asks. From his expression, it doesn't look like he's connected your subtle shift of adverbs to the hat. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, you know, you've got that whole 'dumb-dumb' routine. Though even that's kind of cool, I guess, since it's fake."<br/>
<br/>
"And it's fun." He points the narrow end of an egg at you before breaking it into a skillet. "I prefer having fun to being cool. Luckily, I can pull off both."<br/>
<br/>
You bite your lip, still staring at the hat. "But you're so good at stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"And we worked fucking hard to be. Once you're good at something, and stop worrying about being 'cool', coolness usually follows of its own accord. You ever work hard at anything?"<br/>
<br/>
You slouch deeper and shake your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Sit <i>up</i>, Prescott," Joe barks. "First rule of being cool is to hold your head up. Everyone looks 90% less cool when they're--" He sinks into an exaggerated slump and shoves his hands in his pocket and kicks mopily at the floor. "If I went around like this all the time," he says in a whine that you recognize as a perfect imitation of your voice, "it wouldn't matter that I'm big and blonde and good at basketball and wrestling and math and music, or that I look like--"<br/>
<br/>
"A dork in that thing," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"--the lucky first-born of Apollo and the Venus de Milo." He straightens up again. "I walk around like this, and everyone says, 'There's a guy who's got his shit sewed up tight'."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're saying that if I walked around like that--"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, you'd still look a baby ostrich pretending to be a T-Rex. You also gotta have something you <i>know</i> you're good at. It's not just mind over matter. <i>Matter</i> matters, substance matters." He puts his hand on his hip. "Attitude just magnifies what you got, and when you got nothin', even a million times nothin' is still nothin'. Come on, you're good at <i>something,</i>" he says, and sounds very earnest.<br/>
<br/>
You try not to slouch again, and do feel a little bit better for having your chin up. But it's no use. "No. I've never found anything I'm good at, so--"<br/>
<br/>
"So you just gave up. Brilliant. Life handed you a million Lego bricks, and you just said 'I can't do anything with these' and went off to sulk." His face lengthens. "So what do you <i>like</i>? That's the first step in getting good at something, finding something that you like."<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno." You're feeling hounded now, like he's just going to keep yelling at you. "Girls," you say desperately as he continues to stare at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, good luck there," he says. "You can't control what <i>they</i> like, you can only throw everything you've got at them and hope they like something that sticks to them. We're talking <i>skill sets.</i>" He stirs the eggs. "You show a girl you got skills, and hope maybe she'll like them."<br/>
<br/>
"And you and Frank have a bunch of <i>those,</i>" you retort. You're not keen to return the subject to them and their advantages; you only want to get it off yourself and your lack of the same.<br/>
<br/>
"And like I said, we worked hard for them. Mind you, we were also born with certain aptitudes, and-- And speaking of attitude and how you hold yourself," he interrupts himself. "You know why Frank can't get laid? Because of his attitude. He's got a fucking force field around him, and they just bounce off, usually with a broken nose. So what I'm saying--" He slides the eggs onto a plate and hands it to you. "Is that it's complicated, and you gotta think about what you need before you start trying to get it. After that, you just gotta work for it." He stands back with a triumphant smile, as though he's proved something very deep and important.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I know one thing I need," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"First step in the process of self-improvement," he says. "Self-knowledge."<br/>
<br/>
"I need a fork."<br/>
<br/>
His cheek twitches, and he calls you a bad name while yanking open the silverware drawer.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He gets cleaned up while you eat, and then you get cleaned up, and you find him in the garage sorting through masks. "We'll have to figure out how to destroy these," he says. "They don't break easy." He whacks one against the edge of a work desk. "Is there anything in the <i>Libra</i> about--"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. Caleb and I didn't find any way. Maybe Patterson did."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe we can recycle them some other way if Nash can't figure it out." He holds one up thoughtfully. "I know someone who might find disguises useful in his line of work."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?" You remember what Frank said last night about Joe's playacting proclivities.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, no one you know. One of our colleagues. You remember the name Rick Bredon from your time in--?" You shake your head. It's almost all gone; only a general knowledge of them and their "colleagues" remains. "He's good at his job--a lot better than me and Frank are at ours--but even he could do better if he had-- But that's for Dad to decide." He turns a piercing eye on you. "Speaking of abilities and proclivities, come with me. I was waiting for you to get out of the bathroom."<br/>
<br/>
He leads you into a small living room, plops next to you on a ratty sofa, and puts a big sketch pad in his lap. "You're an artist too?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Only of cute, naked, big-boobed manga girls. You're not one of them, so-- No, I thought I'd do a chart for you. Help you find something you're good at."<br/>
<br/>
"A chart? Like a horoscope?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kind of, but for real. Our Dad used these to find out what Frank and I would be good at. They don't work as good on, well--" He shifts in his seat. "On regular people," he stammers. "No offense meant, I can't think of a better word--"<br/>
<br/>
"How about 'normal'?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's right, hate on the mutants." He whaps you with a throw pillow. "But maybe I can steer you somewhere."<br/>
<br/>
There follows a very long list of questions. Some are simple and obvious--birthdate, number of siblings, favorite colors. Some seem random: "How do you cross your legs, left over right or right over left?" Some are nonsensical: "Coke or the square root of 42?" <br/>
<br/>
He grows quieter and quieter as he works, and finally grinds to a halt. "Can't be," he mutters, and rips the sheet out. He starts over with completely new questions.<br/>
<br/>
"Impossible," he says thirty minutes later, and starts afresh.<br/>
<br/>
"You're doing this on purpose!" he yells at you after a third, hard, hour-long session. "Stop it!"<br/>
<br/>
"What am I doing?"<br/>
<br/>
He glares at you, and stalks from the room. When he returns, he's got a little golden disk in his hand. He manipulates it carefully, glancing between you and it, his tongue sticking out between his teeth. When he stops, his knuckles are very white, and he hurls the dingus away.<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong, Joe?" you ask, for you are now feeling very frightened.<br/>
<br/>
He runs his tongue over his lower lip and takes a deep breath. "Okay, Prescott, one last question, for all the marbles." He fixes you in the eye. "Speak quickly and be brief. Do you want to stay here in Saratoga Falls, or do you want to go home with me and Frank and train to be like us?"</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221122212
author_id: seuzz
title: A Puzzling Job Offer
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What are you talking about?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes or no, think fast," he says. "If I hit zero the answer is 'No'." He holds up his open palm. "Five. Four."<br/>
<br/>
You blink rapidly. <i>Go with Joe and Frank to train with them? How could that possibly do anyone any good?</i><br/>
<br/>
"Three."<br/>
<br/>
Joe and Frank said that they have "special aptitudes", and from your time in them you dimly remember how extraordinarily rare those aptitudes are.<br/>
<br/>
"Two."<br/>
<br/>
Joe can't be saying that <i>you</i> have those aptitudes. You've never been good at anything in your life.<br/>
<br/>
"One."<br/>
<br/>
But if you ever wanted anything in your life, you want what they have, and you'd work yourself to death to have it. Especially after what you told Frank last night and Joe this morning.<br/>
<br/>
"Ze--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll do it!"<br/>
<br/>
"Do what?" Joe's eyes are sharp.<br/>
<br/>
"Go with you guys. Jesus, Joe, I don't know what you're talking about, but if you're really talking about training with you guys, and learning the kinds of things you know--"<br/>
<br/>
"And doing the kinds of jobs we do?"<br/>
<br/>
You gasp, and your eyes widen. Joe's eyebrows twitch.<br/>
<br/>
"I want to be good at something, Joe," you say in a low, steady, measured voice, remembering what he'd said earlier. " I want something that is mine, that I worked for, that I can hold my head up proudly over. I want what you've got--"<br/>
<br/>
His eyes sharpen, but you're already backing up, to get clear what you want. <br/>
<br/>
"No, I don't want what you've got, not specifically. But I want it to be able to stand next to you, and have people see that I belong next to you."<br/>
<br/>
His eyes brighten as he smiles. "Stand up, Prescott, straight and tall. I've got to talk to a bunch more people, but your 'Yes' was the most important answer to get."<br/>
<br/>
"Yes to what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we'll see. That's the second most important answer to get."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He calls someone, and after a brief talk gives you the receiver. "One of our colleagues," he says. "She's going to give you the same kind of interview I gave you. Answer her questions the same as you answered mine." You sigh deeply, for they'd left you tired and vexed.<br/>
<br/>
You're revived a little by the voice on the other end, an arch, Scottish-accented one. She introduces herself as Kali Valentine, and as Joe had warned you, she leads you through the same kind of cock-eyed interview. She's much brisker, though, and it only takes thirty minutes for her to finish. She has you give the phone back to Joe. His eyes dance merrily as he listens to her. "I was sure I'd messed up," he says. "It's a relief that-- No, I haven't told Dad. I wanted you to check my work. Well, we need to call him anyway, we're almost done out here. It'll be a nice dividend on the job, eh? Oh, he's a bit of a drip, but you'll like him." He winks at you. "I like him, even though-- Oh ha ha, Kali, you missed your calling, you shoulda been a stand-up comic. Thanks again, we'll talk later." He hangs up. "I said I liked you, and she said--" He breaks into a perfect mimicry of your interviewer. "You're saying he has big boobs? No, you just <i>are</i> one!" He grabs you about the neck and grinds his knuckles into your scalp.<br/>
<br/>
"What <i>is</i> this all about, Joe?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
"Wait until I can tell Frank. He's supposed to call-- Shit!" He wheels to stare at the clock. "We're supposed to go check on Fat Eric's shop, see if he's there. Was gonna do that after breakfast, but I got caught up in the other stuff. Come on!" He drags you out the door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
King Kong Komics is closed up tight. After exploring that dead end, Joe calls Eastman High and tries to get them to summon Jonathan Straussler to the phone; report comes back that he is absent. You drive out to the Strausslers, and Joe does another remote recon. "Still empty, 'cept for some of those goons in suits," he says, gazing distantly through the windshield of the truck and sucking thoughtfully on a chocolate shake. "I'm leading them a nice chase around the house, though. Ah ha ha! Where'd I go, asshole?" He sighs and starts up the truck. "They cornered me and I had to turn it off. When you were in here--" He points to his forehead. "Did you remember the Halloween stunt I pulled on those guys in the dormitory?"<br/>
<br/>
"Please don't remind me I was ever doing that stuff," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, it's something we'll laugh about in our golden years," he says, punching you in the shoulder. "So, anyway, that twin of mine wears whatever it is that I'm wearing when I project it, see? So, this one October me and Frank are on a retreat with Father Ed--oh, you'll love <i>him</i>--and there's a bunch of these Catholic boys' school cocksuckers up there at the campgrounds with us, because it's a church retreat kind of thing that Father Ed badgered Dad into sending us along on, and these guys are hassling us, because, you know, Catholic boys' school cocksuckers will be Catholic boys' school cocksuckers. So I cut some holes in this sheet and put it on, and I got sunglasses underneath so my eye sockets are totally dark. Also, I got some old rusty chains me and Frank found, got them wrapped all around me like a belt, and dangling from my wrists, and-- <br/>
<br/>
"And when night comes I project myself in this rig and send it along to their wing of the dormitory, which is this falling-down crap pile up in the mountains. I'm a ghost, okay?" he shouts as you gaze blankly at him. "And I'm walking through walls--my twin is--and floating through furniture, and these guys absolutely freak, especially when one of them tries tackling me and sails right through. Then I start chasing them, going 'Waaauuuuggghhhhh!!!' and they stampede all over each other, and then--" <br/>
<br/>
He throws his head back and howls. "And then Father Ed charges in because they're making this unholy racket! He takes one look and figures out exactly what's going on. 'Franz, you little <i>shit!</i>' he yells. I put my twin out <i>bang</i> like a candle. 'Frank, get me outta this thing,' I holler at him, but he's on the floor in stitches because I been telling him what I'm doin' to those assholes. I'm only halfway changed back into my PJs when Father Ed charges into our room. I try jumping out the window, but he grabs me by the ankle and drags me into the hall for a thrashing." He pounds a fist on his leg as he gasps with laughter. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! That was so awesome!" He recovers himself suddenly, though, and slouches with a burning frown. "Except for the latrines Father Ed had me cleaning for a week afterward." He shudders elaborately, then turns a sharp eye on you. "So, you and me are gonna hang out and figure ways to prank people after you're one of us, aren't you?"<br/>
<br/>
You've been laughing along with him, though much more quietly, because his cheer is infectious. This question takes you aback, though. He still hasn't explained exactly what he means by all those hints he's been dropping. Practically everything you learned of them, during your time inside them, has vanished, even the name of their secret society. About the only thing that remains is the impression that there are so few of them you can almost count them using just your fingers and toes. And that's in the whole wide world.<br/>
<br/>
And this assumption that you might join them seems particularly egregious, coming as it does not even a day after you'd been parading around inside their faces and using that book to do horrible things to other kids. Joe's expression is serious--if not particularly grave--as he looks at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Joe," you find yourself asking with no little trepidation. "Have you really forgiven me for what I did to you and Frank?"<br/>
<br/>
He presses his lips together and swirls what's left of his shake, and looks over your shoulder. "I want to," he says. "I'm trying to. Very slowly, I think I am. Gimme awhile, hang out with me, ask me again later." He sucks down some more shake, then looks away. "You did yourself a lot of credit, though not in an especially noble way, with that talk you had with Frank last night. He told me about it and we talked about it after you went to bed. There's something very <i>flattering</i> about your life, your being, your very self being the object of such envy. Makes you realize how good you got it." He again sucks thoughtfully on the straw. "And you wanted it even though you couldn't have our prodigies. Yeah, it really makes you appreciate your skin."<br/>
<br/>
Your cheeks and forehead burn with embarrassment and shame. He doesn't mean to, he doesn't even know he's doing it, but he's running you down by sympathizing with how much you wanted to step up from your own being.<br/>
<br/>
And then, as though he's reading your mind, he says: "And you know what it makes me want to do, Prescott, what it makes me want to do, knowing that you felt such envy of me and Frank?" He turns to you. "It makes me want to lift you up so high that I might start feeling envious of <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Frank--still in your form--is chewing his lip hard when he gets back home. "Wish I could say you can go back home, Prescott," he says as he drops your bag on the floor. "But--"<br/>
<br/>
"But he isn't, Frank," Joe says. "He's coming with us."<br/>
<br/>
Your twin stops cold. "What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't talked to Dad about it yet, but I got Kali to confirm it." Joe pulls you to his side. "Prescott is a <i>Stellae,</i>" he announces with a wide grin.<br/>
<br/>
Frank stares at Joe, and he stares at you. <br/>
<br/>
Then he punches you across the room.</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212211222121
author_id: seuzz
title: Losing Face
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's dark when you open your eyes again. You sit up and find yourself on a bed. After staring around a bit, you recognize Joe's bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What happened?</i> The last thing you remember is Will Prescott throwing a hard punch at your face. You put a hand to your jaw. Everything feels solid and unhurt. There is no pain anywhere.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Little fucker,</i> you think. One of Tilley's asshole buddies. One of these days you're gonna have to straighten his shit out like you straighten out--<br/>
<br/>
You freeze. Where did <i>that</i> thought come from?<br/>
<br/>
Well, it's a natural thought, isn't it? That whole little pod that clusters around Tilley drives you nuts, though not as nuts as Tilley himself does. As you're always telling Richards--<br/>
<br/>
A chill falls over you. Jeremy Richards, your best friend. Was <i>once</i> your best friend, back in middle school, and now is because you're both on the basketball team--<br/>
<br/>
Your hand slowly falls to your chest. The meaty chest of Seth Javits.<br/>
<br/>
That's who you are.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not. You're Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
Aren't you?<br/>
<br/>
You leap across the room at a mirror in the corner. Slowly you edge toward it, and look.<br/>
<br/>
Seth Javits looks back at you. Your firm jaw hangs open, showing white teeth. Your short, stiff blonde hair sticks straight up. You're clad only in workout shorts, and your powerful chest rises and falls slowly over flat, sculpted abs.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The fuck is going on?</i><br/>
<br/>
A mask, it must be a mask. And if Frank catches you inside a mask, after all the nonsense you put him and Joe through to get you out of them--<br/>
<br/>
You grab your face.<br/>
<br/>
But you're interrupted by a soft knock. "Prescott, you awake?" Frank calls.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit!</i><br/>
<br/>
The door opens, and you gaze back at him, your mouth twisted up in a terrified rictus.<br/>
<br/>
But he just stands there dully, not even looking you in the eye. "You wanna come out, talk about things?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh ..."<br/>
<br/>
He looks up at you, but there's no surprise in his eye. It's as though the mask is invisible to him, as though he's seeing <i>you.</i><br/>
<br/>
Are you crazy? Are you hallucinating yourself in Seth's body?<br/>
<br/>
His expression turns worried. "Look, I know you've gotta be pissed. It's my fault, totally, and--" He swallows. "I'm sorry," he says in a very quiet voice. "I'm really sorry."<br/>
<br/>
<i>For what?</i> You can think of nothing he has to apologize for, except <i>maybe</i> for hitting you. But you don't feel like you've been hit.<br/>
<br/>
Hell, you've never felt healthier.<br/>
<br/>
Frank blinks, and winces as though he's in pain. He takes a slow step toward you. And then another. A third step brings him right up to you. You draw back.<br/>
<br/>
Then to your utter astonishment, he sinks to his knees. "Prescott," he says in a very small voice. "I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I'm so sorry, and I apologize unreservedly. I am so--" His voice cracks, and he bows his head. "I am so deeply ashamed of what I did. Of what I thought. I hadn't forgiven you for what you did to me and Joe. I knew I still hadn't forgiven you, and that's why--" He fumbles at your hand, grasping it. "It's no excuse for what I did, no justification. It makes it worse, in fact. I knew I hadn't forgiven you, and instead of holding myself in check, I leaped to the worst possible conclusion and I--"<br/>
<br/>
He shudders with short, racking sobs.<br/>
<br/>
"And I hit my brother. If you never forgive me, I'll understand."<br/>
<br/>
"You hit Joe?" you ask in a daze.<br/>
<br/>
He raises his head. Tears stream down his cheeks. "No, Prescott. I hit you." He gets up, and after a stiff and awkward pause pulls you into a tight embrace. "You're my brother, and I hit you because I'm too pig-headed and stupid and blundering and-- and--" He snuffles hard as he puts his face in the crook of your neck. "And too self-righteous to recognize that I might ever be wrong. Forgive me, Prescott. I am so sorry, and I apologize, and I beg your forgiveness."<br/>
<br/>
You put your arms--Javits's arms--numbly about him. Someone is crazy, either you or Frank. You wish Joe would come in to explain things.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, I can forgive you, Frank," you say. "But you'll have to explain what I'm forgiving you for. Because I'm totally confused."<br/>
<br/>
He pulls back, but doesn't release you. "Joe told me what he found out about you this afternoon. I took it badly, because I thought you must have done something <i>really</i> evil, and--" <br/>
<br/>
He must have caught the look of dazed bafflement on your face, for he stops with a frown. "Joe told you, right?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I never really understood what he said. Only something about me going off to train with you guys. He interviewed me, and I talked to some woman, and I said I would, but--"<br/>
<br/>
"But he didn't tell you <i>why</i> he wanted you to come with us?"<br/>
<br/>
"I assumed he was being nice. After I'd said all those things about wanting to be like you guys, that he was trying to--"<br/>
<br/>
But Frank's expression is changing. The sodden remorse is hardening into something like his more usual expression: that pissed-off look.<br/>
<br/>
"That stupid ... chattering ... jackaninny ... jerkoff! Joe!" His face turns very red. "Get in here!"<br/>
<br/>
Footsteps. The door opens. "All better in-- Whoa!" Joe dodges back out; a dent appears in the wall right behind where his head had been. "Watch it, Frank! We just took care of Prescott, and I like my face better'n--"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't tell Prescott!"<br/>
<br/>
"Tell him what?" Joe calls from outside the room.<br/>
<br/>
"About him being a <i>Stellae!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure I did! Tell him I told you, Prescott!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure what you told me, Joe!" you call back. "It didn't make a lot of sense."<br/>
<br/>
"What are you, thick? I told you you should come train with us!"<br/>
<br/>
"I never understood why you said it!"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't? Well, fuck me as a scatterbrain. You're a <i>Stellae.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean by that?"<br/>
<br/>
Frank releases you now, and steps back. "You're a <i>Stellae,</i> Prescott, like us. You've got the same kind of thing we've got, the same potential, the same--"<br/>
<br/>
"You can do cool whiz-bang stuff like us," Joe shouts from the hall. "Once you start working at it. You're one of forty, Prescott, outta the whole world. C'mon, you didn't pick that up from what I said?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wish you'd said it directly, Joe," you cry. "You know, I don't even remember anything about that stuff now. I only remember the word <i>Stellae</i> because you two keep using it."<br/>
<br/>
Joe cautiously peeks around the door, then enters. "Yeah, well, it was a real surprise to me and Kali both. That's how come I put you through so many interviews. I thought I was fucking up the questions." He scratches the side of his neck. "I mean, what are the chances that we'd find someone entangled with the planetary <i>ousiarchs</i> in the middle of a case?" He breaks off. "Well, put it like that, and maybe it's not a surprise. Maybe it was inevitable." He sucks on his lip.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
They debrief you in the living room. There are very few people in the world like Frank and Joe--people who are able to display the prodigies of the planets. Most of them are tracked and found shortly after they are born, and taken in by the <i>Stellae</i> to be trained. "It might have to do with his being a Sulva," Joe tells Frank. "That's what his chart shows. Sulva and Kenandandra. Sulva are freaking rare, or at least we only find them in a blue moon. Eclipses and all that, you know." He chews a fingernail. "And now that we know, I wouldn't be surprised if, with a little more digging, we discovered that a <i>Stellae</i> stumbling on the <i>Libra</i> wasn't as much of a coincidence as it seems."<br/>
<br/>
As for Frank's hitting you. "That was me jumping to conclusions," Frank says quietly. "You were playing with masks that copy people. I instantly jumped to the conclusion that maybe you had, well, 'copied' some <i>essentia</i> off people. That's the stuff that gives us our prodigies. It would be a nasty thing to do. And I'm still a little tender over what you did to us." He hangs his head.<br/>
<br/>
And as for the fact that you are looking like Seth Javits? <br/>
<br/>
Both are quiet for a very long time, and Frank slumps lower and lower, like a whipped dog. You have to ask him to repeat it three times before you can make out his answer. "I broke your face."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't blame you for punching me, not if you were suspecting me of--"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I broke your face, Prescott." He starts to weep again. "The whole front of your skull is caved in. To be honest--" He starts to tremble. "It's a miracle I didn't kill you outright with that blow. Only Joe's fast thinking saved you. He grabbed one of those masks we retrieved and put it on you. It seems to be acting like a tourniquet, keeping you alive."<br/>
<br/>
Numbness encloses your body. Gingerly, you cover your nose and cheek and lips with unfeeling fingers. "You mean, if I took this off--"<br/>
<br/>
"If we switched masks quickly, you'd probably be okay," Joe says. "If you don't like this body, we could put another mask on you. But take it off for more than a minute, and--" He sighs deeply. "Doctors would never be able to work fast enough to keep you from dying."<br/>
<br/>
You fall back into the sofa. This news is so shocking you can only fall back on something normal. "But how am I supposed to go home?"<br/>
<br/>
"You weren't going home anyway," Joe says. "You were coming with us."<br/>
<br/>
"But how do I say good-bye to my family?"</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122112221211
author_id: seuzz
title: Hitting 'Em Where It Hurts
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'll take care of it," Frank says fervently. "You go with Joe. I'll stay here, act your part, live your life--" He swallows heavily. "That'll be part of my penance. And I'll arrange for you to leave in a way that won't hurt anyone."<br/>
<br/>
You say nothing, for you are still numb with shock and confusion.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not like we're going to leave right away, Frank," Joe says. "From what you were telling me about Westside--"<br/>
<br/>
"What's going on Westside?" you demand.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure," Frank says. "It's very confusing." He recounts the day he spent as you.<br/>
<br/>
It started with him looking for Steve Patterson and Gordon Black. The former was absent, and the latter didn't even remember his confrontation with Frank last night. He didn't seem to remember anything. Frank got him off alone and engaged in some rough questioning, and came away firmly convinced that Black was suffering from acute amnesia, for he claimed not to know anything about masks, golems, or magic books. "Same thing with the other guys," he says. "Lynch, Johansson, and Tilley."<br/>
<br/>
"They would have been confused anyway, after what me and Joe did to them last night," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
He shakes his head. "More than that. They seemed lost. No one remembered any of the last month."<br/>
<br/>
"Fane," Joe says grimly. "Eric Kim musta got to them last night, done something to their memories."<br/>
<br/>
"What is this Fane thing--" you start to ask, but are interrupted by the doorbell.<br/>
<br/>
You all look at each other, but no one moves, even after it rings again. "We're not expecting anyone, are we?" Frank asks.<br/>
<br/>
Someone beats on the door, and shouts Frank's and Joe's names. You grit your teeth. "That's Carrie Carmichael," you say. "One of the girls we were-- After you guys didn't show up at school she probably--"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck," Frank mutters. "I better get rid of her."<br/>
<br/>
"Send Will to the door," Joe says.<br/>
<br/>
"She's looking for us," Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"She's looking for fakes of us," Joe retorts. "That'd be Will."<br/>
<br/>
You protest: "I don't know what to--"<br/>
<br/>
Frank yanks you to your feet. "Just get rid of her. Tell her a story." He thrusts you at the door.<br/>
<br/>
It rings again before you can get it open. Carrie leaps away from the screen door, her eyes rolling with surprise and-- Fear?<br/>
<br/>
You're fortified at this moment by Seth Javits's native nerve. "Hi Carrie," you say. "I'm not surprised to see you. Me and Joe were going to come find you girls this afternoon, but I guess--"<br/>
<br/>
"Someone lookin' for me?" You jump as Joe materializes behind your shoulder. "Hi Carrie," he grins.<br/>
<br/>
She swallows hard, and her eyes dart between you and Joe. "Is that you, Frank?" Her voice quavers. "I wasn't sure if I should come by."<br/>
<br/>
"We're glad you did," Joe says. "Me and Frank are pulling up stakes. Something's come up. Bad guys rolled into town."<br/>
<br/>
If it's possible, Carrie's face turns even paler. Her mouth forms a voiceless "Oh?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," Joe continues. "So we had to play rough last night getting you and your friends back to normal. We'll real sorry about that--"<br/>
<br/>
"Real sorry," you echo, feeling like you have to be a part of this conversation at least a little.<br/>
<br/>
"--and it's best if, you know, you just forgot about everything that happened. It was a mad little adventure but it had to end."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Um. Okay." Carrie shifts rapidly from foot to foot. "In that case I guess we'll see you around." She wheels and sprints across the yard.<br/>
<br/>
"Back inside, Prescott! Now!" Joe barks. You're able to blink at him once before you're jerked off your feet by something invisible. The door slams shut.<br/>
<br/>
"What d'you see, Joe," Frank asks as he hastens into the foyer.<br/>
<br/>
"Black SUV. She's climbing in, doors slamming. Tags are--" Joe rattles off a string of letters and numbers. "I'm going up the tree now, see if there's any other goofball vehicles around." He must have caught the confused look you're giving him, for he grunts. "I'm not here. I'm on the roof, scoping out the neighborhood."<br/>
<br/>
"Why are you so paranoid about Carrie?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not Carrie we're worried about," Frank says. "It's who drove her here. Straussler and Kim must have traced things back to her last night through your old friends. They woulda caught up to them, probably questioned them before wiping their memories."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jesus, are they going to do anything to those girls?" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Probably nothing worse than a mind wipe," Frank says. "If that's what they did to the others."<br/>
<br/>
"And we should be more worried about what they're going to do to us," Joe says. "Fat Eric and three big guys in track suits are heading this way."<br/>
<br/>
Frank seizes you by the shoulder and thrusts you into Joe's bedroom. "Stay here. This could get ugly."<br/>
<br/>
"Shouldn't I be out there helping?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"If we can't handle them, you can't, and you'd just be in the way. Sit tight." The doorbell rings, and with a warning look Frank closes the door on you.<br/>
<br/>
You pace nervously, listening. You hear low voices, then some confused shouting. You tense, hands balling into fists. Seth's instincts are to charge out, but you force yourself to wait. There's lots of thudding from the outer rooms, then silence. More low voices.<br/>
<br/>
After an interminable wait that probably isn't very long at all, the door opens again, and Frank gestures you out. You blink hard when you reach the living room: Eric Kim and three guys in charcoal-gray track suits are laying face down on the floor, their hands cuffed behind their backs. None of them are moving. Frank bends to the floor and scoops up three pistols, which he tosses onto the sofa. <br/>
<br/>
"Don't remember everything about us, huh?" Frank's smile is grim as you gape at the scene. "Joe blinded 'em, then I knocked 'em off their feet and cracked some skulls together." He shakes his head. "Gimme a challenge next time."<br/>
<br/>
Joe bounds in from another room. "I assume we want Fat Eric," he says, and holds out a pair of masks to you. "Show us how these work."<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna copy 'em?" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, duh. Gonna snip off this little tentacle for Hal while we have the chance."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's--?"<br/>
<br/>
"You can take Fat Eric, Frank," Joe says. "I'll take--"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>You</i> can take him," Frank retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"Rock paper scissors," Joe says, and extends his fist.<br/>
<br/>
"How stupid do I look? Pick a number between one and ten."<br/>
<br/>
"How stupid do <i>I</i> look? Alright, evens and odds." They flick their hands quickly. "Fuck." Joe turns to you. "Tell us again how these things work?"<br/>
<br/>
In a daze you take the masks, double checking that they are blank and have mind bands in them. You hesitate as you squat next to Eric, who has a bandage around his head. "I'm on the team now?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Not officially," says Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"But as far was we're concerned--" Joe claps you encouragingly on the shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
A little thrill runs through you. <i>Your first action in your new job ...</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a fraught but tedious afternoon that follows. Joe--bitterly complaining all the way--strips Eric Kim of his clothes and dons the mask that you made. He also copy one of Straussler's men, and Frank takes his disguise. To keep Eric and the other victim docile, you put Frank's and Joe's masks on them, and leave the revived golems with orders to watch over the two remaining handcuffed men. Frank--even in his temporary face--looks a little green as you give these orders to the duplicates of himself and his brother.<br/>
<br/>
He wants to leave you behind at the house, but Joe convinces him that things will go smoother if you go with them, so you accompany your disguised teammates out to the SUV, where a very frightened Carrie has been waiting alone. You gruffly comfort her on the drive back to her house--she still thinks you're Frank--and while parked near her driveway Joe fits a thing that looks like a motorcycle helmet over her head. "Flensing," he says distastefully as he works the buttons and dials on its side. "Devilish stuff, but useful. We should take it back with us, after using it on Eric and the rest of those guys. Nash might learn a few things." Carrie is dazed but otherwise healthy as Joe sends her tottering toward her door.<br/>
<br/>
You swing by the Johnsons and the Paks after that, and you are tasked with luring Joanna and Sarah out for similar memory wipes. Then it's off to the ritziest bed and breakfast in town, where the Strausslers are hiding. Joe grumbles over having to flense Jonathan along with his parents, but Frank insists that it's the kindest thing in the long run.<br/>
<br/>
But there's a joker in the pack when you arrive: Steve Patterson, sulking in one of the guest rooms. Frank prevents you from seeing him, though, and draws you off into a corner. "Okay, Prescott, here's the deal," he says. "You've suffered a lot at the hands of that guy in there. At least, I'm going to make believe he's the reason you did a lot of the stuff you did." His expression briefly sours. "But you're in no position to judge him."<br/>
<br/>
"I know that," you say, both to be agreeable and because you see his point.<br/>
<br/>
"You can't be his judge and jury, but you can be his <i>grand</i> jury. What I mean is this." He sighs. "Patterson's done enough that he might deserve some punishment. On the other hand, you might prefer to see him treated leniently. I'll put it to you. Do you want to see him getting what he deserves? There's no guarantees he'll learn anything from it from it. Or would you like to see him get a second chance?"</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221122212111
author_id: seuzz
title: Who You Pretend to Be
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I thought you said I can't judge him," you protest. "Why are you putting this on me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not, really," Frank says. "Even if you say you want to see him punished, it's out of your hands. His punishment--or lack of it--would be decided by others. If you'd like to give him another chance, though--" He shrugs tightly. "We could keep it out of the hands of higher authorities."<br/>
<br/>
"What kind of higher authorities?" Tingles of fear are going up and down your back. This sounds like vigilante justice, for you doubt he's talking about the court system.<br/>
<br/>
Frank grimaces. "The kind of world you're entering has lots of authorities and hierarchies, Prescott. You wouldn't really have to worry about them, and you probably don't want to. Suffice it to say that you've a choice between throwing him onto the mercy of cosmic justice, or of giving him a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, so he has another chance at avoiding that kind of justice."<br/>
<br/>
As much as you dislike Steve Patterson, your humane instincts rebel against tossing him into the kind of thing it sounds like Frank is threatening. "Give him another chance," you say fervently. "Maybe he doesn't deserve it, but I don't either, and you're giving it to me."<br/>
<br/>
"Glad to hear you say it," Frank says, and shakes your hand most heartily. "I'll stay here and look after him. You and Joe will go back to our place and take care of Eric and his goons."<br/>
<br/>
Your decision preys upon you on the drive back, even though you feel sure it was the right one, and you only grunt out one-word replies to anything Joe says.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The rest of the adventure in Saratoga Falls unwinds slowly and tediously. Fake-Frank and Fake-Joe help you and the real Joe (still in Eric's mask) transfer the prisoners to the SUV. Joe drives the latter out to King Kong Komics--you follow in the guys' truck--and parks in back, where one by one he flenses them. You then drive him and yourself back to his house. "Fuck, I'm glad to be out of that," Joe says when he emerges--under his own face--from the bathroom, and chucks Eric's mask and clothes onto the sofa. "I feel like doing a couple of marathons to get the phantom fat off." He grimaces and grabs at his stomach.<br/>
<br/>
It's practically dinnertime by this point, and you ask Joe what you're going to do about your returning home. "We still have to talk to Dad about you," Joe says. "To be honest, we've been putting that off until we can tell him about all the awesome work you're doing helping us out. That is <i>you</i>, not this guy, helping, isn't it?" He points at your face.<br/>
<br/>
Seth Javits face. You'd almost forgotten you are wearing a copy of his body. Memories suddenly flood back.<br/>
<br/>
Basketball practice. Basketball games. Jerking around with Jeremy. Cuddling with Cindy. Fucking Cindy, in your truck, in her car, in the closet at her house. Strutting down hallways and yelling at sophomores. Grabbing Tilley from behind and dragging him out--<br/>
<br/>
"No, I think it was me," you say. "This guy's kind of a jerk." From outside, you hear a car pulling up.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's easy enough to ignore that shit," Joe says carelessly. "I used Fat Eric's head to operate the flenser and to find the Straussler, but otherwise his shit barely registered."<br/>
<br/>
"You weren't in it long and you probably weren't trying very hard." You stare at the floor, and now feel Seth's personality creeping over you, like a jacket and hood. It almost feels alive as it wriggles about you, pressing tightly around you, into you.<br/>
<br/>
You look up, to find Joe peering closely at you. He doesn't say anything, though, and you feel yourself glaring back at him. <i>Cocky son of a bitch.</i><br/>
<br/>
The door opens. "Better shake a leg, Joe, if you're gonna run that errand we were talking about," a voice calls.<br/>
<br/>
"C'mere, Frank," Joe says, his eyes still locked on you. "Check this guy out." Frank lumbers over, to stare curiously at you. "What do you see?"<br/>
<br/>
"One of the assholes who plays for Westside. What am I supposed to be--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that the face you were seeing in the car with us?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course. He can't take it--"<br/>
<br/>
"I mean the expression, the person. That don't look like Prescott, not the guy we were--"<br/>
<br/>
Frank steps forward to peer intently at you, and puts a firm hand on you shoulder. Abruptly you brush him off and stagger back a step.<br/>
<br/>
"That is <i>you</i> inside there, isn't it, Prescott?" Frank asks, and his eyes harden.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you. Who else is it--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Easy there," Frank says. "How much of that is you and how much is--?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's <i>all</i> me," you retort. Then you shake your head. Javits clings tightly to you. Is there a border between his mind and yours? You're not sure where your resentment of their attitude stops, and Javits's resentment of it begins.<br/>
<br/>
"How was it with you, Frank, when you were inside-- What was his name?" Joe asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I've forgotten, and I barely paid attention." Frank turns back to you, his head cocked. "You seem like you've got a little more stick inside you, Prescott, when you're wearing that face."<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't got much of a choice, do I?" you retort. "Not after what you did to me." You raise your chin. Frank's cheek twitches.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, this is suddenly creepy," Joe says. "I'm wondering that happens if we put him in a different mask."<br/>
<br/>
"Look, just back off," you say. "I'm here, and according to you guys I can't go anywhere else."<br/>
<br/>
"Joe, move that package into our truck, but come back in when you're done. We need to talk before you head out."<br/>
<br/>
Your nostrils flare, but you fight to keep calm as Frank rests his hands on your shoulders after Joe has gone. "We offered a job to you, Prescott, not to this guy," he says gently. "We like you. We want you, not some combination of Will Prescott and--"<br/>
<br/>
"And what's wrong with Seth Javits? You suddenly find me not so easy to push around?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not that," Frank says. "But you know what they say. Be careful who you pretend to be, because that's who you'll become."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It might be the Sulva," Joe says. "That's what Dad said."<br/>
<br/>
"When did you talk to--?" you start to ask.<br/>
<br/>
But Frank waves you to be quiet. "We'll explain later. What do you mean, Joe?"<br/>
<br/>
An hour has passed. Joe had gone out on a brief errand that neither he nor his brother explained to you. Meanwhile, you and Frank drove your truck to Westside, where you put your mask on the golem still waiting in the loft, and sent it home to get yelled at for missing dinner. You'd taken a cab back to their house, where you'd found Joe waiting with a couple of pizzas. He'd already devoured one by himself.<br/>
<br/>
"Sulva," Joe repeats. "That's the Moon." He turns to you. "You don't remember any of this?" You shake your head. "There's ten planets,"  he says. "Counting the Sun and Moon as planets. The <i>Stellae,</i> that's us--" His gesture encompasses him and Frank and you. "We're entangled with them, so to speak. Gives us our prodigies. We each have two planets. Mine are the Sun and Mercury. Frank--poor guy--has Mars and Saturn. You're the Moon and Pluto."<br/>
<br/>
"Sounds kind of sad," you mutter. <i>Tiny, piss-ant little things,</i> you think to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"There's no happy or sad to it," Joe says, forestalling Frank's frown. "None are bigger or smaller, better or worse, stronger or weaker, than the others. Except Jupiter, and that's a very special case. But you're the Moon, and Dad speculates-- Oh, by the way, you're officially in now. Well, provisionally in, as far as he's concerned. Just a formality away now. But Dad says the Moon is like a mirror, very good at picking up reflections. It might be that you're extremely good at fitting into these mask things, very good at pretending to be other people without even trying." He hesitates. "It might even explain why you found the <i>Libra</i> so easily."<br/>
<br/>
"I just picked it up off a shelf," you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"Easy there, it's nothing to worry about," Joe says. "But there's coincidences and there's <i>coincidences.</i> You know, the difference between weird coincidences that happen in life and the meaningful ones that happen in stories. The <i>Libra</i> is a book, it might be that it can't help making up stories and making coincidences to further them. The universe is a funny old place."<br/>
<br/>
His intimation that your finding the book wasn't an accident still leaves you breathing heavily.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway," he continues, "if you <i>are</i> good at picking up reflections, it's gonna make working with you a little tricky, if guys like--" He points at your face. "If guys like <i>him</i> are gonna get in the way."<br/>
<br/>
"So what are we supposed to do about it?" You're calmer now, and refrain from reminding Frank what he did to your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, we looked through the <i>Libra</i> while I was there--" You just blink at his senseless statement; <i>where</i> was he? "--and that first spell lets you make up faces without copying memories or personalities. All the masks we have on hand have personalities inside them. But we could make you up a new face, one that hasn't got a personality to get in the way."</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212211222121111
author_id: seuzz
title: New Faces, New Places
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"So we could just make you up a new face," Joe says.<br/>
<br/>
"I'd still have to take this mask off," you point out. <br/>
<br/>
"I can move fast," Joe says. "No fears."<br/>
<br/>
You're rather tired of having Seth Javits kicking around inside your head by this point, so you shrug. "Where do we get the face?"<br/>
<br/>
"We make a new one," Joe says, and grins. "Frank, you're gonna be a daddy."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck?" Frank demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, another thing me and Dad spotted in the <i>Libra.</i> First spell actually lets you merge more than one face inside a mask. It creates a new face, a combination of the two or three or ten that you put into it. Then you seal it up. The easiest thing would be for you and me put our faces into a mask. Well," he shrugs. "Easiest and <i>nicest</i> thing would be to just give Will a copy of my face without yours to mess it up, but Dad says--"<br/>
<br/>
Frank is suddenly on top of Joe, pounding him hard. Joe howls. "Now is your face gonna look so pretty?" Frank says as he lets his brother up.<br/>
<br/>
"Pretty as ever, Frank," Joe groans as he sits up, clutching his stomach and chest. "Your aim's as bad as your looks."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's quickly accomplished. There are lots of blank masks in the garage still, the spoils of the raid on Westside, and Joe and Frank each take turns putting one on. There's also some ready-made sealant, and you yourself coat the inner surface of the mask. An image floats on the outer surface, but you can't make it out clearly. There is no name on the inside, for of course there is no mind band attached. You lay in the middle of the floor and grit your teeth as Joe looms over you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"About fucking time, Prescott," Joe says as you open your eyes. "You must like your beauty rest."<br/>
<br/>
You sit up, feeling a little stiff and woozy. You blink, and gingerly touch your face.<br/>
<br/>
You have one, at least. A nose, cheeks, lips, chin. You brush your hair. It's short and stiff and thick. "How do I look?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mirror's in my bedroom. Not awful," Joe sighs. "But you picked up more of Frank than of me."<br/>
<br/>
"Good genes win out," Frank says smugly.<br/>
<br/>
"Crap rises to the surface," Joe retorts even more smugly.<br/>
<br/>
You totter into the bedroom, to the mirror. A strange face gazes back at you.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Not bad,</i> you reflect on your reflection. Solid, even a little adult; armed with a fake ID, you'd probably have no problem getting into bars and clubs. It's dark in aspect: dark hair, dark brows. So Joe is right, it looks much more like Frank's than Joe's, and your expression is sour like Frank's when you frown. But the smile is Joe's--wide and bright--and you decide you will try to smile more than you frown.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of your body is also solid, which shouldn't be a surprise, since Joe and Frank are both big. Broad shoulders, big arms and chest, some fur on your forearms. You grit your teeth as you reach into the front of your pants. Balls and cock feel normal--<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, you can get some work outta them," Joe drawls behind you, and you whirl guiltily. He laughs, and puts his arm around your shoulder. "Can you live with it? You're a little big to be our little brother, but-- Say, you need a name."<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong with 'Will'?" you demand. "It's what I'm used to."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, what's wrong with his own name," Frank says, joining you. He looks you up and down appraisingly.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing," Joe says. "But with a new face I figured you might-- Hey, how about 'Chet'? You could be Chet."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be an idiot," Frank says. "'Will' is fine."<br/>
<br/>
"We don't go by <i>our</i> real names," Joe insists. "'Chet' fits the pattern."<br/>
<br/>
"No it doesn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's 'Chet'?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Chet Morton," Joe says. "Hardy Boys. That's where me and Frank--"<br/>
<br/>
"And Chet's not their brother," Frank says. "He's just their friend."<br/>
<br/>
"Technically, <i>we're</i> not brothers either," Joe says. "So it's--"<br/>
<br/>
"Still doesn't fit the pattern," Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"Then how about 'Larry'," Joe says sourly. "He can be Larry, you can be Moe, and I can be-- Woo woo woo woo woo!" He flutters his hand in front of Frank's face. "Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow!" He sinks to his knees as Frank grasps his wrist.<br/>
<br/>
"Stick to 'Will', Prescott," Frank says. "I mean, stick to 'Will'. Or leave it to Dad. Speaking of which, we should take off now."<br/>
<br/>
"Take off where?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Olympia. There's no reason to stick around here. I've already got the rest of the mask stuff packed."<br/>
<br/>
"Olympia?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Where our dad lives." He puts out his hand, and you take it in a handshake. "With your new face, it's now officially the first day of the rest of your life."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Don't you guys need to withdraw from school, close up the house, stuff like that?" you ask as the three of you slide into the truck. Joe takes the wheel, and you squeeze in between him and Frank. The sudden departure has left you feeling dazed. <i>Does it have to be so sudden? And in the middle of the night?</i> It's nearly ten o'clock.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll take care of that tomorrow," Frank says. "Are you up to making a third trip?" he asks Joe.<br/>
<br/>
"You got the rest of the pizzas?" Joe asks. "Then I am. Oh, man, Larry-- I mean, Will. You're gonna love this next part." He starts the truck, and lurches into the street.<br/>
<br/>
"How far is it?" you ask. "I don't know of any place called 'Olympia' around here."<br/>
<br/>
"Three thousand miles, as the crow flies," Joe says. "Minus nine hours, as I drive it, though."<br/>
<br/>
"Minus--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't break his brain, Joe," Frank says. "Breaking his face was bad enougha."<br/>
<br/>
You lapse into a puzzled silence.<br/>
<br/>
It's a short but uneventful drive until you hit the interstate, and neither Joe nor Frank talks much. Traffic thins out until you're a dozen miles out of town. Then Frank glances over his shoulder. "Looks like you're clear, Joe. Punch it."<br/>
<br/>
Joe lets out a long, loud whoop, and you sink back into the seat as he accelerates hard. The speedometer creeps up past sixty, then seventy, and eighty, and ninety. The needle strains against the far end of the meter, then falls back to zero. Joe continues to accelerate.<br/>
<br/>
The headlamps dim and go out, and even the hum of the engine fades. Your stomach and heart seem to press through your back into the seat cushions, then release into weightlessness. Silence and darkness enfold; the car seems suspended in nothingness.<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops as you peer out the window. The stars are no longer points: they streak and smear, scratching bright, harsh trails in the inky void. The landscape flutters darkly by, like curtains flapping in a soundless wind. You look over at Joe, and gasp to see his eyes glowing. He grins, and light seems to seep from between his teeth. Slowly he turns to face you. It's a terrible, frightening sight, as though he is burning away from the inside. You jump as something clutches your hand. It's only Frank, though, and his face--thankfully unaltered--wears a tight but reassuring smile.<br/>
<br/>
The stars stretch in long arcs and shred the sky with their light. A glow appears in the west, and a great pillar of fire thrusts into the sky, its light obliterating the night. You shut your eyes against it and the landscape, through which you are plunging as though through dense clouds of black cobwebs ...<br/>
<br/>
And then with a teeth-shattering jolt everything snaps back to normal. You are on a country lane weaving between tall mountains with the sun shining cheerfully overhead, touching their snowcapped peaks with gentle rays. Fearfully you look over at the speedometer: forty-five. <br/>
<br/>
Your nerves puddle in your feet. "What was that?" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Me breaking every speed limit known to science," Joe laughs. "It's yesterday, and we'll be in Olympia in ten minutes."<br/>
<br/>
"Yesterday?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's right. I went so fast we went backward in time."<br/>
<br/>
You stare and stare. It can't be. But here you are high up in the mountains, and it's late afternoon, and-- "But--"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't try to figure it out," Frank says. "I never could. Suffice it to say right now, back in Saratoga Falls, we're putting on masks of Eric Kim and his goons, and in a few hours we'll get on the highway to drive out here."<br/>
<br/>
"And I've already been here," Joe says. "Drove out yesterday--or today, as we're experiencing it again--and had a long, long conference with Dad. Then I drove back the same way, getting back an hour after I left. And here we are again. Pass me that pizza, Frank. I'm famished."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean we might run into ourselves?" It's the only thought that you can form.<br/>
<br/>
"Whoa, you hear that Frank?" Joe laughs. "It took us five trips before <i>you</i> grasped that possibility! No, there's no danger of that," he continues as Frank glowers at him. "The universe doesn't tolerate paradoxes. So we'll be checking into a motel, giving Dad's place a wide berth until I've left again."<br/>
<br/>
"What do we do until then?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hang out," Frank says. "Until Uncle Fyodor shows up."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eventually, a little town comes into view. Joe pulls into the parking lot of a small motel. The three of you dismount; Joe gets your trio checked in; and you move all your gear into a cabin.<br/>
<br/>
It's close and musty, like it hasn't been aired out in weeks. Joe flops onto the bed and devours the rest of the pizza. "Recharging," he says. "Those trips take it out of me."<br/>
<br/>
"Pace yourself," Frank says. "We're gonna be here awhile."<br/>
<br/>
"Who says? We can go out."<br/>
<br/>
"What about those paradoxes you're always warning us against?"<br/>
<br/>
"Easy to dodge. And fun, too." With a grin he opens Frank's bag and pulls out a mask. "No chance of being recognized under these."</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122112221211111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Breakfast of Champions
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Are you nuts?" Frank shouts at his brother. "Are you seriously suggesting that we--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Where's your sense of fun, Frank? Oh, right, you left it back in the orphanage when Dad brought you here. It's safe as houses, nothing wrong with--"<br/>
<br/>
"What did I tell you, Will?" Frank says to you. "If I don't sit on him he'll get into the masks and fuck around. Didn't you get it out of your system with Fat Eric?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Fat Eric, lotta fun that was." Joe rips into another slice of pizza. "I was thinking of putting on Tina Branson, seeing what she looks like under--"<br/>
<br/>
Frank turns a shade of color somewhere between red and purple; Joe springs backward, bouncing off the bed to crouch in a corner of the room. "Hit me if you want, Frank, I'm just telling you the truth!"<br/>
<br/>
"Which is why you need a good punch!" But he ignores Joe, and stalks to the bathroom door, which he kicks open. Joe vanishes. "Yeah, I saw what you did," Frank growls as he hauls Joe from the bathroom by the scruff of the neck. He throws him onto the bed. "You think I'm blind?"<br/>
<br/>
"What does Prescott think?" Joe shouts. "If him and me outvote you--"<br/>
<br/>
"I think it's a bad idea, Joe," you say. "You start fucking around with masks, and the next thing you know--" You lightly brush your nose. "You don't have a face anymore."<br/>
<br/>
They both fall silent. "Well put, Prescott," Frank says, though he sounds a little abashed.<br/>
<br/>
"But Tina!" Joe groans.<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking invasion of privacy," Frank says. "Put it outta your head."<br/>
<br/>
Joe sighs deeply, unhappily. "Then what <i>are</i> we gonna do? Been here only two minutes and already I'm bored." <br/>
<br/>
"Could you tell me what's going to happen to me?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"That'll kill a few hours," Frank says. "And we'll make an early night of it anyway. How soon can we head over to Dad's?"<br/>
<br/>
"Six," Joe says, sitting up. "I made an early start, took it easy on the way back after dropping off--" He smothers the rest of the sentence in another slice of pizza.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, the first thing that happens," Frank says, plopping onto the bed while you take a rickety chair by the window. "First thing is that you'll meet Uncle Fyodor."<br/>
<br/>
"'Cept he's not really our uncle, just like Dad isn't our dad. Not biologically," Joe says. "Him and dad aren't brothers, either, except the same way me and Frank are."<br/>
<br/>
"Which is what, exactly?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"This would be a lot easier if you still remembered the stuff that was in our heads," Joe says peevishly.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm glad it isn't," Frank says. "<i>Stellae</i> are never biologically related to each other. I mean, I guess they could be--" He gives Joe a querying glance.<br/>
<br/>
"It's theoretically possible," Joe says. "But it's not something that runs in the blood. Not like--pfft!--midichlorians. Or Harry Potter. Mind you, there are some abilities that follow biological relations, but not in our case. It's like winning the lottery."<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, we track them down when they're born," Frank says, taking up the explanation. "They pop up every few years, so there are usually several in training who are only a few years apart in age. Usually they get paired together and wind up forming something like a sibling bond. That's how it was with me and Joe. They found me in Italy when I was eight, found Joe a year later in Germany when <i>he</i> was eight. Dad and Fyodor were a similar case, except they're farther apart in age, and got separated early on. Dad stayed here in the States while Fyodor went to Russia."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"That was their business, and you can ask <i>them</i> about it," Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
"And don't worry about geopolitics," Joe says. "Has nothing to do with us."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. But if they're always looking for <i>Stellae</i>, why didn't they find <i>me?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Joe chews thoughtfully for a minute. "Don't know," he says at last. "Unless it's the Sulva thing again. They're very rare, but Dad says it might just be that they're hard to find. The Moon is associated with eclipses, so maybe it's like they can hide in plain sight. Like you did from us, even though we were in the same town for a couple of months."<br/>
<br/>
"So why am I going to meet this Fyodor guy? Why not your dad?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you'll meet him eventually. But Fyodor first. He'll explain. After that--" Joe pauses. "After a bit, probably, you'll start training."<br/>
<br/>
"What's that like?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's fun."<br/>
<br/>
"But hard work," Frank says. "It's different with different people. Think he'll study with Kali?" he asks Joe.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that's a given. She was our teacher, kind of like Yoda," Joe says to you. "But a lot prettier. A <i>lot</i> prettier." He laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe Nash, too?" Frank says. "If Will is also a Kenandandran--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, probably. He'll be fun, too."<br/>
<br/>
"You've told me some things about the Moon," you say. "What about Kena-- What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kenandandra. That's Pluto. Planet associated with gadgets, machinery. Toys. You like building stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
You remember some of your misadventures, the dumb things you did that your dad had to clean up after you. "I'm better at wrecking things," you admit.<br/>
<br/>
"Same principle," Joe says. "Taking things apart to see how they work, how to put them together again so they work better or do better things." You must have looked unhappy, for you're still remembering the way your dad would yell at you, for Joe adds, "You'll like Nash too. He's a lot of fun. You'll like everyone." Then his face falls. "Except Father Ed."<br/>
<br/>
"You've mentioned <i>him</i> a couple of times," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"No reason to frighten him," Frank says to Joe. "Let him meet the padre in his own good time. Let him talk to <i>Fyodor</i> first."<br/>
<br/>
You talk for a few more hours as they tell you about some of their training and early apprenticeships; it's clear that it'll be a couple of years before you're up to their level. <br/>
<br/>
Then you go to bed. Frank and Joe share the single bed, while you crawl into a sleeping bag that they brought along. Your mind is buzzing, and you do a lot of unfocused thinking. But sleep gradually overtakes you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Hey boy!" Joe shouts as the barking mastiff bounds up. "You'd think I hadn't left only thirty minutes ago!" He rubs the dog's haunches; it snuffles and sneezes and jumps up to put its paws on his shoulders. "This is Galaxy," Joe says to you. "Best dog in the universe."<br/>
<br/>
You're in the yard of a small house in a tidy little subdivision on the other side of town from the motel. It's surrounded by a chain link fence, and you have to cross a narrow yard to reach the porch. Joe and Frank lead you inside without knocking. "Dad!" he calls when you're in the small living room. "I'm back! Again!"<br/>
<br/>
A booming voice calls from another room. "You want another breakfast, Joseph? Frank! Come in!" You hang back for just a moment, for the voice sounds like it belongs to a very large man, but Frank seizes you by the shoulder and thrusts you through a doorway.<br/>
<br/>
Your host turns from the small dining table, which is piled with platters of eggs and pancakes and bacon and sausages and toast and jam and cheese and oatmeal. Joe whoops and drops into a chair, to tuck in without further invitation. But you can only stare at the man who greets you. <br/>
<br/>
He is big, much larger than you're capable of expecting. He towers a full head over Frank, and his shoulders are half again as wide. He has a massive beard that hangs over his chest; his head is bald, and his eyes flash merrily. He puts out a bear-like hand to grip Frank's. "Giovanni! You're more of a man every time we meet! Soon you can outwrestle me!" His voice hurts your ears. "Drink?" He grabs up a tall bottle and sloshes some clear liquid into a wide tumbler.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a little early for me," Frank replies. <br/>
<br/>
The man shrugs and swallows it down. "Ah! In Siberia--" Then his eye falls on you. You desperately want to hide behind Frank.<br/>
<br/>
But the man reaches out to grasp you; his arms seem very long, and his grip is rough, though friendly. He beams. "And this our new one, our youngest!" He shakes you so hard your teeth rattle. "He seems a little old. And--" He cocks his head. "Why do I have the feeling I've seen his face before?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe chokes and coughs loudly; the huge man slaps him across the back, almost pitching him across the table. "So there's a story here?" he exclaims. "But come, there will be time for stories later! First, you must eat!" He pushes you into a chair.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
This is not actually Joe's and Frank's "dad", it turns out. It's their "Uncle Fyodor." "Charles left the introductions to me," he explains in that very loud voice. Three times--as though it's such a delight he must repeat it--he puts out a hand to introduce himself, and three times he almost rattles your jaw loose as he shakes your whole arm. He prepares more and more food, even as you and Frank and Joe fall behind, and when you all push back, saying you can't eat another bite, he bends over the table to wolf it all down himself. He then pulls the others to their feet--while insisting you stay seated--and sings loudly and lustily in Russian as he helps them clean up.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, into the parlor," he says when the kitchen is spotless. "I am hungry for young Will's story." He lowers himself into a chair--which creaks and groans under his weight--lights an enormous pipe, and fixes gleaming eyes on you.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221122212111111
author_id: seuzz
title: A Story of Several Lifetimes
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Tell me all, Will," Fyodor says, and sends a smoke ring from his pipe. It rises to hover over his head at a rakish angle. His eyes and expression are friendly, merry, but there is something humorously inappropriate about the way the smoky halo lingers over his devilishly cheerful countenance.<br/>
<br/>
"Where should I start, sir?" you ask. Despite his bonhomie, you're very nervous about confessing your sins to him.<br/>
<br/>
"The beginning is often the best place," he says, and the chair groans again as he settles back into it.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I guess it started when I found this book at Arnholm's--"<br/>
<br/>
"Back!" Fyodor roars, and sweeps the air with his arm. "Back to the beginning! To the day the doctor smacked your bare bottom in the delivery room, if you can!"<br/>
<br/>
You gape. "Okay, then. Um. Well, I come from a little town called Saratoga Falls--"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's the longest and most intense interview you have ever conducted. Fyodor interrupts you constantly, pressing for details and diversions as you recount your childhood, until you find his preferred mode, which is an exhaustive account of everything you remember and many things you had forgotten. You've heard that Russians like their stories long, and you struggle to give him what he wants.<br/>
<br/>
Hours seem to pass before you finally reach the point where Mr. Walberg assigns your class to bring in items for a time capsule, and you reluctantly find yourself in Arnholm's Used Bookstore, looking for something--anything--to satisfy the teacher. But you're not the least bit tired, and Fyodor himself listens with undiminished intensity and enthusiasm, remarking only at points "That's very well put" or "What a marvelous turn <i>that</i> was" when your narrative has tripped over a semi-interesting point.<br/>
<br/>
You lag now a little, though, as you're coming to the point where it all began to go wrong. You glance around, and notice that it's just you and the giant. "Where did Frank and Joe go?"<br/>
<br/>
"For a run," he says. "They haven't my appetite. But continue. Now things are about to get exciting, no?" He grins around the stem of his pipe.<br/>
<br/>
"Exciting but bad, I'm afraid, sir," you say, and hang your head a little.<br/>
<br/>
"Pah! Just tell me."<br/>
<br/>
So you recount to him, in excruciating detail, how you found the book, and experimented with the first masks, and how you brought Caleb into it. You tense and flinch when you talk about copying Jeremy Richards, and using him to get a copy of Lisa Yarborough's mind--<i>though you didn't put it on</i>, you hasten to add. He just smiles indulgently, as though neither the theft nor your refusal to take advantage of it are any more important or blameworthy than the time you disassembled your own bicycle.<br/>
<br/>
So you're a little more open about how you used the masks to steal money from Eva Garner. "Ingenious!" he exclaims. You don't relax, for you're coming up hard on how you turned Jeremy into a golem, but Fyodor drinks it in with the same open-minded interest. "Amazing!" he says.<br/>
<br/>
"What's so amazing about it, sir?" you squeak.<br/>
<br/>
"What you did with the <i>Libra,</i> of course!"<br/>
<br/>
"But it was wrong!"<br/>
<br/>
"Was it?" His tone isn't puzzled; it sounds like a genuine question.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course it was! We killed him! Basically."<br/>
<br/>
"I suppose you did," he says. "But go on."<br/>
<br/>
Now his attitude disconcerts you a little. You wonder if he is like Joe--fascinated by the possibilities of the masks and the book--or if he's a little mad, and thinks he's just listening to a story, a work of fiction, and not the history of your sins. But you press on.<br/>
<br/>
You describe how you wanted to use the masks to get close to girls because-- He doesn't react, and you have to state it bluntly. "Because we wanted to, you know, have sex with them by pretending we were their boyfriends." Fyodor's gaze remains rapt and unclouded.<br/>
<br/>
And then Steve Patterson enters the story. He made you join his team. No, you have to admit, though Fyodor has said nothing. He didn't <i>make</i> you join. He just drew a very vague picture of things, and you frightened yourself into doing what he wanted you to do. You got copies of your friends, and of Lisa, and you tricked Geoff into having sex with you, and you maliciously spread confusion so as to break them up. And then you moved to Eastman, where you captured and replaced Frank and Joe, and you tempted and seduced some freshman girls into helping you. After getting over the hump of describing what you did to Jeremy, it's easier to get through these bits.<br/>
<br/>
Or it would be, except that Fyodor insists on hearing more than a dry recital of facts. He asks after your plans and motives. "But why did you do <i>that</i>" instead of <i>this</i>? he asks, and traces through your reasoning processes at each point. You have cause again to explain how jealous you felt of Frank and Joe, and how you wanted to be them. Fyodor takes this confession as completely in stride as he'd taken all the rest.<br/>
<br/>
And you finish up with your account of being caught by Curt Straussler, and of freeing Joe, and of helping them set things to right again. "I want to make up for what I did, sir--" you start to say.<br/>
<br/>
And only now does he wave you to silence. "That is the best story I have heard in many months," he declares. "The best!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not just a story!" you protest, so upset you forget to add the "sir" that you've been unconsciously using. "I did all those things, and they were wrong, and--"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course!" he bellows. "Of course it's a story. It's <i>your</i> story. Now tell me why. Why is that your story, and not some other story?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because those are the things <i>I</i> did! I wish I hadn't--!" You shut your mouth as, for the first time, Fyodor frowns. "I just did a lot of stupid and-- and <i>evil</i> things because I could."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't believe that," he growls. "Neither do I."<br/>
<br/>
<i>What does he want?</i> You lean forward to stare at the floor. You feel him pressing upon you.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I didn't like my story," you say slowly. "Maybe I didn't like the story I was making for myself up until the time I found the book. Maybe I-- Maybe I wanted to be a character in someone else's story."<br/>
<br/>
"We are <i>all</i> characters in someone else's story. Even in the stories of people we don't meet."<br/>
<br/>
"Then maybe I wanted someone else's story for my own." Your head bends under a great weight.<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe?" The word rumbles in the air.<br/>
<br/>
"No. That's it exactly. I didn't like where my story was going. It wasn't going anywhere."<br/>
<br/>
The air is very still. "But now you have a chance at a new story," Fyodor says. "One that will still be yours--"<br/>
<br/>
"Do I, sir?" You raise your head. He stares back very gravely at you. "Joe and Frank said-- But you don't want me, sir. Not after what I--"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not your place to judge what we want," he says. "But come. You are tired. You will see things with fresher eyes after you have slept."<br/>
<br/>
You do feel very tired suddenly, though it is only a little past noon. Still, a nap might feel good. You take Fyodor's hand as he stands. A little strength flows into you.<br/>
<br/>
But he doesn't lead you into a bedroom. Instead he takes you to the back yard, and  leads you to a little metal shed. He tugs the door open, and bends almost double to stoop inside it. Then he pulls you in.<br/>
<br/>
You'd expect it to be filled with gardening tools, but it is empty. Empty and dark. Vast and empty and dark. There are no walls, and only a little light comes in through the small doorway. "Come," Fyodor says, and grips your hand firmly.<br/>
<br/>
You walk for a very long time through darkness, miles it feels like. The air is very still, and a little chilly. You don't talk. A creeping lethargy steals over you.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, a light appears in the distance. Slowly you draw up. It's a pool of light coming from an invisible source, casting a circle on the floor. It illuminates two stone biers. One is empty. On the other--<br/>
<br/>
His upturned face is pale and creased with fear and pain. It's Steve Patterson. "Yes, this is your friend," Fyodor says. "Joseph brought him here earlier. He sleeps, as you will too."<br/>
<br/>
"Is this a cemetery," you ask, and fear grips you.<br/>
<br/>
"For some," Fyodor says. "But not for you. Not for him. You will both wake, though I am sure you will wake before he does." He grips your hand, and his grasp is warm and reassuring. "Lay yourself here," he says, and gestures at the bier. "Rest and forget, rest and forgive. It will be quite easy for you, after all that you have told me."<br/>
<br/>
You have no idea what he means, and the sight of Patterson shocks you; you thought you'd told Frank that he should let him go. But you lay down on the bier. It is cold, but a warmth, like an invisible coverlet, steals over you.<br/>
<br/>
"I will sing to you now," Fyodor says. "You need not attend the words, for you will not understand them. Listen only to the melody."<br/>
<br/>
And as you close your eyes he does begin to sing, a tune low and slow and rolling; a trifle melancholy, you think, but comforting too. It puts you mind of a lullaby your mother used to sing you, and tears of nostalgia puddle under your lids.<br/>
<br/>
Fyodor's voice lingers on a hanging note, and then vanishes, for you have fallen asleep.<br/>
<br/>
To continue: "<a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11112" target="_top" title="Interactive Story Chapter in Item # 1942914">The Four Musketeers</a>" <a href="https://www.Writing.Com/main/interactive-story/item_id/1942914/action/view/chapter_map/11112" 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: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212
author_id: seuzz
title: Interrogations and Surprises
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You decide to leave the mask in place. You don't know what Eric Kim is capable of--though your eyes dart over to those electrodes--but you know what Joe and Frank are capable of, and you prefer to take your chances with the fat owner of the comic book shop.<br/>
<br/>
"What's going on?" your double whines.<br/>
<br/>
"Just shut up," you snarl.<br/>
<br/>
"You're not the boss of me. Patterson says--"<br/>
<br/>
You put your hands over your ears, and he lapses into a resentful silence.<br/>
<br/>
Ten minutes pass, the door opens, and Eric comes back in. He chuckles as he looks between you. "You didn't switch clothes on me, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, it woulda been more fun that way. Oh well." He locks the door and turns to your twin. "So you're another Will Prescott. This one here--" He cocks his head at you. "He was wearing a mask that made him look like a girl. I don't think he's one of a set of twins, so if that's his real face, you must also be wearing a mask, one that makes you look like--"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what you're talking about," your twin says bluntly.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm so glad you said that." Eric puts a fat hand on the golem's shoulder, and rests the other on the side of his stomach. "Say it again."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know-- Gyaahhhh!!" He convulses and falls against the wall. Eric follows him, a gloating smile on his face. "I don't-- Aaaiiigghhhh!! Yes, okay, I'm wearing a mask!"<br/>
<br/>
"Take it off for me? Which of you's better looking?"<br/>
<br/>
"I can't!" He twists and writhes in Eric's grasp.<br/>
<br/>
"He can't, Eric!" you shout. It's only a golem, but you can't stand the sight and sound of someone who looks like you screaming that way. "It's stuck on him! Only I can--!" You shut your mouth with a snap.<br/>
<br/>
Eric turns that sunny, psychotic smile on you. "You can get it off him? Then take it off him for me."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't want me to. Really, you don't. You don't know who's--"<br/>
<br/>
He releases the golem and waddles over to you, grinning all the way. He lays his hands on you. "Why not? Who's under there?"<br/>
<br/>
You tense, and feel a terrified smile play over your face.<br/>
<br/>
Every nerve in your body screams. You do too. And he doesn't let up until you've gasped out everything you know: About masks, the <i>Libra,</i> Patterson, Arnholm's Used Bookstore, and all about Frank and Joe Durras.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your guts feel liquefied, and Eric's two goons practically have to pour you into the BMW, along with an equally stricken golem. You lay on your side on the entire drive out, and let them carry you back into the Strausslers' mansion.<br/>
<br/>
They deposit you in some kind of sitting room. Curt Straussler is there, along with three other burly guards who are standing behind a sofa. And sitting on the sofa is Steve Patterson. He's wearing a very pinched and angry expression, and there are big bruises on his face.<br/>
<br/>
Something about his appearance strikes you as being wrong. Not until Curt Straussler speaks do you realize what it is: Patterson is wearing some of Jonathan's clothes.<br/>
<br/>
"And I found another one," Straussler says, his voice frozen with fury. He jabs a finger at a mask resting on the coffee table in front of Patterson. "This one disguised as <i>my own son!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You look wide-eyed up at Patterson. He sneers back.<br/>
<br/>
Eric, who has followed you in, laughs. "Do you blame him, Curt? Your kid's got it all. Looks, talent, money. Doting parents." Straussler shows his teeth. "A hot girlfriend, too, probably. Let's see." He glances mirthfully between you and Patterson. "You were done up like Jonathan, and you were done up like his girl. So, were you two--?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!" you gasp, turning very red in the face. Patterson sneers and looks away. "I didn't even know he was there!"<br/>
<br/>
"You gotta name, kid?" Eric asks your teammate.<br/>
<br/>
"Steven Patterson," Straussler says on his behalf. "My own boys got <i>that</i> much out of him."<br/>
<br/>
"And you two know each other," Eric says, this time to you. "You told me--"<br/>
<br/>
"You got a big fucking mouth, Prescott," Patterson growls. "And you're a fucking--" But he shuts up at a glance from Straussler.<br/>
<br/>
"Move the tall one into the panic room," Eric says to Straussler. "I've got some questions for him."<br/>
<br/>
"And the other one?"<br/>
<br/>
"Leave him here," Eric shrugs. "After what I did to him, I doubt he'll be able to sit up straight for a week."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So they leave you, and you do spend it laying on your side, nursing bruises in layers you didn't know you had. You've got plenty of time to think, but no energy to do it, and you even ignore Gerhardt when the latter comes in with some toast and tea. He ignores you too.<br/>
<br/>
An hour or so passes before Eric reappears, looking as fresh as when he'd left you. "Don't feel too bad, Will," he tells you. "I exaggerated earlier. The pain will actually go away in a little while, and you'll be totally fine. I didn't damage you, and you actually held up better than your friend. Yeah, you did good." He chuckles and studies a clipboard he's carrying. "You did <i>amazing.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You're not inclined to reply, and don't.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, this Frank and Joe Durras," he continues. "That's some pretty interesting shit you told me about them. That's really Joe under that mask of the guy who's looking like you, right?" He scratches the side of his face. "And Frank is back at their place, under a mask that looks like Joe? Dude, that's hard-core squicky." He drops a cell phone by your head. "Call him, tell him to come out here."<br/>
<br/>
You feebly pick up the phone, then put it down. "I can't. He hasn't got a set of wheels."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, in that case, call him and tell that a fat Korean doofus is gonna swing by and pick him up. Tell him to come with me." <br/>
<br/>
With infinite loathing and reluctance, you comply. <br/>
<br/>
"Thanks," Eric says. "Here--" He bends over, and you flinch back. "Don't worry, I'm just trying to speed your recovery." He lays gentle hands on you, and kneads at you. You grunt. He massages you in this way for a minute or so, and you do feel better when he quits. But you don't thank him, and he doesn't appear to expect you to.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Again, you're left alone to stew. Night falls, and Gerhardt walks quietly through, switching on lamps. He takes the untouched tray, and returns with a fresh one. Now you do feel well enough to eat. It's dry and not very nourishing, but it does fill a void inside you.<br/>
<br/>
A small clock has just chimed nine when the door opens, and Jonathan Straussler steps in. For a moment you think it must be Patterson, but you've only to see the look of dark loathing on his face to know that it's the real kid. You've been wondering what happened to him, but say nothing to him, and look away. He stares for another minute before withdrawing.<br/>
<br/>
Twenty minutes later the door opens again, and Patterson, supported by one of Straussler's goons, stumbles through and collapses on the sofa opposite you. He glares malevolently at you from one open eye. "Fucker."<br/>
<br/>
"You expected me to hold out? Eric did the same thing to me."<br/>
<br/>
He glowers. "I didn't mean that," he says thickly. "You cocking up, coming out here to try getting Straussler--"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know you were here. And I already had a mask of him. Gordon sent me here, told me to cook up a break up between Jonathan and Monique."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck," Patterson says, and closes his eye. "Fucking Gordon. I hope they get him too."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you think they're gonna do to us?"<br/>
<br/>
"Disappear us. Throw us into some goddamned government warehouse and let the rats eat us." He breathes heavily. "Turn us into golems. I told them where the book is."<br/>
<br/>
It's too horrible not to be true.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But then your luck seems to change. The two of you are taken outside and bundled back into the BMW. You are driven to the airport and put onto a small private jet; after you are airborne, a lovely stewardess comes into your cabin and serves you a small but sumptuous meal of steak, lobster and French fries drizzled in some kind of cheese sauce. You feel well enough to eat, but Patterson remains green.<br/>
<br/>
Beds are pulled from the wall, and the two of you are tucked away for the night.<br/>
<br/>
Some hours later you are awoken and taken from the plane and put in a silver Bentley. It's mid-morning, by the feel of it, but the sky is overcast and the air cold. Not until you've been the road for thirty minutes do you notice everyone is driving on the left-hand side.<br/>
<br/>
After two hours of travel through countryside, you are deposited in front of one of those great big English manors like you've seen on TV. You and Patterson are both well enough to walk up broad stone steps, and are guided into a cozy parlor, where you are asked to wait. The two of you can only exchange wary glances.<br/>
<br/>
A clock on the mantle chimes two, and a door that's been hidden behind some paneling opens. A man in a dark three-piece suit steps out. He looks like he's in his sixties, with a narrow, well-lined face and white hair. His eyes twinkle warmly, and he greets you with quiet but formal courtesy. "Mr. Prescott. Mr. Patterson. So pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Hyde-White. I know this must feel like a kidnapping, and for that I must and do apologize, most whole-heartedly. But it is, in fact, a job interview. I should like to make you boys a most lucrative and exciting offer."</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121
author_id: seuzz
title: What Is Fane?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"We in England," Patterson demands. He probably thinks that Hyde-White, with his accent and manners, is a faggot and can be pushed around.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, why, yes, Mr. Patterson. Most perceptive of you," Hyde-White replies without evident irony. "Do sit down. Of course you are full of questions, and it is only right that I answer them before putting a few of my own to you."<br/>
<br/>
You do sit, and after a moment's hesitation Patterson does too. "So, who are you again, and what do you have to do with a fat Chinese asshole back in Saratoga Falls?" Patterson asks.<br/>
<br/>
The professor's expression tightens, but he smiles. "My name, again, is Jameson Hyde-White, and I am the Fane Professor of Biomedical Engineering at Cambridge University. You have heard of Cambridge, at least," he asks with slight weariness.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I heard of that place," Patterson says. "Now as for the Chinese--"<br/>
<br/>
"The gentleman to whom you allude," the professor says, "is actually Korean-American, not Chinese. I do not know him personally. He is an employee of an employee of a colleague of mine. I am told that he is extremely adept within a very narrowly circumscribed area of competence--"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?"<br/>
<br/>
The professor smiles again even as his eyes fall. "He's good at beating people up. Would you argue, Mr. Patterson?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, but if I'd been feeling fresh--"<br/>
<br/>
The professor's teeth shine like glaciers. "Quite. He is also, shall we say, a point of contact that we maintain with Mr. Curt Straussler, who is the majority owner of a company, one Proteus Technologies, with which we would very much like to establish an alliance."<br/>
<br/>
"He works for Jon Straussler's dad?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not <i>for,</i> Mr. Patterson." The professor's tone is becoming increasingly clenched. "Nor does he work <i>with</i> him. He works for us--"<br/>
<br/>
"Who's 'us'?" Patterson's tone is now openly belligerent, and you wonder how long the professor can maintain his demeanor. To your eye, he's already lost his temper.<br/>
<br/>
"Fane."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's 'Fane'?"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>What</i> is Fane, Mr. Patterson. Though <i>Why</i> is Fane would be a more perceptive line of inquiry."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so <i>why</i> is <i>Fane</i> sending fat Korean-American assholes to beat up <i>us?</i>" <br/>
<br/>
At any other time, you'd like that Patterson has included you in the scope of the pronoun. Now, you recoil.<br/>
<br/>
"What a question," the professor barks. "Why, because of <i>this.</i>" From a briefcase you'd not previously noticed at his side he draws out a bundle. Carefully he unwraps it.<br/>
<br/>
It's the book.<br/>
<br/>
"You know what <i>this</i> is, Mr. Patterson. And we all know what you and--" For almost the first time since the start of the interview, the professor glances at you. "And Mr. Prescott were doing with it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"Well then. The question answers itself, doesn't it?" The professor crosses his legs and smiles.<br/>
<br/>
"You'd assume so, huh?" Patterson says. "Well, you can make an ass of you, but don't make an ass of me. Pretend I don't get your fancy answer, and tell me."<br/>
<br/>
A red spot shows in the middle of the professor's forehead. He folds his slim hands across his knee. "Very well. You used the <i>Libra Personae</i>--that's this book here, Mr. Patterson," he interrupts, forestalling the other. "You used it to put yourselves in place of Mr. Straussler's son and his son's girlfriend." You hide your face as his gleaming eye again falls on you. "You <i>infiltrated</i> a very desirable position and made it your own. Mr. Straussler, however, caught you at it. When he did, he contacted Mr. Kim, with whom he's had conversations relating to a possible Fane partnership, on the--I am relieved to say--on the false assumption that <i>we</i> might have had some connection to it. We were able to set his mind at ease, and to give him answers, though, regrettably, at some personal discomfort to yourselves. However, Mr. Kim had the wit to understand that the items which you had used would be of interest to us--"<br/>
<br/>
"So <i>you</i> want the book and masks so you can do what <i>we</i> were doing."<br/>
<br/>
Hyde-White looks as though he's been slapped. "Why--! Why, yes!" His gasp of surprise is one at the utter and obvious <i>truth</i> of Patterson's accusation. "Dear me, but of course! This find is one of inestimable value! It is historic! Singular!" He lays reverent hands on the book's cover. "It is a priceless trove of-- Its value lies not only in what it can make, but what it can <i>teach!</i>" He begins to stroke it, tenderly. "The devices are of course useful in themselves, but also in what they can teach us, from their construction. It is as though a piece of advanced alien technology had fallen intact from the skies, for us to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah yeah, you can stop jerking off to it now. And now that you've got it from us, what are you gonna do to Will and me?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shoot us in the head and dump us in a ditch,</i> you think bitterly to yourself, <i>after the way you've lipped off to him.</i><br/>
<br/>
Instead, he quietly says, "I'm going to offer you a position in our organization."<br/>
<br/>
Even Patterson seems taken aback, and lets the professor continue without challenge.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course. That was another of Mr. Kim's strokes of wit. In interrogating you he came to appreciate the, ah, skill and initiative and ingenuity that the two of you showed in executing your astonishing <i>coup de main</i>. You acted boldly and decisively, and would have succeeded utterly if not for a mistake you unfortunately lacked the resources to rectify."<br/>
<br/>
Patterson glares, then blinks as the professor turns his full attention on you.<br/>
<br/>
"Especially you, Mr. Prescott. We are all of us in--" He raises his hands. "We are in <i>awe</i> of <i>your</i> accomplishments!"<br/>
<br/>
"Me?" You wish it hadn't come out as a squeak.<br/>
<br/>
"Why, yes. Did you not succeed in replacing and impersonating two members of the <i>Stellae Errantes?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Who?" Patterson demands roughly.<br/>
<br/>
"The <i>Stellae Errantes.</i>" The professor pulls a sheet of paper from his briefcase and slides on some half-rim spectacles. "I believe they were operating under the aliases of 'Frank and Joe Durras'."<br/>
<br/>
"Them?" Patterson says. "What's so special about--"<br/>
<br/>
"I am quite through talking to you for the moment," Hyde-White says sharply. "Your question answers mine, that it was Mr. Prescott who was responsible for that masterstroke." He smiles brightly at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yeah," you say. "I got lucky and managed to stick them under some--"<br/>
<br/>
"And <i>used</i> them most capably, it appears, in furtherance of your own ends." He beams at you. "As for it only being a matter of luck, that was the question the great Bonaparte always put when it was his task to promote a man. 'Has he luck'? We at Fane, no less than Napoleon, believe in luck. We prize it. We seek it. We reward it. We want you <i>with us,</i> Mr. Prescott." He extends his hand.<br/>
<br/>
You stare at it. When thrust in your face, his fingers seem bony and fleshless. There are hollows about his eyes. The skin is pulled tight across his wide forehead, and his lips shrivel against his gleaming teeth.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't seem offended by the way you don't take his proffered hand, but his expression falters a little as he withdraws it.<br/>
<br/>
"And what about me?" Patterson demands. You look quickly at him, for there seemed a whine in his voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yes, you, Mr. Patterson." The professor glances only briefly at him before looking back down at his notes. "It's all here. 'Organizational proficiency, managerial skill'," he mutters in a quick breath. "Yes, I think we can find you a junior position someplace, after an extended course in management training." He returns eagerly to you.<br/>
<br/>
You do feel like you have to ask <i>something.</i> "Excuse me," you say meekly. "But I didn't catch what you said about 'Fane' and what it is."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, didn't I clarify? Forgive me." He sits forward, bending the intense gaze upon you. "It is rather a complicated subject, for it is rather a complicated object, or set of objects. It is an interlocking group of cooperative enterprises, some of a public nature, some of a private; some corporate and economic, others charitable or educational. We call it, collectively, 'Fane', for they all share the same general purpose, interest and intent--" A shadow of amusement briefly passes over his face. "But you will find a wide variety of enterprises that share the Fane name, though little else. At least, nothing apparent to the cursory, curious eye."<br/>
<br/>
That really doesn't tell you anything. You caught the word "corporate," though, and Hyde-White threw the word "management" at Patterson, so you figure there's a big Wall Street company involved. Or whatever the English equivalent of "Wall Street" would be. "What kind of job would I have?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"That," he says, folding his hands, "would not be apparent to us yet. I said we valued you for the skill and luck you showed in dealing with the sinister <i>Stellae.</i> But skill and luck, in their general manifestation, can be applied specifically in many disparate areas." <br/>
<br/>
You just blink.<br/>
<br/>
"I think we would put you," Hyde-White continues , "in a variety of positions, and saw where you flourished."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know how to do anything," you whine at the professor. "I'm just a kid."<br/>
<br/>
"You are a prodigy," he says. "That is enough. Leave the matter of your training to us. We will be quite patient, I assure you. Nor will it be especially difficult, I think."<br/>
<br/>
"How come?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why, Mr. Prescott, if there is one thing you have already shown a decided talent for, it is at doing <i>other</i> people's jobs. Because you seem to have a talent for <i>being</i> other people."<br/>
<br/>
You blink again as he lifts the book. "We would just use <i>this</i> to turn you into other people, and you could learn to do their jobs yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"So. Will you accept?"</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221211
author_id: seuzz
title: Fane Fellows
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You stare back at Professor Jameson Hyde-White, and he stares back expectantly at you. You look over at Patterson. He's also staring at you, his eyes fixed and hard and piercing. You can feel his will pressing upon you: <i>Say yes, you fucking moron!</i> Or maybe it's <i>Say no, you pansy moron, I wanna shake you off hard.</i><br/>
<br/>
You are entirely bowled over by this offer. You're just a high school senior--barely--and you've never even had a real job. You'd even resisted your father's efforts to get you to take a job at--<br/>
<br/>
Your father. Your family.<br/>
<br/>
"What do we tell my parents," you blurt out. "How do we explain--?"<br/>
<br/>
The professor looks mirthful, and you know what he's going to say even before he says it. "Is there any need to ask them," he says. "From the report Mr. Kim gave us, it appears that they do not even know you are missing. You haven't been home in quite while, have you not?"<br/>
<br/>
There's a double of you in Saratoga Falls. They could just leave it there to live your life for you. The life that you will never have.<br/>
<br/>
Because you would have a new life. Your pick of new lives. <i>You seem to have a talent for being other people,</i> the professor had said.<br/>
<br/>
You find yourself staring at the book in his lap. He notices, and extends it to you. You take it.<br/>
<br/>
It feels very heavy in your fingers. You've been pretending to be lots of other people. You could continue. They wouldn't be kids, surely. They'd be adults. Big, stupid, lumpy adults. You wince a little. If you're going to play other people, you'd much rather play people your own age. Or a little older. Guys who had more experience with--<br/>
<br/>
You shiver a little.<br/>
<br/>
But what's wrong with being adults? <i>You'd be doing other people's jobs.</i> That's something else the professor had said. <i>Learning to do what they can do.</i> It would be so easy to learn things--knowledge and skills--that way. School is such a dreadful thing, so boring, so tedious. How much nicer it would be to just lift what you want or need to know off of other people, make it your own instantly without effort.<br/>
<br/>
Make yourself an adult almost overnight. Why didn't you see it before?<br/>
<br/>
"If you don't wish to accept the position, Mr. Prescott," the professor says softly, "have no fears that we will hold it against you. No one has missed you at home, and it would be quite easy for us to return you there. It <i>is</i> quite a momentous step we are asking you to take, and you have my sympathy as you--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll do it," you say, still staring at the book. "I'll take the job. The jobs. Whatever they are." You look back up at him.<br/>
<br/>
The professor's eyes are clear but piercing. "Are you quite sure," he says. "Do not let me bully you. I fear we were over-hasty in bringing you out, and I don't want you making a decision based on a faulty impression of our methods. You will not regret it if you give us a negative answer."<br/>
<br/>
The fact of this caution, and the gentleness with which he offers it, banishes even those fears that had remained. "No, I'm sure," you say. "I liked being other people. I wouldn't miss what I'd be giving up." That's not true; you twinge at the thought of never seeing your family again. "I didn't have anything that I'd miss."<br/>
<br/>
"I am sure you are being too harsh on yourself," the professor says. "But I accept your decision, and rejoice in it." He takes the book back from you. "There is not much else to say, not immediately. You will want to accustom yourself to your decision, and to do so in private." He rings a bell. "Tomlinson will show you upstairs to a bedroom. Take what rest you need."<br/>
<br/>
"And me?" Patterson asks in a troubled voice as the door opens. A trim man with thinning hair enters.<br/>
<br/>
"I hadn't forgotten you, Mr. Patterson," the professor says, and gives the butler some short orders. "I said we could find you a junior position," you hear him say as you exit. "You are Fane material if ever we saw it."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Professor Hyde-White's words to Patterson echo unpleasantly in your head as you mount the steps and enter a small but sumptuously furnished bedroom. It contains a vanity table and chest of drawers and a queen-sized bed under a magnificent canopy.  You gaze thoughtfully out a window onto a broad lawn. <i>Patterson is an asshole. If that makes him "Fane material"--</i><br/>
<br/>
You sigh. <i>Oh, but Patterson's a go-getter, that's for sure. Corporate types love ambition.</i> And it sounds like you won't be working anywhere close to him.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What have they got in England,</i> you find yourself wondering. A queen. Butlers. Actors with classy manners. Bad teeth? That seems part of the stereotype you carry around in your head. Probably it's just the same kind of people you get everywhere, that you get back in the States, just with a funny accent. Your lips twitch into a smile. What would it be like to have an accent like the professor's? "'Ello, guv'nuh," you grunt softly to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
You wheel at the sound of a latch turning. Patterson is peering into your bedroom from behind a second door, probably from another bedroom. "Oh, it's only you," he says, and starts to close it again.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey," you call, and he pauses to glare back at you. "What did the professor say to <i>you?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Not your business," he sneers. Then he shrugs. "Just talk about putting me into some kind of training program. <i>You're</i> the fair-haired boy, aren't you?"<br/>
<br/>
Your chest heaves as the words unwillingly tumble forth. "I could tell him I'd like to work with you, put you and me together like we were--" You try to stop, but the rest of the sentence insists on coming out. "Like we were before."<br/>
<br/>
You hate yourself for saying it. Even without trying to, Patterson is still bullying you. <i>No, it's worse. You're letting the phantom-Patterson you've got in your head bully you.</i><br/>
<br/>
He glowers. "Like I wanna hang out more with <i>you.</i> You fucked up, Prescott, you fucked up so bad, and it's a fucking miracle we're not dead."<br/>
<br/>
Self-reproach flares into anger. "Yeah, well, apparently I'm not such a fuck up that they don't think I got talent," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Wait till they see you in action," he sneers back. "And I wouldn't touch that book again if--" His lips twist, as though he's biting on something sour. He forces himself to smile. "At least I don't have a loser life I'm happy to get away from. Yeah," he drawls. "This is just a lateral move for me, a faster way of getting where I was gonna get anyway." He slams the door.<br/>
<br/>
You glare at it. <i>Sour grapes,</i> you think to yourself. You know what he wants.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Half an hour later you and Patterson are summoned downstairs, where you eat a small but satisfying meal of roast beef and vegetables with only each other for company. Neither of you talks. "What's there to do around here," Patterson demands of Tomlinson.<br/>
<br/>
"There is a library," he replies. "And during the daytime there are the grounds." It is quite dark now. "The professor says that you have the freedom of the house."<br/>
<br/>
"Library," Patterson snorts. "Bet there isn't even a TV." You let him wander off alone, and don't leave the dining room until you hear his feet on the staircase.<br/>
<br/>
You do go in search of the library, but it is stocked only with very heavy reading: histories and medical and scientific books and literature of a kind that makes your eyes instantly glaze over to see the page. You're restless but tired from the day's events, and go to bed early.<br/>
<br/>
That night you dream of Frank and Joe. You are in a house, and you sense that they are in the house too; you keep trying to dodge them, but they seem to close in remorselessly on you. Finally, they swim into view, to stare at you with dead, reproachful eyes.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Have no worries about the <i>Stellae,</i>" the professor tells you the next morning. He had summoned you--alone--down early for a chat in that same parlor. Your dream had reminded you of them, and you'd fearfully asked the professor about them. "We have those two in our custody, and they will not be going anywhere."<br/>
<br/>
"But the others, won't they come looking for them?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"No doubt. But how will they trace them?" The professor had smiled. "There is no trail."<br/>
<br/>
And then another thought had struck you: "But you said you'd left my golem, the fake me, behind in Saratoga Falls. I think Joe was wearing my mask."<br/>
<br/>
The professor pulls those notes out again and studies them through those half-rim spectacles. "Ah yes, so he was. But Mr. Kim took care of that. He was able to transfer your face to another location. I can contact him to confirm, if it will set your mind at ease." <br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to bother you or him--"<br/>
<br/>
"It is no trouble I assure you," the professor crisply replies, and scribbles down a brief note. "Now let us discuss what we shall do with you. I will be frank with you, Mr. Prescott." You shiver a little at the echo on "be Frank." "We would like to take it rather slow with you, at first. I see no reason you cannot continue to, ah, do as you had been doing, back in your home town, with Mr. Patterson. Inhabiting the life of another. It would be a familiar thing, and there would be no real pressure upon you. It would allow us to gauge your abilities under observation."<br/>
<br/>
<i>To find out you're a fuck up.</i> You try to curse Patterson from your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, where can we put you?" The professor leans back and steeples his fingers. "We might find you a spot at Oxford, inside the body of a student. There is a rowing team I might like you to infiltrate. Big, lusty lads. Alternately--" He tugs his ear. "We could send you back to America, to work with Mr. Kim."</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212112
author_id: seuzz
title: A Return to Not Quite Square One
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"You'd send me back to Saratoga Falls?" you gasp. "Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's familiar ground," the professor says. "Of course, with the use of the masks, <i>any</i> ground would be familiar. But Saratoga Falls would be doubly so."<br/>
<br/>
You just stare at him. You just got to England, and he's offering to send you back?<br/>
<br/>
So he continues. "I will confess that this is not our usual procedure, which is to, ah, throw our candidates into the deep end of the pool, as the expression has it, and see which ones can swim. You do not impress as being delicate, but we are inclined to treat you carefully. You are quite valuable. And," he adds, "you and Mr. Patterson left a copious number of disguises you could step into without much trouble."<br/>
<br/>
You've not much desire to return to Saratoga Falls--you've not been away long enough to feel even a shadow of homesickness--but you know what would be waiting for you. The kinds of people that would be waiting for you. That Cambridge thing, on the other hand, is an unknown. "Who would I become, of the people we left behind?"<br/>
<br/>
"So you'd prefer that option?" He nods. "It would largely be up to you. You would work with Mr. Kim, and he might have ideas of his own. He would be your supervisor," he adds.<br/>
<br/>
That almost decides you to change your mind, but you hold your tongue. "When would I go back?"<br/>
<br/>
"Today, if you like. Tomlinson mentioned that you seemed restless."<br/>
<br/>
And so it is decided. They had already given you a change of clothes--some stylish slacks and shirt and a blazer--and you've nothing to pack. You don't see Patterson, to your relief, before you leave the house, taking that same Bentley back out to an airport, where you board a private jet that has an unfamiliar corporate logo emblazoned on the tail.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The return flight is much less fraught than the flight to England, of course. It is very long, and you spend most of it doodling on a notepad, recalling the various masks that you had. You assume that Eric Kim has them all.<br/>
<br/>
You start with the masks that you had made for your conspirators at Eastman: <i>Ian Carpenter. Maddy Caron. Dana Pak. Carrie Carmichael. David Johnson.</i> You've no news of what has happened to Keith and Carrie and Sarah and Joanna and Lynch. It's possible that Eric just left them in place, and they've been wondering what happened to you and Patterson. What will you tell them?<br/>
<br/>
You tap the pencil, and add <i>Keith Tilley, Carrie Carmichael, Joanna Johnson, Sarah Pak, Jason Lynch</i> to the list. You tell yourself that you're not seriously thinking about replacing one of them with yourself. But if Eric has recovered all of Patterson's supplies--as the professor indicated--then they are possibilities, and that's what this list is for. <br/>
<br/>
There are also the masks that you had the Eastman team make. <i>Kyle Lakewood and Jenny Taylor. Sarah White and Monique Travers.</i> The latter gives you pause, for that would put you athwart the Strausslers, and so should probably be off-limits. Still, you put her name down, along with <i>Jonathan Straussler,</i> for you have a mask of him too.<br/>
<br/>
You had also distributed masks to some of them before you got hijacked by Fane. You have to struggle to remember who has any, and how many, and you pepper the list with question marks. <i>Two with Joanna?? Two with Lynch?? Two with Sarah??</i> So there might be more masks waiting for you to consider.<br/>
<br/>
That takes care of Eastman. Westside is more of a mystery to you. Patterson mentioned getting some masks after you'd left, but you don't remember of who. You do scribble down what you remember from when you were there, working with Caleb, and then trying to get onto Patterson's team: <i>Eva and Jessica Garner. Kendra Saunders. Seth Javits and Cindy Vredenburg.</i> More grimly, you add <i>Lisa Yarborough and Geoff Mansfield,</i> and put frowny faces next to them. You grimace hard as you write <i>Jeremy Richards.</i><br/>
<br/>
You almost cross them all off as you reflect that Gordon Black is still at Westside, and is going to be seriously pissed at you for failing to deliver Jonathan's life to him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Despite the amount of time and thought you put into the list, it fills only a negligible fraction of the flight, and you spend most of it flipping through magazines. They are mostly trade journals. You perk up a little to see the name "Fane" attached to some of the companies profiled or discussed, but none of it seems interesting or enlightening. It's not clear what business Fane is in, except that it seems to be in a lot of them.<br/>
<br/>
You doze a little.<br/>
<br/>
The light outside has turned very reddish orange when the plane begins its descent, and pierces cloud cover before it lands, so that it is quite dark when it taxis to a halt. You dismount, and turn at the call of your name. It's Eric Kim, looking very cheerful, much more like the guy you're used to seeing at the comic book shop. But you approach him warily, remembering your interrogation session. He, though, grins broadly and pumps your hand enthusiastically. "Fuck me, little bro, but this awesome," he gushes. "You're on the team!"<br/>
<br/>
"I wish I knew more about this 'team'," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I'm here for, to answer your questions. They give you anything to eat on that plane? Jesus, but I'm jealous. I hear they lay out a great spread on those things." They had fed you a lunch of roasted chicken and spinach salad and garlicky potatoes, and for a snack had brought you a thick and chewy Danish. But you just mumble something about peanuts and turbulence; you don't want to stoke any envy in Eric. He looks crestfallen. "Way to miss out," he says sympathetically. "Let's grab a bite and we'll talk."<br/>
<br/>
"Should I be seen in public?" You look around nervously, for you feel very exposed on the tarmac.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll get takeout," he says. "My treat, and I'll make it up to you for missing out on the plane." He beams. "Fuckin' Fane <i>tripled</i> my allowance!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He takes you back to his apartment, which is small and dumpy but neatly kept--"Spiffed up just for company!" he says--and gets one of the delivery services to bring over food from a steakhouse. He tucks into it with relish; you eat much more slowly.<br/>
<br/>
"Industrial espionage," he cheerfully confesses when you ask him what Fane has been paying him to do. "You know Fort Suffolk, right? Some of our rivals have a big, top-secret project over there. I keep my ear to the ground."<br/>
<br/>
"From the comic book shop?"<br/>
<br/>
"Perfect cover," he grins. "Maybe you haven't noticed the number of soldiers that come in there. I'm always chatting with them, looking for scraps."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't take any of them into that back room of yours, do you?" you ask before you can stop yourself.<br/>
<br/>
He guffaws, then looks a little uncomfortable. "Uh, yeah," he says. "Look, I'm sorry about all that. It's my job. It wasn't anything personal. I like my customers. You weren't one of my best, but I don't hold it against you. And if I knew at the time what you'd done and how well you'd done it, I'da been a lot gentler."<br/>
<br/>
He seems very cheerful and friendly, so you do your best to forget the memory of the searing pains he sent rippling through your body. "They tell me you're my supervisor. I'm supposed to get under a mask again--" Eric nods his head enthusiastically. "Are you going to be getting under one too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not allowed to," he says, and a trace of disappointment crosses his face. "Explicit orders to me to stay out of them. I guess I coulda pretended they didn't tell me that, but I'm a good soldier." He winces a little as he holds your eye. "Best to be a good soldier where Fane is concerned," he says. It seems a polite but very pointed warning.<br/>
<br/>
"So what did you do to clean up behind me and Patterson?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, really," he says. "I cleaned out that loft at Westside and that place you were staying, got a lot of shit in my closet."<br/>
<br/>
"What about Frank and Joe?"<br/>
<br/>
"Packed 'em off to England this morning. Yeah, I picked up the blonde one while I was at their place. Uh, are you sure he's magical? He seemed kind of stupid."<br/>
<br/>
"It's just an act. What did you do with the real blonde guy? He was under a mask of me."<br/>
<br/>
"Swapped 'em around. One of Curt's bodyguards volunteered to be you, so to speak." He guffaws. "Another bodyguard volunteered to be your friend. I put the real blonde kid under a mask of 'Frank Durras'. That's his brother? Yeah, so they got hid under masks of each other, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
That forecloses one way of getting back into Eastman. "So if I went back to Westside, could you help me set it up?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. School kids are always showing up at my place. You wanna replace Christian or one of them? A lot of the masks I picked up looked like blanks. They didn't have any names in them. Or I could get you into Eastman the same basic way."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, what am I supposed to do once I'm in? That would help me decide."<br/>
<br/>
"Do whatever you want," he says, biting down hard on a breadstick. "Fane says they'll contact us later with specific orders. Until then, you can hang loose and have fun." A sly smile slides up his face, and he winks.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Mess That Patterson Left Behind
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You mull these possibilities, but are drawn by the reminder that you're supposedly under orders. "You keep saying 'Fane this' and 'Fane that'. Who is the guy you're specifically taking orders from? Professor Hyde-White?"<br/>
<br/>
"Never heard of that dude," Eric says. "And I'll try to forget the name. Be kind of hard to," he mutters in an aside. "And, no offense, Will, but I'm not going to tell you my boss's name. Fane likes to keep things pretty compartmentalized. So let's leave it at 'Fane'."<br/>
<br/>
Since all this is new to you, and Fane--what you've seen of it--is kind of scary, you dutifully shrug. "Well, anyway, it's gonna be hard for me to go back Eastman. I was using Frank and Joe out there."<br/>
<br/>
"So you want me to put you at Westside? I can oblige. You wanna use one of the masks I got back in my closet? I don't recognize any of the names, though, don't know if they come into my shop. That'd be the best place to do a swap."<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, then shake your head. You'll have to make a new victim, because the people Patterson copied are likely to attract Gordon's attention, and you don't want that. Best to snoop and strike from a new place. "How soon can you get me a new body," you ask Eric.<br/>
<br/>
"Tomorrow after school, no problem," he says. "Some of the fellas are always showing up, and I can make a phone call if they don't."<br/>
<br/>
You accede, although, knowing the kind of people that frequent King Kong Komics, you're probably not going to be having the kind of fun that Eric was winking at you about.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric beds you on the sofa; you don't sleep comfortably, but are reasonably rested when you wake the next morning. He fixes breakfast, and you quickly agree on a plan: You'll drop him off at his work, then hang out at his apartment until he calls with news that a victim is available. Since his shop is only about a mile away, you'll be able to dash over there on short notice. You'll then fetch your own golem and bring it out so that your mask can go onto the guy you're replacing.<br/>
<br/>
That gives you the day free to mull over what to do at Westside. Tactical decisions will have to wait until you know whose face you'll be wearing, but strategy can be decided.<br/>
<br/>
There are only two people at Westside now who will know about the masks and using them: Gordon Black and Caleb Johansson, both of whom are now "seniors" are Patterson's old scheme. You can't imagine either of them having much to do with each other, though. You can barely imagine Caleb surviving inside Westside with only Black and Patterson for company.<br/>
<br/>
And <i>that</i> thought gives you a sudden chill. What if he hasn't? Gordon was threatening to turn Tilley into a golem, said he and Patterson had already decided to do it. What if they had already done that to Caleb?<br/>
<br/>
It suddenly seems very plausible that you and your friends were being played for suckers all along, that Black and Patterson intended to use you guys to grab lots and lots of faces for them before double-crossing you.<br/>
<br/>
As you'd intended to use Carrie and her friends to grab faces before double-crossing <i>them.</i><br/>
<br/>
Cocking things up at the Strausslers might have been the best thing that could have happened to you, you think with a shiver.<br/>
<br/>
So the first order of business, you decide, is to get in touch with Caleb, find out if he's still alive. If he's not, then you'll know where you stand with Black. If he is, you'll have to persuade him to help you take down Black, and quickly. Because if Black realizes that Patterson is gone, he'll certainly blame it on you and your friends.<br/>
<br/>
Shouldn't be too hard to get to Caleb, though, not given the kind of face you're likely to be inhabiting. No one will bat an eye when they see Christian or one of his friends with "Caleb Johansson." It will certainly be Caleb's own replacement, but it can direct you where to find him.<br/>
<br/>
Again, assuming he's still alive.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You also spend the day sorting through the material Eric got out of the Westside loft using the key he'd beaten out of Patterson. Besides the book--which is now in England--he was able to bring back almost a dozen blank masks and two tubs of sealant. Patterson had them neatly labeled: "Regular stuff" and "Slave stuff." The latter must be the stuff that puts a golem shell inside masks. It appears to be the generic stuff that hasn't had anyone's hair put into it, as there are also three baggies containing hair clippings, labeled "Patterson," "Black" and "Johansson." You throw these away, and burn a hank of your own hair into the "Slave stuff." Now any masks it gets put in will be <i>your</i> slaves.<br/>
<br/>
And whose masks are already available. It's an abundance of riches, though many of them bring bad memories. In alphabetical order: Gordon Black (but with a golem shell inside it), Eva Garner, Jessica Garner, Cassie Harper, Karl Hennepin, Anthony Kirk, Geoff Mansfield, Kendra Saunders, Emily Shaffer (who?), Maria Vasquez, Cindy Vredenburg, Lisa Yarborough.<br/>
<br/>
There will be more at Westside: Caleb will be under some other mask, with his own mask riding around on some poor asshole. There's also Jeremy Richards, a golem under his own mask. <br/>
<br/>
Which reminds you that there will be another golem somewhere, the first one you made. If you can get it in circulation, you could have an ally to help you. All the other golems will be under the control of your erstwhile friends.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric calls around two, which is well before school lets out. "You can come on over," he says. "I'll be having an early visitor. Braydon Delp. You know Braydon, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, you know him, and wince. But you'd wince no matter the name. <br/>
<br/>
"I texted him just after lunch," Eric continues, though you've said nothing. "Told him if he got here, like, before school even let out, I could slip him a special something before someone else got it. He just called, said he'd be over in fifteen minutes."<br/>
<br/>
<i>You weren't promising him your cock,</i> you almost say, but catch yourself in time. Eric's manner last night and this morning has got you pretty relaxed about joking around with him, but you shouldn't push him. "I'll be right over," is all you say, and forget to ask what he knows about the golems.<br/>
<br/>
You grab up a blank mask, the golem sealant, and dash over to the shop. Eric hides you in that steel-lined room in the back. You lean against a wall and resist the urge to pace.<br/>
<br/>
Your victim is a little late: twenty minutes pass before the handle on the door jiggles. Braydon Delp walks in, and stops cold at the sight of the room and of you. "Heya, Prescott," he says in a distracted way. "So where's the--" You slip up next to him as Eric grabs him from behind, and quickly cover his face with the mask. <br/>
<br/>
Eric shuts the door and lowers Delp to the floor. "So what did you do to him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Put one of those masks on him. They go down into you."<br/>
<br/>
"Yikes. What happens when its done?"<br/>
<br/>
"It comes back out. But right now we have to take his clothes off."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You slip the leather strap around your wrist and buckle it tight. That done, you regard your face in the mirror. Braydon Delp's face.<br/>
<br/>
It is thin and pale, like he's thin and pale, with small, light brown freckles. Dark hair sticks up in a kind of fauxhawk. The eyes are streaked with brown and hazel and a little green. Brows and lashes--<br/>
<br/>
From your pocket you pull out the mascara and touch up the lightly Goth look Braydon affects. You half-tuck your thin t-shirt into the dirty camo pants, whose cuffs are themselves half-tucked into work boots. The overall effect is slovenly, but you've actually spent a careful fifteen minutes getting it together, which is about how long Braydon spends on it each morning and afternoon. You pluck thoughtfully at the shirt.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The expression is wrong,</i> you think, <i>that's not Braydon.</i> You tug here and there at your clothes, trying to settle better into them and into your assumed mind. Maybe you shouldn't worry about it too much; once you get moving, it should begin to come naturally.<br/>
<br/>
Still, you need to be on his most natural behavior, after those paranoid stories Carson and James started--<br/>
<br/>
You stagger back half a step. <i>And Patterson thought </i>you<i> were a fuck up.</i><br/>
<br/>
There's a place down behind the Westside gym where you can eavesdrop through the pipes into the fuck room. Carson Ioeger and James Lamont make it one of their regular haunts, and have been overhearing all kinds of interesting talk up in the loft. They're half out of their wits with terror and mystification. They've only told a handful of people; luckily, Braydon was one.<br/>
<br/>
You need to get them straightened out, somehow. They've gotten antsy, and today were talking about going up to the university after class today to see a university professor who <i>might</i> be able to give them some clues about what's going on. You've no real worries about what they might learn--the <i>Libra</i> is safe in England now--but it would be best to keep close tabs on them. <br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, you do need to get your old mask onto the real Braydon, and get it onto him quickly. You also want to see Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes widen into pools of pain and worry.<br/>
<br/>
You catch the expression in the mirror. <i>There's the Braydon I'm used to seeing around.</i></span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221211211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Secret Agent
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You saunter back out into the shop, craning your neck this way and that. It's empty, except for Eric, up at the front counter. "Wicked," the latter grins at you. "You look just like him."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm supposed to," you say. "Can you keep Delp quiet? He's gonna be waking up real soon."<br/>
<br/>
"He might be awake now," Eric says. "Don't worry, the room's soundproofed."<br/>
<br/>
"Good, 'cos I got business I gotta take care of."<br/>
<br/>
"I bet." Eric's grin widens. "You were in the bathroom a long time. I was beginning to wonder if you were jerking off. Gillian's a hottie."<br/>
<br/>
You give him a dirty look. Braydon's girlfriend <i>is</i> going to be a distraction, and a welcome one once you've got time for her. She's got all that lovely baby fat to nibble and suck on, especially around her-- You squirm at the sudden erection. "Yeah, thanks," you mutter. "Is that the reason you picked Braydon for me?"<br/>
<br/>
"I thought it couldn't hurt." Eric rests his arms on the counter and leans forward. "Come on, man, tell me, those boobs she's got--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, they're nice, but if I'm gonna be in character I'm not gonna tell <i>you</i> about them." You don't mention that Braydon and his friends think Eric is kind of weird, suffering from a form of arrested development. You glance around, feeling the worry on your brow. "How long can you sit him? I figure we can hide him under that mask of me, but that'll take awhile to arrange." It'll be tricky, too, since Patterson had put the "Will Prescott" mask under his own control.<br/>
<br/>
"I can keep Delp sitting back there as long as we need him to."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, good. Got some other stuff to take care of first anyway." You tuck your hands into your pockets. "So I'll take off now. If Christian and them come in to continue our game, tell 'em I said I was here, said you could play for me."<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, you don't want me fucking up for you."<br/>
<br/>
"Actually, I do. It'll keep the game interesting, and Howie needs the grief. I'll call you later." You start to leave, then shoot him a quick glance over your shoulder. "Oh yeah, where's the book you promised me?" Eric blinks. "The <i>Book of the Law,</i> Eric," you say. "You said you got an advance copy, and I got a chubby for--"<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, dude." Eric laughs. "I lied. You think I could really score that?"<br/>
<br/>
You scowl. "You're such a cock tease." He laughs again at your back as you stomp angrily out the door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Harsh thrash metal blares from the car radio as you drive fast down the street, and you slap your hand in rhythm on the car seat. Gillian Kiefer isn't far from your thoughts, but you've other people to concentrate on. The most immediate are Carson Ioeger and James Lamont. After a few minutes, when you're sure they'll be out of class, you call them. "Yo, where are you guys?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do you care, Delp," Carson peevishly asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I decided I wanna go with you. You still wanna see that perfesser?" Carson's reply is inaudible. "Get Lamont's cock outta your mouth and speak up."<br/>
<br/>
"Turn your fucking stereo down," Ioeger hollers back. "I said we're thinking about it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you'll want me along. I can speaka the lingo."<br/>
<br/>
"He's a university professor, and this isn't D&amp;D. It's not something out of a monster manual."<br/>
<br/>
"Actually, it sounds like it is. I'm feeling intrigued."<br/>
<br/>
Carson says a lot of bad words. "You just want to tag along so you can laugh at us."<br/>
<br/>
"That's <i>one</i> reason I wanna go, but if it's on the level, I want in on it."<br/>
<br/>
"It <i>is</i> on the level. What me and James heard going on in the fuck room--"<br/>
<br/>
"And if it's on the level I want in on it," you repeat. "You'll want me along as translator."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't know anything about this stuff, I seriously hope."<br/>
<br/>
"Who else in the school could have a clue about it? Except Patterson and them." You snigger.<br/>
<br/>
Carson sighs deeply and gives you an address. "We'll be out there in twenty minutes."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a large stone villa on the outskirts of town, surrounded by a high wall, and set well away from any other habitation. You stare at it with a satirical expression. "Blackwell" you think is the name that Carson had mentioned yesterday in connection with the address. You drum your hands on the steering wheel as you wait for Ioeger and Lamont.<br/>
<br/>
They've known or suspected something for many days now. Delp only found out when he caught them at Eric's shop the other day, thumbing through some RPG tomes. He'd challenged them--both are geeky, but science-oriented geeks rather than serious RPG types--and they had gotten very pinched and unhappy. But bit by bit he'd drawn it out of them. People at Westside were acting weird. There were rumors of people being seen in two places at once. And then Carson and James, while eavesdropping on the fuck room, had heard lots of explicit talk about masks and "golems" and "replacing people."<br/>
<br/>
"Is this something <i>you're</i> doing," Carson had carefully asked Delp near the start of the interview. "Like, are you putting spells on people, and making up doubles of them?" Delp had gasped with laughter. "Because it seems like something you might do," Carson had said with obvious discomfort while James stared daggers at him. "And if it is--" He'd drawn close to Delp. "We'd like in on it," he'd whispered.<br/>
<br/>
Delp, obviously, had disclaimed any knowledge of what they were talking about, and listened with mounting amusement to their fragmentary and very confused account of their suspicions. He'd expressed a general interest in their speculations, but barked in disbelief that Caleb Johansson could be mixed up in it. "Johansson, fuck me." He'd rolled his eyes. "You guys are really full of shit if you think <i>he's</i> mixed up in something like that."<br/>
<br/>
They'd kept distant after that, totally avoiding Delp. But they had pulled him aside that very morning to ask if he knew anything about a "Professor Aubrey Blackwell" at Keyserling. "He's taught anthropology classes on magic before," Lamont had said. "My mom's met him at university functions, says he's really creepy." He and Ioeger were thinking about going to see him, to ask what he might know about legends of doppelgangers and magical disguises. Delp had rather wearily told them he didn't know anything about this professor. "Something screwy is going on with the fuck room crew," Carson had said. "Gordon was up there yelling at Johansson about a lot of missing shit, but it didn't sound like Johansson who was answering."<br/>
<br/>
"Then who was it?" Braydon had merrily asked.<br/>
<br/>
"We couldn't place the voice. But Gordon was calling him 'Johansson' and a lot of worse names. It's coming unglued for them."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Indeed it is,</i> you chortle softly to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's about ten minutes after you get to the villa that Carson and James pull up, and they eye you warily as you greet them. "I was starting to give up on you guys," you call. <br/>
<br/>
Still they hang back; Lamont in particular gives you the fish eye. "How'd you get out here so fast?" Carson asks suspiciously.<br/>
<br/>
"Skipped my last class. Got a call from the comic shop, telling me if I got my ass out there they had an advance copy of Moore's <i>Book of Laws</i> graphic novel they could sell me." You hug yourself and scratch your shoulder blades. "Yeah, I'm the guy you want out here with you. This is my kinda thing."<br/>
<br/>
Carson and James exchange a long glance before James gives an elaborate shrug. "Look, Braydon," Carson says. "If this is something you're doing, if you and Johansson are behind it--" You don't fight the smile that tugs at your lips. Carson pauses, then advances. "James and I aren't fighting you," he says quietly. "We told you, we're kind of interested in--"<br/>
<br/>
"In banging some of those girls like you said you heard them doing up there?" you laugh. <i>Yeah, Patterson and Black and Johansson had spoken openly in the fuck room about what they were doing and why they were doing it.</i> "Fuck me, I'd be into it, but I'm not. But why don't you talk to Johansson directly, since you're pretty fucking sure it's him?"<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know that," James says. "If <i>he's</i> a fake--" He bites his lip, and stares at you hard. "To be honest, Delp, we were pretty sure you might be a fake too, if you weren't the one doing it."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess I should be flattered," you reply, "if someone wanted to be <i>me.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"But nothing happened to <i>us</i> after we told you," Carson says. "So we figure either you're really you, or maybe--" He licks his lips. "Or maybe you were thinking of letting us in on it."<br/>
<br/>
You cock an eyebrow and glance back at the villa. You've no idea what might be inside. Probably just a fusty old professor in tweeds and elbow patches. <i>Oh, certainly that's all it is.</i><br/>
<br/>
But out in front, with you now, are James and Carson. You need to deal with Black immediately, and with Lynch pretty soon. You're not even sure you've got Caleb for an ally. These guys might be useful if you came semi-clean with them, revealing yourself to be Will Prescott without telling them about Fane.</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212112112
author_id: seuzz
title: A Meeting with the Professor
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Carson Ioeger says that he and James would be interested in getting in on the conspiracy, whatever it is. But a little nagging doubt tells you that they're not sincere, that they're only trying to keep themselves safe and maybe find a way of fighting back at it.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, if it were me doing it," you say with a wry smile, "you'd be the first guys I'd show it to."<br/>
<br/>
"Not Christian and them?" James asks sharply.<br/>
<br/>
You laugh. "Yeah, I can just see fuckin' Howie tryin' to get into it. Fuck, no, not even Christian. And Johansson? Pfft! Yeah, you guys'd be my first pick for sharing it with. Whatever <i>it</i> is, 'cos I'm just as clueless as you two dipshits. Come on, if we're not gonna talk to this professor, I got a girlfriend I had to ditch at school."<br/>
<br/>
You turn back to your car, and even open the door, before they gesture you to follow them over to the villa. You snort, and with hands insolently tucked in your pockets shamble after them.<br/>
<br/>
The three of you pass through the wrought iron gate and walk up a path toward the front door. The yard is entirely dead; there is only dirt in the empty flower beds, and the grass is stiff and brown. A lone yew tree droops at the corner of the house, next to a stone gardening shed.<br/>
<br/>
You fix your eye on the latter pair as you strut along behind James and Carson. <i>A yew tree,</i> you think. <i>Interesting. And if that "shed" isn't a private mausoleum, my name isn't "Braydon Delp."</i><br/>
<br/>
It isn't, but you know what you mean.<br/>
<br/>
The doorbell is nestled in the ravening mouth of a wolf's head. You slap Carson's hand away before he can ring it, and bang on the door instead. "If this guy knows anything about this stuff," you tell your friends, "don't touch anything. Keep your hands in your pockets, and don't take any gifts from him." You snicker softly as they exchange another discomfited glance. <br/>
<br/>
After a long minute, the door opens to reveal a very portly man in cheap slacks and dark pullover. He is mostly bald, with only an ill-kempt fringe of graying hair over his ears, and a ratty moustache-goatee combo around his fleshy lips. His eyes gleam with only a very dull interest in your trio. He says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"Professor Blackwell?" Carson stammers out. "My name is Carson Ioeger. Me my friends and I are students at Westside--"<br/>
<br/>
"My mom is Dr. Lamont, in the math department at Keyserling," James interrupts. Blackwell's gaze shifts to him without showing any more interest. "You might know her."<br/>
<br/>
"The name is vaguely familiar," the professor says. "But if you gentlemen are selling magazines or band candy--"<br/>
<br/>
"No sir," Carson says. "We saw in the university course catalog that you teach classes on myths and stuff, and, like witch trials and-- Stuff." He shifts uneasily from foot to foot. "We were wondering if you could tell us anything about, like--"<br/>
<br/>
Blackwell sighs deeply and wearily. <br/>
<br/>
You decide to cut it short, give him an excuse to slam the door in your faces. "We were wondering if you could tell us anything about doppelgangers and doubles and magic spells that make masks that let you disguise yourself as other people," you say. James wheels on you with a fierce frown.<br/>
<br/>
But Blackwell's reaction is the exact opposite of what you expected. His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open a little. A little gargle escapes his throat. Then he throws the door wide open. "Come in, gentlemen," he says. "I think I can oblige you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Professor Blackwell leads your trio down a hallway and past a wide staircase, into a spacious living room, to press you into a deep sofa. Well, he presses Carson and James into it; you perch on an armrest. He sits opposite, and fixes the three of you with a penetrating stare. "Why do you want to know about doppelgangers and masks," he asks in a rich, plummy voice.<br/>
<br/>
Carson grimaces. "Well, like I say, we go to Westside High School, and there's been some funny things going on there that--"<br/>
<br/>
This is going to take forever if you have to leave it to him. You're now burning with curiosity about the professor's own apparent curiosity, so you leap in. "There's these assholes at our school," you say. "Pardon me for using bad language, but that's what they are. These two guys--" You jerk your head at Carson and James. "They like to eavesdrop  on them, and they've overheard them talking about magic masks and disguises, and about using them to replace people at our school. So they're kind of jumpy and wanna know more about what might be going on." You shrug your shoulders and suck on your upper lip.<br/>
<br/>
"And you're not concerned, Mr.--?"<br/>
<br/>
"M'name's Braydon. I haven't noticed anything, but I'm kinda into this stuff, so Carson and James asked me about it. But they looked you up too, so here we are."<br/>
<br/>
The professor gives you a very long and appraising look, and rumbles a little in the back of his throat. "But you gentlemen are not involved in these shenanigans?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"No. It's just that these 'shenanigans' got James and Carson freaked out," you say.<br/>
<br/>
The professor leans back and spends a very long time staring at the three of you. "Well," he finally says, "there have long been legends and stories about doppelgangers. Many myths feature stories of shapeshifters, and of heroes--or protagonists, perhaps we should say--who change their appearance so as to--" He pauses. "So as to encompass certain purposes. Might this not be one of your school's literary clubs, or the drama department, discussing these stories?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, these guys are assholes," you say. "You know, jocks and stuff. Basketball players, right?" You glance at James and Carson for confirmation, but they remain still. "It's guys who can't read without moving their lips, and they ain't into fantasy roleplaying. No, they're talking about-- What were you saying," you ask Carson. "Getting copies of the cheerleaders and banging the fakes up in the fuck room?"<br/>
<br/>
"Replacing people, too," Carson says after a long pause. "Patterson was bragging about how he--" He suddenly seems embarrassed. "Something about going out as Laurent Delacroix to a party and, uh, getting with--" He breaks off and turns very red.<br/>
<br/>
"And what sort of devices they were using to encompass these impersonations?" Blackwell asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Masks, wasn't it, guys?" you ask Carson.<br/>
<br/>
"Have you seen any of these masks?" the professor asks.<br/>
<br/>
"No," Carson mumbles.<br/>
<br/>
"So it is possible that you are simply misinterpreting these conversations you have overheard, misinterpreting loose talk by these--" Blackwell smiles wryly. "These assholes, as they fantasize about banging a hot piece of ass?" He drops scalding acid on each of the rough words and phrases.<br/>
<br/>
"It didn't sound like fantasizing," Carson protests. "It sounds like they were bragging about what they were doing. And Gordon Black said something like 'Throw me that mask of Javits if you're not using it, Chelsea's been frigid lately and I need me some Cindy Vredenburg--'"<br/>
<br/>
"Vredenburg," Blackwell says sharply.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, Cindy Vredenburg. She's one of the cheerleaders--"<br/>
<br/>
"You know the name?" you ask Blackwell.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes are very sharp as they go to you. "One of my students is named Vredenburg," he says. "Lucy Vredenburg."<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be her sister," you say. "Holy shit, what a small fucking world."<br/>
<br/>
"Quite," says the professor. "I must confess it gives me quite a turn to think-- I have a soft spot for my students. You say this is happening at Westside?"<br/>
<br/>
Silence enfolds the room. From a distant room you can hear a faint but discordant ticking.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, as I told you gentlemen," Blackwell finally says, "there are many stories that feature such motifs. They are, of course, only stories. Your school friends, despite your low opinion of their literacy, must have recently stumbled across some. Perhaps the story of Siguror and how he disguised himself as Gunnar to seduce the fair Brynhildr." He smiles. "My advice would be to take this incident as a cautionary lesson about the evils of eavesdropping." He stands, and gestures you to rise too.<br/>
<br/>
He leads the three of you out again, but you pause in the hallway. Opposite the staircase is a wide opening through which you can glimpse a large library. It's from here that the ticking comes, and your scalp prickles. Blackwell notices you dallying, and coughs. You turn a bright eye on him. "You got any Crowley in there?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I engage in serious scholarship, Mr.-- Not in the gibbering psychoses of drug addicts."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I'll take a class from you next year," you say as you saunter past. "I'm graduating this year, and like I say, I'm kind of into this stuff."<br/>
<br/>
You only mean it as a gibe, but he catches your arm as you pass. "Do not be too--" he starts to hiss, then catches himself, and turns his scowl into a smile. "If you would like to discuss my course offerings, Mr.--"<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
"Mr. Braydon." You don't correct his error. "Feel free to stop by my university office."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Fucking waste of time," you sneer when you're back out at the cars. "You guys happy now? Like he said, it's all just--"<br/>
<br/>
"He knows something," James says firmly. "He just doesn't want to say it."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, he's got Patterson bringing him fake pussy up here every night," you jeer. "Well, you guys can stew about it," you sigh when they just glare at you. "I got some real pussy waiting for me back in town."<br/>
<br/>
You turn up the music loud as you drive off, but your mind isn't on it. Lamont is right; the professor knows <i>something.</i> So in addition to Westside and Eastman, you've now got the university to worry about.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121121121
author_id: seuzz
title: The Eclipse of Braydon Delp
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Despite what you'd told James and Carson about "real pussy," you decide to ditch Gillian for the time being: you still need to take care of the real Braydon Delp. So you drive out to the house of Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
Your mom is polite when you knock, and calls your replacement down while you wait in the kitchen. Prescott frowns when he sees you, but jerks his head in greeting. "'S'up, Braydon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing yet," you say. "Come with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
You fight down a grimace: Patterson had golemized your mask so it was under his control. "I'm getting together with Gillian, gonna hang out with her and one of her girl friends. I thought maybe you'd like to, uh--" You break off, for your mom is nearby, working while trying not to obviously eavesdrop.<br/>
<br/>
Prescott also shoots her a shifty look, then nods. "Yeah, okay." You congratulate yourself on knowing which of "his" buttons to push.<br/>
<br/>
"So who's this girl friend," he asks when you're in the car.<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't decided yet," you say. "You got a preference?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know who she hangs out with," he confesses.<br/>
<br/>
"Then we'll decide later. Gillian'll give you a list." Prescott reddens, and shifts in his seat. <i>God, he's a drip,</i> you think, and feel a little twinge at the thought.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's very little talk, until you pull up at Eric's shop. "Why are we coming here?" your double bluntly asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Gotta pick something up," you say. "Come on in, I might be a bit. Eric gets lonely. You can check out the latest Wonder Woman, or whatever." He grumbles, but follows you in.<br/>
<br/>
"Delp! Save us!" Christian's ardent cry rips through the air. You look into the sandwich shop that Eric runs in the next annex. Knouse, Howie Baylor, Hugh Flake, and Darrell Parson gaze back at you from the table where they have their shit spread. Christian jabs a finger at Eric, who is sitting with them. "Eric is totally fucking things up!"<br/>
<br/>
The shop owner laughs. "Hey, it's your own fault for playing an orc!"<br/>
<br/>
"It's Howie's fault for not letting you take it back," Hugh retorts.<br/>
<br/>
"House rule, no take backs," Howie says. "He said he was attacking the orc. Who am I to argue?"<br/>
<br/>
"He meant he wanted to attack the <i>bad guys</i>," Hugh says.<br/>
<br/>
"And there's no orcs in the room except for me!" Christian yells. "There's no reason for him to attack me!"<br/>
<br/>
"I got lots of reasons to smack you around," Eric chortles.<br/>
<br/>
"I mean that <i>Delp's character</i> had no reason to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe he got pissed at you," Howie points out.<br/>
<br/>
"Pugley's always lipping off to Tiny," you shrug. "I probably woulda done it anyway. How much damage did he do you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Almost a critical, Howie says Pugley won't be able to walk for a week!"<br/>
<br/>
"Nice! Let it stand. Hey Eric, come out here and tell me how it happened."<br/>
<br/>
Christian glares at Eric's back as the latter waddles past. "So we walk into this dungeon," Eric says, "and Howie says there's these--"<br/>
<br/>
You tug Prescott deeper into the shop, which is empty, and Eric follows. "Can we finish things up now?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
Eric glances between you and Prescott. "Yeah, sure. Sit tight, guys!" he calls back into the sandwich shop. "I'll be back in a minute."<br/>
<br/>
"Make it an hour," Christian shouts back. "You're a hazard to me, small children, and other innocent things!"<br/>
<br/>
Eric leads you to the door to that room. "You know you're going to have to go in there too," he says quietly. "I don't know what to do." You shrug. "And what's he gonna say when he sees you?" <br/>
<br/>
"That's gonna be most of the fun, isn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, dude." Eric shakes his head. "I'm gonna wish I had it on tape. Gimme a few seconds to get my arms around him and over his mouth." <br/>
<br/>
He opens the door and goes in. You grip Prescott by the shoulder and mutter in his ear. "Keep quiet, this is all part of Patterson's plan. Get it?" He stares blankly at you, then blinks and nods. "Good golem." You shove him into the room. Then you square your shoulders and walk in.<br/>
<br/>
You have to peer around Prescott, but there's Eric, and he's got the naked Braydon Delp in a bear hug, with a hand over his mouth. Delp looks like he's trying to fold himself in half. Eric must be using some of his special touch to inflict a little disabling pain. Braydon twists, and his eyes fall on you as you close the door behind you. They go very wide.<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon Delp, meet Braydon Delp," Eric mutters in his ear.<br/>
<br/>
Your lips curl into a light smirk, and you look him up and down. "So that's what I look like under these clothes," you say. "Wish I was more impressed."<br/>
<br/>
Eric drops his hand from Braydon's mouth, for with the door closed no sound can escape. Delp squirms, his eyes pools of terror. "What--?" He gulps. "What is this?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's doppelgangers," you say. "Didn't Howie tell you they'd be popping up in the campaign?" Delp's mouth falls open, a gaping wound of horror. "Oh, I guess it had to be a secret," you continue. "It would ruin things if Christian and the others knew what was coming for them."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon twists hard, and hunches in a spasm as Eric shifts his grip. "What are you going to do?" he gasps.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Gillian, for a start. Remember Saturday? The taste of her nipples? Because I do. Mmm." You run your tongue over the front of your teeth.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon shrieks.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, this is just getting cruel," Eric says. "Shouldn't you be--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I think he got the idea. Prescott, hold still. I think you know what's coming next." The golem goes obediently rigid, though his shoulders slump. You put your hand to his face, mutter the secret words, and pull. The mask comes off, and a very big man materializes in his place before tumbling to the floor. Braydon twists harder. "Calm down, man," you tell him. "This isn't gonna hurt, and you'll be fine on the other side." He jerks his head away, and you have to seize him by the hair before you can guide the mask onto his face.<br/>
<br/>
And then it's Will Prescott in Eric's grasp. "Ow! Shit!" he yells, and bends double after Eric releases him. "The fuck is going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what's going on. You were just over there." You point to the unconscious man on the floor.<br/>
<br/>
"That's not what I meant. <br/>
<br/>
"Just calm down, so Eric can let you go," you say. Prescott makes a face, but relaxes. Eric tentatively loosens his grip, then stands back as Prescott just slouches insolently. "I don't got time to show you," you say, "but it's <i>me</i> under Herp-a-derp Delp's face. I mean it's <i>you.</i> I mean, I'm the real Will Prescott." The golem arches its eyebrows dubiously. "Look, you can ask me anything, and I'll answer. But I don't have time--"<br/>
<br/>
"What was that really awesome thing that happened to me up at that summer camp last year?" he demands.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God," you groan. "I didn't mean for us to play twenty questions, not in front of Eric." Prescott frowns deeply. "Fine. We called it a blow job, but we know better now."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, dude," Eric gasps. "TMI."<br/>
<br/>
"Not my choice! You happy now?" you ask the golem.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, okay,"  he says, but sounds only half-convinced. "And so what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Patterson's gone, which means there's no one you have to answer to anymore." You put your hand on his shoulder. "Except me. And you like me, right? I like you."<br/>
<br/>
"If you say so," he mutters dubiously.<br/>
<br/>
"I do. I'm taking Westside back over, I'll make things good for you. So keep your mouth closed and help me out. Okay?"<br/>
<br/>
He sucks on his teeth, then nods. "Where are you going to be?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Playing Braydon Delp, until I tell you otherwise. You'll change clothes once this guy wakes up--" You point at the unconscious man, whose muscles are bulging out of your old clothes. "Then we'll talk on the way back to your place."<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't we going to find Gillian?" he plaintively asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I got other things to do. Eric, when you were up in the Westside loft, did you notice a big mannequin looking thing, like a mud pile yea high?" You raise your hand over your head.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it was over in the corner. I didn't think anything of it though, figured it was gymnastic equipment or some old art project."<br/>
<br/>
"No, it comes with the book, and we need it." You squint thoughtfully. "At least, we need it outta the loft."<br/>
<br/>
"I suppose I could go back over with you tonight, help you lift it. But I think it's gonna be too big for my car."<br/>
<br/>
"We can make it mobile. It's called a golem. You put a mask on it, and it turns into a double of the person in the mask."<br/>
<br/>
"It what?" Eric's mouth falls open. "That is freaking <i>awesome!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. After we get it, you can put one of those girls' masks on it, use it to warm your bed," you say.<br/>
<br/>
Eric chokes a little, and digs into his pockets. "So you can get a mask from my place," he says hoarsely as he thrusts his keys at you.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221211211211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Girl in Braydon's Life
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Eric has been staring at you expectantly all this time. "Sorry, man," you finally say. "But I think we need to use that golem thing elsewhere. You said that you put one of Straussler's goons under that mask of Patterson?" Eric nods. "Then we should move that mask onto the golem so he can go free." Eric looks deeply disappointed, so you back off a little. "But you're my boss," you point out. "I guess you could order me to--"<br/>
<br/>
He shakes his head. "No, you know this stuff better than me. But, uh, is there anything going on that you're not telling me? You ran out of here on 'business' earlier, and took your sweet time getting back." He jerks his thumb at Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
"Just stuff at school that needs dealing with," you admit. "Some of the students have been seeing things, putting two and two together, and speculating that there's doppelgangers on the loose."<br/>
<br/>
Eric looks alarmed. "If this is something we need to--"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think so. Just a couple of guys with sharp eyes and overactive imaginations. They said something about it to Braydon, 'cos he's all into the black magic shit."<br/>
<br/>
You briefly wonder what would have happened if Braydon had been the one to find that book in Arnholm's Bookstore. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm trying to tamp it down," you continue after you stop shivering. "I'm pretty sure it's under control. But back to the golem." You snap your fingers at Prescott. "You still got that key to the loft? Mind giving it up?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's not like I can use it," he bluntly replies, and fishes it out for you.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll stop by later, get a mask from you at your apartment," you tell Eric.<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you going now?"<br/>
<br/>
"To see Gillian. I've been a little out of character by not running after her."<br/>
<br/>
Eric groans. "And you're not gonna give <i>me</i> a nice piece of ass to play with."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"There's my hubby!" Gillian calls out as you saunter into Besandwitched, the occult-themed sandwich shop close to the university. <i>Pentagrams on Rye,</i> Christian caustically calls it, and always tries ordering the "Deviled Goatburger" when he goes in, despite there being no such thing on the menu. (The entrée names are actually depressingly prosaic.) Braydon laughs along too, but gets a nice thrill from sitting under the moon faces and magically themed décor, and he and Gillian have made it "their" place. You slide into the seat next to her, and move in for a kiss. You suck on her lips slowly; they taste like black licorice. <br/>
<br/>
All of her tastes good, and all of her little bits fit nicely in the mouth. The chipmunk cheeks; the delicate ears; the nipples; the soft baby fat on her boobs and stomach and under her arms and on her hips and legs and feet. There isn't a square inch of Gillian that Braydon hasn't lightly bit and sucked on during the two years they've been together. It doesn't always end in a thrusting, throbbing climax down inside her tastiest bits, or with her taking his long but slim cock down her throat. But even twenty minutes of light noshing is typically enough to satisfy Braydon.<br/>
<br/>
"M'sorry'm'late," you mutter directly into her mouth. "Had to meet some of the guys."<br/>
<br/>
"How close did Christian come to killing Howie?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not them." You wrap your arms around her hips, and she squirms sideways to more directly meet you. "Saw'm f'r'fewminutes--" Kiss and suck. "Comic shop." Bite. "Didn'stay, hadda--" You rub your cheek against hers, and breathe in the dark perfume from her hair. "Hadda come find you."<br/>
<br/>
She grasps your head, raking her fingers through your hair, stiffening the fauxhawk, and pushing you back. "You're not making any sense, Braydon," she gently chides. "Who'd you see?"<br/>
<br/>
Gillian isn't nosy or controlling; she just likes knowing what mischief her "hubby" gets up to. So you don't mind telling her. "I met up with Lamont and Ioeger, that's all." <br/>
<br/>
And only now do you turn to the girl sitting across the table, who had been keeping your girlfriend company. "Hey, Sandra," you say, and nod insouciantly.<br/>
<br/>
Sandra Hollis sighs deeply at the use of her given name; she prefers "Morgana," which better fits the black, flowing clothes that the pasty, moon-faced senior prefers. But no one--and Braydon least of all--takes her and her prattling interest in astrology seriously.<br/>
<br/>
"What were Carson and James up to," Gillian asks, gently wrenching your face back to hers. Her dark eyes dance, and her teeth show in her small smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm? Oh." You peer back over at Sandra. "You know anything about a professor at the university, a guy named Blackwell," you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"No," she says, and rolls her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude's got a creepy house. You'd fit right in."<br/>
<br/>
Gillian giggles. "Don't be mean. What's this got to do with James and Carson?"<br/>
<br/>
"They wanted to talk to him about some classes at the college," you lie.<br/>
<br/>
"So why'd you go out?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, I'm goin' to college. But this guy, he's like an anthropology prof or something, maybe comparative religions. They thought I might want to tag along, since he's taught classes on magic and stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Professors," Sandra sighs, and rolls her eyes again. "Mrs. Andrassy says--"<br/>
<br/>
"That you'll meet a tall dark stranger some day, one with lots of money?"<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon! Stop it!" Gillian slaps lightly at you as red spots show in Sandra's face.<br/>
<br/>
You turn as the waitress appears by the table, pad poised, for your order. You do a double-take, but it takes you a few seconds to place her. Ursula Jensen, from Eastman. Figures that <i>she'd</i> be working here. You order a sandwich.<br/>
<br/>
"He must have had something interesting to say," Gillian says when she's gone. "You left early and were gone for a long time."<br/>
<br/>
"I had to stop by King Kong. Eric promised me an advance copy of Moore's <i>Book of Laws,</i> but the fucker had already sold it before I got there." <br/>
<br/>
"So what did the professor have to say?" <br/>
<br/>
You shrug, then cock your head thoughtfully. Gillian isn't a gossip, but she might have heard or seen things, even if she doesn't take "magic" seriously, like her boyfriend does. She'd be a good resource for hearing what most of the senior class has noticed or thought. "You notice anything weird at school recently?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wish I did, it's so boring. Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"People acting weird. Out of character. Maybe--" You lift your eyebrows very high. "Possessed. Or like they've been seen in two places at the same time?"<br/>
<br/>
Gillian's laugh is like a gasp, and she covers her open mouth with her hand; her shoulders shake. "Are you serious, Braydon?"<br/>
<br/>
"As serious as I ever am."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God." She covers her face, and laughs silently. "No," she says, and sniffs back some of the dribble she's laughed into her nose. "I haven't noticed anyone acting like they're possessed."<br/>
<br/>
You look over at Sandra. Her arms are folded, and she's frowning. "What about you? The spirits been telling you anything that's got you worried?"<br/>
<br/>
"No," she snaps, but her expression doesn't clear up.<br/>
<br/>
You return your gaze to Gillian, eyes drifting from point to point on her adorable face. The tiny freckles. The small nose. The lips like Cupid's bows. The little, pouty chin. "I think I'm being possessed," you murmur, and lean in close again. "By a boner."<br/>
<br/>
"Of course, there's been a lot of <i>drama</i> at the school," Sandra loudly says.<br/>
<br/>
You sag, and turn back to her. "Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, there was Eva and her missing money," she reminds you. "You know, people who said she withdrew it from the bank but she swears she didn't?" <i>Your first serious adventure with the masks--you and Caleb used a mask of Eva to steal money from her bank account--but you don't react.</i> "And Karl Hennepin swearing that he and Kelsey were having a thing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Everyone knows they were," Gillian says.<br/>
<br/>
"Kelsey's saying now they never were."<br/>
<br/>
"Kelsey's a bitch," you grumble, "and she <i>would</i>--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God, Braydon," Gillian says, and starts laughing again. "Do Carson and James think there's a hex on the school or something?"<br/>
<br/>
You bury your face in your hands, shoulders heaving from laughter. "No, they don't."<br/>
<br/>
"But you said they went out to see this professor because he's all into magic--"<br/>
<br/>
"I said he's into magic, and they went out to see him. No connection. Well, they didn't make a connection. Me, I see spooky stuff everywhere." You waggle your eyebrows playfully at her, and she hugs you tightly.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Mmm. Mmmmm! Mmph." Your voice creaks and groans in the back of your throat. You're laying on your side, draped across Gillian's lap, in the backseat of your car, which is parked next to the Westside gym. She has her shirt and bra open, and you're sucking on her breast. It is sweet and milky. She cradles you, and runs her hand under your shirt, up and down your knobby spine. Your cock thrills and lightly throbs--alert, but not ardent.<br/>
<br/>
Then your phone rings. "Ermmmm," you groan, and turn over so you can lift it to your ear. "Yeah?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yo, I got a call saying I needed to meet up with you," a cold, hostile voice growls.<br/>
<br/>
You jump up hard, banging your head on the roof of the car. It's Patterson. Three quick thoughts pass through you: <i>Shit, he's gonna yell at me for not getting the Eastman job done! Fuck, Fane's sent him back home and he's in charge of my life again! Hell, it's just that fucking golem calling because Eric gave it a message for you.</i> "Yeah," you say, and nurse your head. "Where are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Heading out for date, you little cocksucker."<br/>
<br/>
<i>And you're on one.</i> That's a plausible excuse for doing things later, even though you drove up here with the expectation of switching the mask from one host to another.</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212112112112
author_id: seuzz
title: Two Dates Go Wrong
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You can handle the swap later, you decide. "Have fun then. Come find me tomorrow. You'll know where to look." You scratch at your head through your thick hair.<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever," the Patterson golem sneers, and hangs up.<br/>
<br/>
"Who was that?" Gillian asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Howie. Or maybe it was Hugh. Wasn't paying attention." You settle back into her lap and take her nipple between your lips again. "Mmphgmphlmrphlmph."<br/>
<br/>
"What did you say?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said 'Mmphgmphlmrphlmph'," you articulately repeat. "It means--" You lick at her hard nipple with the tip of your tongue.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, my poor hubby," she says, and cradles your head. "I think I broke your brain."<br/>
<br/>
You settle in for some more careful explorations of her body.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Shh!" she says about thirty minutes later. "Get down."<br/>
<br/>
"What?" You raise your head. You've got her undressed to the waist, but no further, preferring to drag things out as long as is deliciously possible.<br/>
<br/>
She grabs you by the neck, and pulls you down. "Lights."<br/>
<br/>
You glance behind you, just in time to see the whites of high beams sweep through the cabin. Gillian pulls you down yet again, and giggles. "If we get caught--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll protect your virtue. I want it for myself."<br/>
<br/>
"Quiet!"<br/>
<br/>
"They can't hear us."<br/>
<br/>
"I want to hear them. If they stop--"<br/>
<br/>
You strain your ears. Yes, a car motor is running nearby. It guns briefly, then dies.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God," Gillian cries. "Where's that old blanket you keep back here?" She squirms next to you.<br/>
<br/>
"What are you, a fucking exhibitionist? Getting caught makes you horny?"<br/>
<br/>
She hits you--pretty hard, too--and keeps searching. "We'll hide under it, so they won't know we're here!"<br/>
<br/>
You join her in feeling for the old quilt, and with much banging of heads and tangling of limbs you get it drawn over the pair of you as you lay down. Her breath mingles with yours; you hold her tight; the quilt whispers and scratches as it settles around you. You listen.<br/>
<br/>
There's a tap of a knuckle on glass. "Don't answer," Gillian hisses, then giggles.<br/>
<br/>
Another tap, then an inarticulate voice. Silence.<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you going?" Gillian gasps.<br/>
<br/>
"Gonna see who it was," you say as you raise up and throw off the quilt. You've a strong suspicion. Sure enough, through the windshield and the gloom of night, you see two figures: a very tall one, and a much shorter one with curves. They're walking close together, toward the gym side door, and the overhead light that burns there. <i>Patterson. Or his golem, actually, staying in character by taking a girl up to the fuck room.</i> You lean forward, peering, wondering if the girl might be another golem. How freaky would it be for golems to get it on with each other?<br/>
<br/>
Patterson opens the door and steps into the gym. He turns to pull the girl in with him, but she turns back to stare into the parking lot. Her hair shines under night. Patterson drags her backward inside. As she passes under the light, her face is briefly illuminated, and then the door shuts on her.<br/>
<br/>
You blink. Cindy Vredenburg? <i>Really?</i> Well, then, it must be a golem of her, because there's no way Cindy, who is so seriously dating Seth, would go with Patterson. You turn back to Gillian. "That was almost exciting," you say with a smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Almost? It <i>was!</i>" She grabs you by the head and kisses you fiercely.<br/>
<br/>
But even as you sink into her face, a little wheel inside your head turns. This makes makes a lever click, and a tightly bound spring goes <i>Sproing!</i> You pull away from Gillian.<br/>
<br/>
There is a mask of Cindy Vredenburg, but it's back at Eric's apartment. So that would have to be the real Cindy going into the gym, then; it was her hair and figure and face exactly. They loomed a little bigger in the gloom, but there is a definite Vredenburg "look" that only she has. Well, only she and her sister, Lucy, who you remember from a few years ago. God, she was even more gorgeous than Cindy.<br/>
<br/>
That mental spring continues to uncoil, and a trapdoor in your gut opens, dropping your stomach several stories. But that can't have been Cindy because, y'know, <i>Seth.</i> So that was <i>Lucy</i> with Patterson. But why is Lucy going up to the fuck room with Patterson? Everything you've heard tenth-hand about her from Yumi Saito is that she's a snooty, frigid bitch who only has time for rich college frat boys.<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon, what's wrong?"<br/>
<br/>
You'd not have thought of Lucy except that you were recently reminded of her, just this afternoon. Professor Aubrey Blackwell had said she was one of his student, and reacted rather queerly when the name "Vredenburg" got mentioned.<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon," Gillian says in a very careful voice. "Braydon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" You snap back into the present.<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong? You're--"<br/>
<br/>
"That was Steve Patterson."<br/>
<br/>
"I know. You almost got hung from the flagpole, and I almost got--" She shudders.<br/>
<br/>
"I gotta check on something," you say, and fumble for the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Braydon, come back here." She grasps you. "He almost caught us, I'm not gonna let you--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be fine."<br/>
<br/>
But her grip is like iron. "No."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> "Listen," you say. "It has to do with James and Carson. They were eavesdropping on Patterson and them, I wanna go check something."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not letting you-- What's this got to do with that professor?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Dammit, she was actually paying attention at dinner.</i> "Nothing," you say. "Totally separate." She snorts skeptically. "Alright, uh, it has to do with that girl. It was Lucy Vredenburg, you remember her? Uh, she's a student of that professor, and they overheard Patterson bragging about how he was going to get busy with her--"<br/>
<br/>
"So bully for him. You're acting like one of the cheerleaders."<br/>
<br/>
"When I say 'busy' I mean, like, rough. You know Patterson."<br/>
<br/>
"She looked like she was willing."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they all look <i>willing</i> when they go in with him, but the way they said he was talking--" You suck in a sharp breath. "I'm worried about her."<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon," she says in a low voice. "It's not your business. And how would you--"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe I can't stop anything, but I could be a witness, in case--"<br/>
<br/>
"You're not turned on by the thought of <i>listening in</i> while they-- Are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! God, no! I just-- I have to do this, Gillian. Trust me. I'll be fine, I won't even be close to them. I'll be rooms away. James and Carson were telling about this spot, there's a trick of the pipes, and you can hear everything. That's all I'm going to do."<br/>
<br/>
"Then I'm coming with you."<br/>
<br/>
"No! You stay here, keep an eye out. Your phone on? Call me if anyone else shows up."<br/>
<br/>
"They'll hear!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll set it on vibrate." You crawl from the car, slam the door, and give a quick nod at Gillian's bobbing head. Then you sprint for the side door.<br/>
<br/>
It's unlocked, and you slip into the dark gym. You <i>don't</i> know where Carson's "listening station" is, though, so you'll actually have to play it a lot more dangerously by listening at the fuck room door itself. Carefully, testing each step before putting your weight on it, you mount the staircase. Only once does a board creak beneath you.<br/>
<br/>
You put your ear to the door. Silence. Utter silence. You hold your breath.<br/>
<br/>
There's a creak of floorboards from the other side of the door. Footsteps? No, just someone shifting their weight. If you can hear that, you should be able to hear voices, even if you couldn't make out the words. Did they skip talk and foreplay and move directly to--?<br/>
<br/>
Minutes pass. Your phone vibrates. You lift it to your ear. "What's going on?" Gillian asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing," you hiss back. "Hang up."<br/>
<br/>
You put the phone back down and listen. The silence continues.<br/>
<br/>
A heavy thump, as of something falling to the floor, then something stirs, and boards creak. A voice mutters. A heavier tramp of feet. You draw back, ready to flee. Nothing happens.<br/>
<br/>
You put your ear to the door again. Movement, indistinct. The voice mutters more loudly now. It's Patterson's. He sounds angry. But he always sounds angry.<br/>
<br/>
Then fast footfalls, toward the door. You jump up, but the door opens before you can turn. You look up to find Steve Patterson's silhouette looming over you. He moves more quickly than you can, and grabs you with a long, strong arm, hauling you into the room. <i>Bam.</i> You bang into a crate and fall to the floor. Lights spring on. You look up fearfully. <br/>
<br/>
Patterson glares down, then blinks. "Fucking Delp! What are you--! We're not supposed to meet till tomorrow!" He bends over you. "Is that you, Johansson?" he asks in a deeply puzzled tone.<br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips and start to croak a denial, but your attention is caught by another figure on the floor nearby. It's a man, very big, African-American. You vaguely recognize him as one of Straussler's bodyguards.<br/>
<br/>
You gape, and all those gears start to spin again. That agent was under Patterson's mask. Now he's out of it, but Patterson is still here. You crane your neck, looking around. The golem is still in the corner, and Lucy is nowhere to be seen.<br/>
<br/>
"I asked you a question, Delp!" Patterson bends down, and lifts you by the scruff of your shirt. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.<br/>
<br/>
This is a terrible mess. It's not Patterson who's lifting you off the floor. It's Lucy. Well, not <i>her</i>, not exactly; the golem shell means that it's golem-Patterson still. But now it's Lucy who is trapped under his face.<br/>
<br/>
But how did she get Patterson's mask off the other man, and why would she put it on herself?</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121121121121
author_id: seuzz
title: A Well-Hidden Surprise
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've no idea how much Patterson's golem knows about what's going on, but it dutifully called you after Eric called <i>it.</i> It won't be friendly, but you decide to take a chance on its being minimally cooperative.<br/>
<br/>
"Look, I'm really Will Prescott. Didn't Eric tell you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eric?" the golem asks. "You talking about the fat fuck who called me a little while ago?" His eyes narrow. "He didn't tell me anything, just that Braydon Delp--" He spits your name. "Had business with me."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'm really Will Prescott. You know, one of your boss's teammates."<br/>
<br/>
"One of his fuck ups, you mean," the golem fumes. But he releases you. "Boss called me last night, told me to work with you on whatever was up. Where is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't tell you? Then maybe I shouldn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" The golem grabs you again.<br/>
<br/>
"Because it's <i>his</i> business whether you know or not, and if you <i>don't</i> know what he's doing, it's not <i>my</i> job to tell you." You stare at him hard, but his fingers tighten on your shirt. "Wouldn't <i>you</i> be pissed if I ran my mouth to someone about where <i>you</i> were if <i>you</i> weren't--"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright, I get it. Fuck. But I guess I better play along." He releases you again.<br/>
<br/>
"Damn straight. Now it looks like you're in a jam here. Who's he?" You jerk your chin at the prostrate goon.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck if I know. I bring this chick up--"<br/>
<br/>
"Lucy Vredenburg?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck does it matter to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"It might! It was Lucy, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he says uneasily. "She calls me up this evening, saying she's been following us in the paper, and it's got her pussy all hot and wet, she wants to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Skip that, it's not important."<br/>
<br/>
"Isn't it?" he sneers. "It might be. But anyway, we get together, she wants to come up here to do it 'cos she's got good memories. Bitch. Like I wanna think about how she was banging Michaelson and Runnels up here back in the day. But we get up here-- That was you down in the parking lot?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, coincidence." Your phone is vibrating again.<br/>
<br/>
"So I sit down on her and she's holding my face and kissing me, and the next thing I know, I'm sprawled on my ass and wearing a fucking dress and panty hose."<br/>
<br/>
You look him up and down. "You're not now."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck, no, I changed into some of my spare things. Stared at that fucker there for a bit, then-- You sure you got nothing to do with this?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Something weird is going on. Let's look around for--" You peer past Straussler's agent, and spy something bluish. You hop over and pick it up. It's a mask. You turn it over. Lucy Vredenburg's name floats over the blue interior.<br/>
<br/>
You let out a low whistle. The golem peers over your shoulder. "That queer was wearing her mask?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"No, you were," you say. The golems' eyes flame. "I mean, someone was wearing Lucy's mask. Your face was on that guy." You point to the agent. "So, it looks to me like--"<br/>
<br/>
You tug your lip. It's the only thing that makes sense.<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't come up here with Lucy," you say. "You came up here with someone who was wearing this mask. He pulled your face of that guy there, then he took off Lucy's face and put your face on himself. Or herself."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuckin' kinky," the golem says, and fails utterly to look aroused.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, so I wanna--"<br/>
<br/>
The golem flinches from your outstretched hand. "Whaddaya think you're doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm gonna check to see who it is."<br/>
<br/>
"What's it matter, I'm here now."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but what if it was Johansson doing all this? You want <i>him</i> under your--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Holy fuck, yeah, get this thing off me." The golem grabs at his own brow.<br/>
<br/>
But you've changed your mind. Better to do this with Eric around, in case the person beneath is dangerous.<br/>
<br/>
So you tell the golem to wait for you over to King Kong Komics, then give him the shop's address when he truculently tells you he has no idea where it is. "What do we do about him?" he asks, pointing to Straussler's goon.<br/>
<br/>
"Leave him. He'll find his way out." You glance over at the bare golem in the corner. You'd like to take it with you--and could use Lucy's mask to get it out--but you've still got Gillian to worry about. You tell golem-Patterson you'll see him in thirty minutes, and run out the door with Lucy's mask in your hand. You tuck it under your shirt before you hit the side door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"The fuck was going on?" Gillian screams from the back seat as you jump into the front. "I kept calling--"<br/>
<br/>
"Someone was coming?" You twist the key in the ignition<br/>
<br/>
"No, but the lights went on--"<br/>
<br/>
"See anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's on the second fucking floor, Braydon! You're only five eight and I'm shorter than you! What was going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, just hot and heavy love-making." You put the car in motion. "I ran out when she said she had to go and he said it'd been fun."<br/>
<br/>
"So you were just listening and jerking off--!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I wasn't, Gillian, I swear. I really was worried, but I guess it was just Carson hearing Patterson talking like an asshole up in the loft."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, why didn't you answer when I called? I called three times!"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I knew you weren't seeing anything, you were just worrying about me."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuckin' straight, Braydon!" Her voice is now hoarse and ragged. "Honestly, you're such a cocksucker." She slaps the back of your head. "Take me home!"<br/>
<br/>
"Gladly."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck you and your mouth.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I didn't mean it like that, Gillian, I just--"<br/>
<br/>
But she's already folded her arms and sunk into the back seat and a frosty silence that she doesn't break until you're at her place. She leaps from the car and slams the door and runs to the house without looking back.<br/>
<br/>
You punch the steering console twenty times before driving off again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're in the back room of the comic book shop, with Eric, who is wearing a worried expression, and Patterson's golem, which is pale. You're also nervous, but calmly tell the golem to lay on the floor. He shivers a little, for it's cold in the steel-lined room. You bend over him and pull the mask off.<br/>
<br/>
Clothes swell and distend. Eric bends over the revealed figure. "Who the fuck is that?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
You chew on your lip. It's not a surprise, except to the extent that you're surprised that <i>anyone</i> could have got under Patterson's mask. "His name is Aubrey Blackwell," you tell Eric. "He's a professor at Keyserling College."<br/>
<br/>
"You and Patterson were working with him?" Eric asks, and there's an unmistakable note of menace in the way his voice has dropped.<br/>
<br/>
"No. I didn't know anything about him, and I seriously doubt Patterson did. We'll have to ask him to be sure, but--"<br/>
<br/>
"So how did this cocksucker get here?"<br/>
<br/>
"Best way to find out is to ask him."<br/>
<br/>
"I can oblige," Eric says, and bends over the professor, who is even more portly than him.<br/>
<br/>
"Wait, we don't have to do it that way. Where's that blank mask I asked you to bring?"<br/>
<br/>
"What are-- Oh!" He unzips his bag and pulls it out.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you say as you drop the mask onto Blackwell. "Your interrogation skills <i>might</i> be a little redundant these days."<br/>
<br/>
Eric just shrugs. "I guess it's neater this way. But you were guessing we'd need the mask to question him, that's why you--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. And I also suspected it might be the professor."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because--" You tell him about how you spent your afternoon with Carson and James. "I had no idea this guy might know anything about the masks, which is why I didn't mention any of this to you. I thought it was just James and Carson being paranoid after hearing things, and that the professor here was just a weirdo."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh." Eric lays a heavy hand on your shoulder. His fingers lightly flex, and sharp pain runs across your back. "Well, let's call this a lesson that you keep me up to date on <i>everything,</i> Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"Will do," you wince, and nurse your shoulder when he drops his hand.<br/>
<br/>
A few minutes later, the mask reappears on Blackwell's face. You put Patterson's mask back on him, and tell the re-emerged golem to wait out in the shop proper. You seal up the mask, using the goop in the tub that you'd asked Eric to bring along with the mask.<br/>
<br/>
"And I guess now one of us has to put it on," you say reluctantly.<br/>
<br/>
"You know who 'one of us' is, right," Eric grins. "My orders are to stay out of those things."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck. You got an extra change of clothes here? I'm gonna rip Braydon's to shreds if I--"<br/>
<br/>
"Just take 'em off. I've talked to lots of fuckers in the nude."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ick.</i> But you do disrobe, and you pull Braydon's mask off. And then very slowly you slide the mask of Aubrey Blackwell onto your face.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221211211211211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Other Magician
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>The next morning.</i> Gillian doesn't look at you as she slips into the passenger seat, but she does greet you. "Hi. How as the rest of last night?" Her tone is as cool as the morning autumn air.<br/>
<br/>
"It sucked, because you wouldn't talk to me." You put the car in drive and head off for school.<br/>
<br/>
"You took your sweet time trying to call me."<br/>
<br/>
"Did I wait too long? I wanted to give you plenty of time to cool down."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'm cooled down now." <i>Yeah, there's a glacier on her shoulder.</i> "What did James and Carson have to say?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, because I didn't talk to them. And I'm not going to, either. I'm--- Please, Gillian, don't say anything to them either. I'm really embarrassed about it and would like to forget it."<br/>
<br/>
"Why? Weren't you acting all brave, running off to defend a girl's honor? Aren't you proud of yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Well, maybe a little." <br/>
<br/>
Gillian turns her head fractionally, to look at you slit-eyed.<br/>
<br/>
"God damn it, Gillian," you sputter. "If it had been you up there instead of Lucy, wouldn't you have wanted me to run in to check that everything was going to be alright?"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>I</i> wouldn't be with Steve Patterson--"<br/>
<br/>
"If! <i>If!</i>" You pound the steering wheel.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you fucking yell at me, Braydon!"<br/>
<br/>
"<i>If</i> you were with Patterson! A totally absurd, stupid hypothetical. The point is if, absurdly, you were with Patterson, and I had reason to think you weren't going to be okay, wouldn't you want me to run check on you?"<br/>
<br/>
"If I was with Patterson, I wouldn't be your girl. You know that, don't you, Braydon?" Her tone is icy, contemptuous.<br/>
<br/>
"Yes, I know that. I'm not talking about you <i>cheating</i> on me with him. I'm talking about if we were totally unattached, and you went up into the fuck room with him. Wouldn't you want me checking on you if I thought you weren't going to be okay?"<br/>
<br/>
"Hmp. You'd do that because you'd still love me, is that what you're saying?" she archly asks.<br/>
<br/>
"No. If you were the kind of girl to go up with Patterson I'd definitely <i>not</i> be in love with you." She returns your direct stare with a dark glare of her own. "I'd go up there because it's the right thing to do."<br/>
<br/>
"So you're saying you'd treat me like any other girl, I'm nothing special?" She snorts.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm saying, if I did that for any other girl, like for Lucy, imagine what I'd do for <i>you,</i> because you <i>are</i> special."<br/>
<br/>
She turns sharply and stares at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Gillian, what I did was stupid, and I'm sorry I did it. I scared you and then I made you mad. But I did it because I had this crazy idea I could impress you by showing you what I had in me, that if I'd do that for a girl I don't even know, you'd see what I'd do for you. I won't do anything like it again." You swallow the lump in your throat. "But I <i>would</i>. For you."<br/>
<br/>
She stares a little more, then turns away puts her fingers to her nose and sniffs hard. "Oh, damn you, Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
It's all better by the time you get to school, and you part because, despite all the biting and kissing, you don't share lockers. As you put your books away you keep kicking at yourself. Braydon Delp is a jackass loser, and he can <i>still</i> get and keep a girl like Gillian. What the fuck was wrong with <i>you</i>?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Only one other interesting thing happens at school that day: Golem-Patterson hauls you into the bathroom for a swirlie after third period. "Let's see how well your fuckin' mascara stands up to moisture," he gloats after emptying the room so the two of you have it alone. "Gordon and Johansson grabbed me before school, wanted to know where the real me was," he says after pulling your head from the toilet. "I told 'em I didn't know, didn't care. I didn't let 'em take my face off either, though they tried."<br/>
<br/>
"Good," you cough. "Where's Johansson these days?"<br/>
<br/>
"Pretending to be Delacroix. But they're pissed 'cos all our shit went missing and they can't find Prescott." He plunges your head into the bowl again.<br/>
<br/>
"Just don't tell them where I am," you sputter.<br/>
<br/>
"If you want. On one condition, though. That we conference like this every day." He dunks you a third time.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
All that happened the day after you'd discovered Aubrey Blackwell, and dipped into his mask. Eric relayed what you found to Fane, and Professor Hyde-White thought it important enough that he set up a conference call with you and Eric on Sunday. <br/>
Eric shuts up his shop that afternoon, and you and he huddle around a speaker phone.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Most</i> impressive, Mr. Prescott," Professor Hyde-White crisply congratulates you. "I may have felt and expressed optimism about your abilities, but you have smashed through even that lofty ceiling."<br/>
<br/>
"It was almost all luck," you feel compelled to remind him. "Lucky that those guys talked to Braydon about what they heard, lucky that Eric got me Braydon as a disguise, lucky that--"<br/>
<br/>
"And I told you how much we prize luck and those who have it! I am immensely pleased with you both." <br/>
<br/>
Eric looks suitably gratified to be included in the praise. "What would you like for us to do with this Blackwell dude?" he asks. "And with Lucy Vredenburg," he adds.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, they can hardly vanish, can they?" the professor says. "Well, the girl could, I suppose, given that her original is dead--"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
What a black-hearted bastard Aubrey Blackwell proved to be. You'd spent almost thirty minutes meditating on his crimes, working backward from the present, and had barely moved a year into the past before you'd had to rip his mask from your face. "He's a black magician," you'd told Eric. "And a killer."<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't help that the same could be said of you.<br/>
<br/>
He was--and is, for he is technically still alive, even if trapped under Patterson's mask--a very learned man, and apparently a skilled practitioner of the more advanced and abstract occult arts, and is particularly skilled at the creation of hexes and potions and mesmeric words that cloud the minds of his adversaries. It was a great stroke of luck--one of many that Hyde-White is congratulating you on--that you and your friends were able to surprise and wrong-foot him at home without falling victim. Indeed, if you hadn't gone out with Carson and Ioeger to his villa, it might have been doppelgangers that returned home in their place.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>Libra Personae</i> had been his, briefly, at the end of the summer; he had found it in upstate New York, amid the effects of a dead woman. They were to be transported to some of her relatives, but he had intercepted the shipment and (after a bit of misdirection and light burglary) taken the book for himself. He had penetrated the first few spells, to the point where he had made four masks and mind-bands and a golem before the book was accidentally placed in a pile to be sent for Arnholm's Used Books. He had hurried to retrieve it, but arrived to late. Bitterly he had searched for traces of it without success, and had nearly given up when your friends had shown up on his doorstep.<br/>
<br/>
He had four masks, but two of these he had already used, to make a copy of himself and a copy of Lucy Vredenburg, and so he was short-handed and couldn't capture all three of his visitors, to use in infiltrating Westside to find what was clearly a treasure he still considered his own. Instead, he had disguised himself as Lucy--the real girl, whom he kidnapped, is now dead, and he has used the golem to keep a fake "Lucy" in circulation--and called this "Patterson" whom your friends had said was at the root of things. Lucy herself was quite familiar with the fabled "fuck room" of Westside, and Blackwell had no trouble getting Patterson to take him up there, as you witnessed from the car. Inside, he had knocked out the golem by removing the mask on a hunch. He had no familiarity with the "golem shell" spell, as he had not penetrated that far in the book, and in the dim light had not seen the shell inside Patterson's mask. When a quick search of the fuck room had not disclosed his sought-after treasure, he had foolishly removed Lucy's mask and put on Patterson's, thereby trapping himself.<br/>
<br/>
After getting all this from the mask, you had sent golem-Patterson (with Blackwell beneath) home. The question now is what to do about the professor and all the artifacts he will be leaving behind after Fane is done with them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"--but I suppose it is rather up to you, Mr. Prescott," Professor Hyde-White concludes.<br/>
<br/>
You grimace. It's a tough choice.<br/>
<br/>
The Professor wants all of Patterson's work closed down: masks removed from play, and everyone put back in their original places. Memories will be erased. ("Leave that to me," Eric had said. "I got a thing that'll do the trick.") "I would hardly care whether the impostures continue," the professor said, "but I care greatly that no <i>evidence</i> remains for others to find."<br/>
<br/>
When possible, Blackwell is to be sent to England, docilely enclosed in a mask. His own golem--which he had put inside a mask of himself when he took on Lucy's persona last night--can continue to play his part unmolested for the time being. And Lucy? Hyde-White has given you a choice. You can continue in your current guise as Braydon Delp, in the relative familiarity of Westside High, and return Lucy as a golem. Or, when it's convenient, you can take Lucy's place while letting Braydon return to his own life.</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212112112112112
author_id: seuzz
title: But Good Things Must Wait
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I'll step in for Lucy," you say. "What are we going to do about Blackwell and his stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Probably one of our senior associates will travel out to look over his property and make a determination," Hyde-White says. "I will let you know when we have decided. I do suggest you move quickly to reestablish the girl. Help Mr. Kim with your former schoolmates as best you can, but your primary objective is to excite no suspicions about the girl." There's a little more discussion before he hangs up.<br/>
<br/>
"This Lucy girl," Eric asks when he's gone. "Is she hot?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh yeah."<br/>
<br/>
Eric shivers. "Can I see?"<br/>
<br/>
"I should put her mask on anyway now," you reply. "Find out how much trouble she's in for disappearing last night." For, in fact, she had had to disappear overnight, there being no one to play her part.<br/>
<br/>
Eric was clearly hoping you'd conduct the session in the nude, but you insist on changing in the bathroom, and on having a robe you can slip into. You get undressed, remove Braydon's face, and when you've woken again, grip Lucy's mask in slightly sweaty palms. You remember Lucy from several years ago. She had just entered womanhood as she left Westside, and now she will have had several years to ripen and mature. You draw a ragged breath as you drop her mask onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
But you're not inside Lucy long, for a quick jaunt inside her mask is enough to learn that she is very independent, and can disappear for days at a time without causing comment. So with vast reluctance you turn to the more pressing task: cleaning up the schools, starting with Westside.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Gordon? This is Prescott." You try not to breathe too loudly into the phone, despite your nervousness. Eric leans in and watches you closely.<br/>
<br/>
There is a very long silence. Gordon is very calm when he speaks. "Hey Prescott. How you been? What's up?" Then his voice turns strained. "Where's our shit?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dunno what you mean."<br/>
<br/>
He explodes. "Cut the bullshit, you little fuck! I'm talkin' about the stuff you stole outta the loft!"<br/>
<br/>
"I still don't know what you're talking about. You mean all the supplies and masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"What fucking else would I be talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're gone? Maybe Patterson moved 'em. Did you ask him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and he's as pissed as me. When we find you--"<br/>
<br/>
"Did you talk to Patterson or to his golem?"<br/>
<br/>
That catches Gordon off-guard, as you knew it would, and he chokes a little.<br/>
<br/>
"And why aren't you asking me about Jonathan Straussler?" you continue. "That's what we were talking about the last time we met."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't care about Straussler anymore!" Gordon hollers. "I care about--!"<br/>
<br/>
This is going to be tedious, because he is at least three steps behind you. "Gordon," you interrupt, but he just keeps yelling hoarsely. "Gordon! Will you shut up--!"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you fucking talk to me like--!"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up and listen to me, Gordon! You told me you wanted me to score you a copy of Jonathan Straussler, right, so you could take over his life?"<br/>
<br/>
"And then you fucking disappeared, and now all our shit is--!"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and you wanna know why I disappeared? Because when I went out to Jonathan Straussler's place, guess who I found? I found your friend, Patterson, already out there, pretending to be Straussler already!"<br/>
<br/>
That finally stops Gordon. He breathes heavily into the phone. "What?" he says in a dazed voice. Steve-o's at--?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's right! I pulled a mask off Straussler when I caught up to him, and I found Patterson underneath. Did you know about that? Because if you did, and you sent me out there anyway--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, God <i>damn</i> it!" Gordon yells, and the line goes dead.<br/>
<br/>
"He's on his way over to the Strausslers," you tell Eric. "He didn't say as much, but I'm sure--"<br/>
<br/>
"Then we better get over there ourselves," Eric says.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You beat him by only a few minutes, parking just in front of the Straussler's main gate. Gordon's VW Bug roars up, and Black leaps out. He eyes Eric suspiciously before confronting you. "I oughta punch you into next year," he growls.<br/>
<br/>
You raise your hands. "Just hang on, because I'm as confused as you. If you're missing stuff, I've got nothing to do with it. I've been in a panic and hiding since the other day, 'cos I figured <i>you guys</i> were trying to do something to <i>me.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
But Gordon fixes his eyes coldly on Eric, and says nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"Ignore him, he's just another golem," you say. "What's <i>your</i> story?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't got a 'story', you fuck! I don't know what's going on, except that all our shit's gone from the loft." He glares through the gate.<br/>
<br/>
"So now you're thinking that your friend took it," you say. "If he's got Straussler and his family and all that money, what's he need <i>us</i> for, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Gordon turns beet red, and pulls back his fist.<br/>
<br/>
"You're thinking it, Gordon," you say. "I'm just sayin' what you're thinking. That's why you came out here, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Froth plays on Gordon's lips. "I came out here to ask him--"<br/>
<br/>
"We <i>both</i> ask him, Gordon, because he's played us <i>both</i> for chumps. I know he's your friend, and you don't like me, but we're on the same side here. Until Patterson explains himself."<br/>
<br/>
"Then let's go ask him."<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on. I came armed. I wanna be careful, Gordon. We both do."<br/>
<br/>
You nod at Eric, who opens the big satchel he has sitting on the hood of his car. From it he draws a thing that looks like an oversized flashlight. "Watch the birdie," he tells Gordon as he aims it at him and flicks a switch on its side.<br/>
<br/>
Gordon blinks, and all the expression drains from his face.<br/>
<br/>
"How long we got?" you ask as the two of you leap over to catch Black as he falls. He's so big he drags both of you to the ground.<br/>
<br/>
"A minute," Eric gasps as he clambers out from under Gordon. "It just dazes them until I get the flenser on."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, plenty of time for the mask then." You pull a blank mask from the same bag, and drop it onto Gordon's face.<br/>
<br/>
"He's a big one," Eric says as he crouches next to you.<br/>
<br/>
"And he's got a hot girlfriend." In the suspended moment, it hits you where you are, and where you started. "You know, when my friend Caleb and I first started playing with these masks," you say quietly, "that was one of our ideas. To use them to score a copy of this asshole here so we could get it on with his girlfriend."<br/>
<br/>
"No time for fun, Will." Eric wags a finger at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, well, it was all fun and games before I got mixed up with Patterson and Fane," you sigh. "Now it <i>is</i> feeling like a job."<br/>
<br/>
But you do feel a little of the old anticipatory thrill as you make the changeover: Getting Braydon's mask--which you've golemized to your control--onto Gordon, then swapping clothes with the now-mobile Delp. You raise Gordon's sealed-up mask to your face. Alpha jock and bully; captain of the basketball team; boyfriend of the head cheerleader; the meanest, scariest, strongest bad-ass at school. The leader--now that Patterson is in England--of the magic crew at Westside. <br/>
<br/>
And in a moment you will <i>be</i> him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's a fucking mess, that's what it is," you growl, and slam a hard fist into the roof of the VW Bug. You tense; all your muscles are screaming for the release that would come with pounding something--or someone--shapeless. <br/>
<br/>
"How hard's it gonna be to fix?" Eric asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Biggest mess is over at fucking Eastman." No point in explaining to Eric the uproar caused by the disappearance of Will Prescott from that school. Lynch has been hounding Gordon--and the fake Patterson--over it, seething over that "two-faced fucker", and even Keith Tilley (from under Ian's mask) worked up enough courage to call Gordon and ask what was going on. "Patterson won't tell me anything," Tilley had whined.<br/>
<br/>
Gordon himself has been mystified by Patterson's disappearance. His old friend had been hopping in and out from under various faces at Westside, leaving Gordon (and Caleb too) baffled as to his whereabouts, and then he just seemed to drop off the face of the earth.<br/>
<br/>
"But right now," you say, straightening up--<br/>
<br/>
Your vision reels a little; the ground seems very far away.<br/>
<br/>
"Right now we take care of Westside. Only got Johansson to worry about."<br/>
<br/>
"What do I need to do?" Eric asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Start by getting that little fucker away from me." You glare at Delp, who pales and steps behind Eric for protection. "After that--"<br/>
<br/>
You think a little while, then outline a plan to Eric. "I'll call you if it looks like it won't work," you say. "Meantime, you can think about what we can do to explain five amnesia cases." Eric nods, then he and Delp drive off.<br/>
<br/>
You squeeze into the Bug and drive back into town as well, to park by the Westside gym. You could procrastinate a little, you reflect, by hitting the weight set or doing some ball practice--the kind of thing Gordon does when he's bored and anxious--but you really need to get things under control while you've still got the rest of Sunday free. So you reach for the phone to call Johansson.<br/>
<br/>
It rings in your hand, and you curse a blue streak.<br/>
<br/>
"Where <i>are</i> you, pookie," Chelsea Cooper says when you answer. "I haven't heard from you since--"<br/>
<br/>
"Busy with Dad." Gordon's hard-ass father is his all-purpose excuse when he doesn't want to deal with people.<br/>
<br/>
But he's used it too often on Chelsea. "Really. Well, tell 'Dad' that you have to leave now because <i>I</i> want to see you."<br/>
<br/>
"It really is Dad," you protest.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want to see me?" she coos, but there's steel in her tone.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121121121121122
author_id: seuzz
title: Five With One Blow
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your cock rises and throbs, and you clench your eyes shut.<br/>
<br/>
<i>This is how come you got into the whole "mask" business. It was all leading up to this: a chance to have hot, sweaty sex with Chelsea Cooper.</i> And here she is, practically begging you to meet up and jam your shaft deeply into her. But--<br/>
<br/>
"I'll find you when I can," you say, and your voice is hoarse and ragged. "This is <i>really</i> not a good time." You toss the phone away, and ignore it when it rings again. And again. And again.<br/>
<br/>
When it finally stops, you call Laurent Delacroix. "I need you out here, man," you say. "Call Javits and that worthless bag of shit that answers to the name 'Johansson' and get him up here too."<br/>
<br/>
"What's going on?" Delacroix--who is really Caleb--asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I got a line on our missing shit."<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you get Huber to help? I'm--"<br/>
<br/>
"I need all of us," you roar. He quickly agrees to come out.<br/>
<br/>
But you call Cameron Huber--the captain of the football team--as well. "This is your boss," you growl. "Get up to the school." You've a similar message for Kelsey Blankenship.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Cameron and Kelsey arrive first, as you'd hoped. It's the real students, though under masks golemized to Gordon's and Steve's control, respectively. Then Caleb and Laurent arrive, but you tell them to hang loose. Javits--another of Caleb's golems--is the last to show up.<br/>
<br/>
"You guys wait here," you tell the golems. Kelsey rolls her eyes, and Cameron looks dubious, but they don't argue. "Maybe we'll need you and maybe we won't, but I want you all in one spot so you don't come straggling in--" You glare at Javits "--like leaky shit out of a sick dog."<br/>
<br/>
"And us?" Delacroix asks, indicating himself and a nervous Caleb Johansson.<br/>
<br/>
You frown. <i>Fucking Delacroix. So big, so smart, so slick, so good with the girls, so unattached to anyone needy. Patterson had bragged about banging three different girls on successive nights using Laurent's face. Gordon had called Patterson a faggot for doing it with another guy's cock. From your more objective position, you can smell the bitter jealousy inside the mask you're wearing.</i><br/>
<br/>
"I heard a rumor that some of your old friends were listening in on us in the loft, heard everything we were doing," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!" he gasps.<br/>
<br/>
"Right. I think it was them who stole our shit. I hear there's some weird crap going on out at King Kong Komics. We're gonna bust in on 'em."<br/>
<br/>
"What about getting Patterson?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just the two of us, Johansson," you say. "I haven't heard from Steve-o in a few days, which makes me nervous. Like maybe I'm thinking Steve-o's been ... replaced?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus," Laurent gasps again. "I'm who I am," he adds.<br/>
<br/>
You snort at that very false and ironical statement. "So you and Johansson follow me out, meet me there. I want him along because he'll look less weird out there than we will." You clap him on the arm. "I've been rough on you, Johansson, but you've done good. You play this one right, and I might even be able to start looking at you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
King Kong Komics is dark and shut up tight when you arrive, but you spot Eric's car in the back as you pull up. "What do we do now," Laurent asks as you peer through the glass door.<br/>
<br/>
You grin at him and bang on the entrance. It opens. "Guys, I'm closed," Eric Kim says.<br/>
<br/>
But you shove him back and charge in. Laurent and Caleb follow, both looking worried. "Hey, you guys don't get out, I'm callin' the cops," Eric protests.<br/>
<br/>
"We'll get out, but I got some questions for you, cocksucker," you say. "You sell comic books here?" You look around.<br/>
<br/>
"What does it fucking look like I sell?"<br/>
<br/>
"What about porn? You got any porn?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't--"<br/>
<br/>
Your eyes light on the mask sitting on the counter--the one Eric placed there as part of the plan you'd outlined with him earlier. "What about Halloween supplies? You sell costumes and ... masks?" You pick the mask up, and catch Laurent's eye. His eyes widen.<br/>
<br/>
"That?" Eric says. "That's not mine. One of the dudes who comes in asked me to hold it for him. What--?"<br/>
<br/>
"He ask you to hold anything else for him? Because this ain't his to ask you to hold."<br/>
<br/>
Eric looks wildly between you and Laurent and Caleb. "Jesus, guys, if you're saying the stuff is stolen--"<br/>
<br/>
"Just show us, asshole," Laurent barks.<br/>
<br/>
Eric pulls that satchel from behind the counter and rummages through it. "The only other thing he gave me--" He pulls out that flashlight thing. You clench your eyes shut, but even through your lids you glimpse a little flash, and you stagger back a step.<br/>
<br/>
Eric is also rubbing his eyes when you open yours. "Bad idea to do it in the dark without shades," he mutters. There's a soft thud from near the door, and Laurent and Caleb slide to the floor.<br/>
<br/>
You and Eric drag them into the back, where you pull Laurent's mask from Caleb. You'd like to stay to watch as Eric fumbles out something that looks like a motorcycle helmet and puts it over Caleb's head, but he tells you to wait out front. "You got your proprietary tech, Will, and I got mine." So you call the three golems, telling them to meet you at the comic shop.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It was one of the nice dividends from catching Blackwell: a little bottle of knockout powder that he'd intended to use on Patterson if the Westside athlete hadn't been wearing a mask. You'd kept it on hand, and use it now to sedate Caleb and Laurent and Seth and Cameron and Kelsey once they are out of their masks and have had their memories erased. "How much did you knock out of them?" you ask Eric.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not an exact science, Will," he says. "They'll forget the last few weeks, at least, and maybe everything going back to the start of the school year."<br/>
<br/>
Gonna be freaky to have so many students show up with memory loss, so to make it look less weird, you and Eric drive them out to the Suffolk Wilderness. There, you drag them one by one to a makeshift campsite and lay them in a circle. Eric drops a baggy containing several sheets of acid near Seth. "Anything special about that shit," you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno, I don't use it," he shrugs. "Got it from a guy who had no cash but a serious hard-on for some Marvel hardbacks."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So that takes care of Westside, except for Gordon (under Braydon's mask), Braydon (under yours) and Patterson (whose mask is still sitting on Aubrey Blackwell). Instead of going back home, you accompany Eric back to his place. He orders in a pizza. The two of you relax--you still in Gordon's mask--and eat while the TV plays softly in the background. "We make a good team," Eric chortles around a mouthful of cheese.<br/>
<br/>
"I like you as a boss," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Probably 'cos I don't know how to be one," he says. "I've never been one. Always been at the bottom of things."<br/>
<br/>
"It looked like you could make Curt Straussler jump."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Straussler." He waves his hand dismissively. "That wasn't <i>me</i> making him jump, it was Fane."<br/>
<br/>
"How <i>did</i> you come to work for Fane," you ask after a very long and hesitant pause.<br/>
<br/>
He takes almost equally long time to answer as he chews his dinner. "I was in college," he says. "San Diego, 'cos I wanted to be close by when Comic Con came around each year." He grins. "I was in the process of flunking out as a business major. One of the Fane companies came by on a recruitment drive. I was desperate, so I did an interview with them. I didn't impress them, naturally. Not at first. But a few weeks later they called me back for a follow up. Someone saw something in my answers that intrigued them. It was a weird second interview, but they liked it. I had ... aptitudes ... that they liked. They hired me."<br/>
<br/>
"To do what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Scut work, at first. Shuttled me around, testing me out in various places. Gave me some training."<br/>
<br/>
There's a weird lilt on that final word, but instead of pursuing it directly you approach at an angle. "You don't seem freaked out by this mask stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I've seen 'magic' before," he says, crooking greasy fingers around the word before seizing another slice of pizza. "Some hard-core stuff. That's how come I'm really impressed by the way you handled those two dudes at Eastman."<br/>
<br/>
"You know anything about them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not a thing. Seen some people who are kind of like that Blackwell dude, and what they can do." His face darkens. "You're a good kid, Will," he says quietly. "Part of me really wishes you hadn't got mixed up with us."<br/>
<br/>
You're quiet for a bit, and though you've got Gordon's wooden nerves to steady you, you tremble a little. "What would you do if I tried to get out?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks up at you, and sucks on a mouthful of food, and swallows. "Hunt you down," he says. "And hurt you bad when I caught up to you."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You toss and turn on the couch, wishing you hadn't asked Eric that question about running. Once the topic is raised, it's the kind of thing that can't go away. Especially when there are masks nearby you can use to escape. You try putting it out of your mind.<br/>
<br/>
But you can't. You've been too occupied with the present to think about the future, but in the dark of night it looms before you. And as you stare at the ceiling, a future with Fane suddenly seems very dark indeed.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221211211211211221
author_id: seuzz
title: Killing Time as Gordon Black
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The future looks brighter--or maybe it's just hidden behind a bright but obscuring cloud--when you wake the next morning. Probably it's because for the next few hours, at least, you'll be able to play "Gordon Black"--and exploit his advantages.<br/>
<br/>
But it starts off badly when you don't find Chelsea waiting at her place for you to pick her up: she's driven herself to school. That blackens your mood considerably, and you run pre-class basketball practice even more harshly than Gordon usually does. You're especially rough on Javits, who is so bewildered he can't keep his hands on the ball. You push him into a corner while the rest of the team does laps. "You get that fucking shit out of your system," you growl at him. He blinks worriedly at you, and you press a hard finger into his chest. "Stick to beer from now on."<br/>
<br/>
Chelsea ignores you as you pass her on your way out of the gym, and you ignore her. There's going to be a scene with her, you can tell, which pisses you off, since you'd like to be able to bang her at least once while you've got the chance. You try to put her out of your mind as you thrust your way through the crowded halls. Freshmen and sophomores bounce off your chest, like ice off an icebreaker. The serenity that comes from being bigger, meaner and stronger than anyone else in school feels nice. Once, you dart your hand out to grab some idiot by the neck; you spin him around and hurl him to the other side of the hallway. You've no reason to do it--you don't even know who it is--but it feels good.<br/>
<br/>
You slouch in the back of first period science class—where Gelding keeps sharp attendance--but skip second and third to hang out in the loft. Gordon's got some nice memories from being up here with the golem: Kendra and Eva and Jessica and Cindy and Maria and Cassie and Kelsey and--<br/>
<br/>
And Lisa Yarborough. You ball your fists.<br/>
<br/>
You'd think after all you've been through that you still wouldn't feel wild jealousy at the thought of a fake Lisa riding up and down on Gordon's cock, or wild jealousy of her riding up and down on Geoff Mansfield's.<br/>
<br/>
Of course it wasn't Lisa who did that. It was another fake--another fake riding on your face--who gave Mansfield a sloppy fuck.<br/>
<br/>
Gordon pays little attention to the drama of the dipshits who take AP classes, but even he's heard that Lisa and Geoff are yesterday's news after a very strange blow up. Chelsea chattered about it for days, until something else caught her attention.<br/>
<br/>
You deflect it all by taking out your cell phone and texting Jason Lynch, at Eastman, where he's still hiding out as David Johnson: <i>Call me ASAP.</i> You want to meet him and Tilley up here after school, where no one can see--<br/>
<br/>
Your eye goes to the ductwork in the ceiling, and you gaze narrowly at an open grate. You don't know where exactly Carson and James were hanging out to eavesdrop, but you can guess.<br/>
<br/>
Softly, so that the floorboards won't creak, you leave the loft and pass through the gym and into the boys' changing room. Back of the showers there's a small maintenance area behind by a metal door that's no more than five feet high. It is ajar as you quietly creep up to it.<br/>
<br/>
Behind it is a dark little corridor, hardly more than a space between cinderblock walls, with ductwork running through it. Crouched under the ducts are Carson Ioeger and James Lamont. "The fuck are you queers--" you start.<br/>
<br/>
They both leap so hard they bang their heads on the duct and then into each other. You grab them by the necks and pull them out. "If I catch either of you back here ever again, Ioeger, I'll fold Lamont up and shove him so far up your ass they'll have to use the jaws of life to get him out!" You hurl them onto the floor, and they fall over each other trying to run off.<br/>
<br/>
<i>First good deed of the day,</i> you think to yourself. You'd hate to think what the real Gordon would have done if he'd caught them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Lynch calls about twenty minutes later. "You and Tilley come up to Westside around six," you tell him. "Bring your dipshit originals with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Is this something to do with Prescott?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Something," you grunt back. "Just be here. Bring any mask shit you got."<br/>
<br/>
You then call Maddy Caron--really Carrie Carmichael--using the phone number you found online. She's very tentative until you identify yourself: "Carrie, this is Frank."<br/>
<br/>
A pause. "Frank! Where have you been? You and Joe--!"<br/>
<br/>
"I know. Business. Don't worry. We need to see you and the others. Come up to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Is it about that guy? That guy who was at your house?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" you ask her sharply.<br/>
<br/>
"When I didn't hear from you, I went by your house. There wasn't anyone there-- Oh, I picked up your mail and newspaper, 'cos--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, thanks, but what's this about some guy at our house?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yesterday, when I went by your place, there was this car out front, and this guy-- Hang on, I've got his name and number. He said he was a family friend and was looking for you. Here, it's-- Rick Bredon." She gives you a number. "Is something going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kind of. What did you tell this guy?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, but I told him you went to school with me, and I was worried 'cos I hadn't seen you, and he was really scary looking, like a homeless guy, so that's all I said and I ran out after he gave me this card."<br/>
<br/>
You tell her it's okay, and to meet you at seven-thirty at Westside with Joanna, Sarah, the golems of themselves, and all the masks they still have on hand. After you hang up, you mull her news. <br/>
<br/>
The name "Rick Bredon" means nothing to you, but you have to be wary of anyone asking for Frank and Joe. He could just be a bill collector, but you mention it to Eric anyway when you call him to say that you've set up a six o'clock meeting with Tilley and Lynch at Westside. <br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You feel the tension mount as lunchtime approaches. Gordon always takes it with Chelsea in the cafeteria, whether they are fighting or not, but you don't want to deal with her. Instead, after the lunch bell has rung, you trudge back into the halls to seek out Will Prescott. You find him by his lockers, brown bag in his hand. You shove him roughly back and snatch his lunch away. "Pay you back later," you snarl, and return to the loft.<br/>
<br/>
You're leaning against a pillar, staring out the window with half a baloney sandwich stuffed in your mouth, when you hear the door open. You glance back over your shoulder. It's Chelsea. You turn away. "Aren't we going to eat together?" she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Pull up a seat if you want."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you mad at <i>me?</i>" she asks, as though such a thing would be impossible.<br/>
<br/>
"If I gave a fuck about you, I might be."<br/>
<br/>
There's a very long silence. You can imagine her turning all kinds of colors behind your back.<br/>
<br/>
"Did I fuck something up for you yesterday," she quietly asks. "Oh my God, were you <i>really</i> with your dad?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you care now? Because you didn't yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh my God. I'm so-- What did he do to you?"<br/>
<br/>
You shove some more sandwich into your mouth. "Nothin'."<br/>
<br/>
"He did, didn't he? Oh, pookie--"<br/>
<br/>
"He didn't do anything, alright?" you yell back at her. "He could've, but he didn't." You fight down a smirk; Gordon never dares lie to Chelsea this way.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, that's a relief, then. So why are you mad at me?" she asks. You don't reply. "It seems like we haven't really talked in weeks, Gordon, and it's not my fault. You've been up here with--"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe I just don't give a fuck about us anymore, okay? Maybe I've been thinking, and--"<br/>
<br/>
You tense as you feel her arms around your waist. "If you wanna give a fuck about me, Gordon, maybe we could--?" She rubs her face against your back.<br/>
<br/>
Your cock stiffens. This is that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you've been thinking about. You and Chelsea Cooper. You've got Gordon's memories, and remember how intense she can be during makeup sex. She rubs harder against you.<br/>
<br/>
But it's just playacting on her part, just her way of getting past this rough spot, so she can lord it over and dominate him again. He always senses it, and you see it more clearly than he does. It would just start over again, the way it's always been between them, with her manipulating his lusts and his emotions until the next time he gets so surly that she has to play nice. Only difference is that tomorrow he'll be returning to his life with no memory of the last few weeks--<br/>
<br/>
<i>Christ, are you actually thinking about doing Gordon a huge favor?</i></span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212112112112112212
author_id: seuzz
title: The End of the Eastman Gang
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Won't work this time, Chelsea," you say. You shove her away. "We're through."<br/>
<br/>
You almost make it to the door before she starts yelling. "Are you trying to <i>break up</i> with me? You think you can--? You got another girl? You've--?" Her rage swallows her voice.<br/>
<br/>
"No I haven't, Chels, but maybe I'd like to start over again with someone new! Fuck me, if I thought it was possible, maybe I'd like to start over again with <i>you,</i> pretend we never--!" You glance back long enough to take in her face, swollen with rage. "But maybe I'll just go fuck myself in the head. It would make as much sense as trying to get along with <i>you!</i>" You stomp out the door, and take a very long jog before returning to the gym to shower and change for fifth period. <br/>
<br/>
You're not sure how Eric intends to cover up Gordon's incipient amnesia, but maybe that little declaration of independence will help him in some way. <i>Don't do me any favors,</i> the Gordon inside your head growls.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
At around five your phone rings, showing Gordon's dad's number. You didn't go home last night, so his dad is probably in a raging froth. You don't answer, and take the precaution of hiding the car in a supermarket parking lot before returning to the gym loft to await the Eastman guys. Jason Lynch--the golem, alerted by his original--joins you, and you have to suffer through almost ninety minutes of his tedious joking and chortling. You send him on a food run just before seven.<br/>
<br/>
Eric shows up a few minutes later. He shakes his head. "I'm missing so much business these days," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Won't Fane make it up to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm talkin' about good times with Christian's group. If they decide to move locations, my days are gonna be empty."<br/>
<br/>
"Even with me around?"<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a sidelong glance. "Any chance Lucy Vredenburg's a comic book fan?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you haven't seen her in your shop, probably not."<br/>
<br/>
You hide Eric in the loft behind some crates. Ten minutes later, two guys who look like David Johnson and Ian Carpenter knock and enter. Johnson swaggers; Carpenter is more cautious. "So what's the deal with Prescott," the former demands.<br/>
<br/>
"He's hiding out. Steve-o's double-crossed us."<br/>
<br/>
"What the-- What do you mean?" Johnson's face wobbles between puzzlement and delight; Lynch has always hated Patterson, and fought him for Gordon's favor.<br/>
<br/>
"He cleaned us out." You nod at the empty cabinets; they turn to stare. "Took all our stuff and set himself up somewhere else."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott stumbled on him over at Eastman. That ain't Jonathan Straussler you're playin' ball with, Tilley," you say to Carpenter, who jerks in surprise. "That's Patterson."<br/>
<br/>
"But I got a mask of Straussler," Ian protests.<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know how it works, but we're gonna find out. Prescott found me today. He's been hiding, trying to figure out who he can trust. You can come out, Prescott!"<br/>
<br/>
Ian and David turn as Eric rises. Johnson claps his hands and howls. "Nice look, Prescott," he jeers. "That's Fat Eric from the comic book shop, ain't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, I'm locked up all day, how'm I supposed to exercise?" Eric slips on some shades--as do you--and raises that flashlight doohickey. David and Ian fall to the ground. You pull their masks off, fish through their pockets, then trot downstairs to intercept Lynch's golem.<br/>
<br/>
He's already on his way in, but you take the sacks of burgers from him and steer him back to David Johnson's car. Once he's behind the wheel, you slip David's keys into the ignition and pull Lynch's mask from his face. <i>Let the clothes be a mystery to go with the last few missing days.</i> While you're occupied with retrieving Lynch's billfold and keys from Johnson's pockets, and replacing them with his own, Keith Tilley pulls into the lot. You drag him, protesting, to Ian Carpenter's car, where you repeat the same trick. Then you jog back up to the loft, just in time to see a helmet come off Keith. You carry him, naked, into the boys' changing room, where you drop him next to some cast-off gym clothes, his keys, and his wallet. As with, Gordon, Lynch, Caleb and the others from last night, he will be missing the last few weeks.<br/>
<br/>
You and Eric leave Jason up in the loft, then drive across the street to wait for the Eastman girls. You've still got the food Lynch's golem had brought, and you offer some to Eric. But he demurs. "Suddenly, I'm on a diet."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You make a repeat performance, with variations, on Carrie Carmichael, Sarah Pak, Joanna Johnson, and on the people that had been hidden under their masks. Then you change into Maddy Caron's mask long enough to stop by Tina Branson's and Natalie Dawkins' houses to pull masks from them. It's going to be a dazed and confused day for many people at Eastman tomorrow.<br/>
<br/>
"Time for Lucy now?" Eric grins when you're back at his place.<br/>
<br/>
"Gotta take care of Gordon first," you say as you drop onto the couch. "But first-- God, I'm beat. The stress--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, you did good. We both did. Reward's comin' up."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess." You suck hard on your lower lip as you stiffen at the thought of Lucy's luscious body. It would feel so good to have <i>that</i> twisted down onto your member. If you got her mask on a golem-- "Fuck. I still got something to pick up from Steve-o's while I'm lookin' like this. Also, that last golem in the loft."<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you leave it? The guys aren't gonna know what it is."<br/>
<br/>
You'd really like to accept his reasoning, but you can't. "Best to wipe all traces, isn't it, boss? Which reminds me--" You snap your fingers as he starts to reply. "Carrie told me something about a dude who showed up at Frank and Joe's place." You tell him what she said. "I guess that's something <i>else</i> to check out."<br/>
<br/>
"Get used to lots of legwork, Will," Eric says. "But I'll report it to Fane. They might know something."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's the golem you and Caleb made that you need to pick up from Patterson's; the one in the loft is one that he made. Patterson's doppelganger gives you a cold look when you show up at his house and tell him you've come to collect it. "I wanna a three-way up in the loft," you finally tell him.<br/>
<br/>
He guffaws and relents. "Tell me how it goes," he says. "This one's supposed to obey Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"She'll do what I tell her. Or else."<br/>
<br/>
"Who's that?" Patterson asks as you take out Lucy's mask. You put it on the golem, and catch her in your arms as she stumbles. "Whoa!"<br/>
<br/>
Lucy gasps and tries pushing away, but you are able to quickly quiet her, much to Patterson's amazement, and bundle her into the VW Bug. "You gonna do it with <i>both</i> Vredenburg girls," Patterson hungrily asks. "When do I get a chance at that?"<br/>
<br/>
"When your boss says it's okay."<br/>
<br/>
"I can't find him!"<br/>
<br/>
"Then you're shit outta luck until you do." He gives you the finger as you pull out of the driveway.<br/>
<br/>
Lucy tries talking, but you tell her to be quiet; it would be tiresome trying to explain things. Still, you can't help looking over at her. Even under the floppy sheet you've wrapped about her, you can make out her figure.<br/>
<br/>
It's probably for this reason that you blow past the cop car waiting at the entrance to the Westside parking lot. Only when you catch flashing lights in your rearview mirror do you realize what you're in for. Your sphincter loosens, and you pull over sharply, stopping just inside the lot. It would be too much hope it's only a regular patrolman.<br/>
<br/>
And it is too much to hope. He even gives you a couple of moments to soil yourself. You don't, though, and take advantage of his sadistic ploy to snatch the mask off Lucy. The only thing worse than getting caught is getting caught with a naked Lucy Vredenburg in the car.<br/>
<br/>
You roll down the window as the cop steps out and marches up. "Where've you been, son," Gordon's dad softly asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Dad, I--"<br/>
<br/>
"Step outside, son. Into my office." He glances briefly past you at the golem, but says nothing. You slip Lucy's mask under your shirt as you get out, and follow him back to his prowler. You get in the passenger side, and wait for the blow.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't come. Gordon's dad is almost as big as him, and far meaner, but he also knows how to use silence and tension. He pretends to scribble in his book. He sniffs. You suffer, and finger the mask.<br/>
<br/>
"Now then, son," he says, turning toward you.<br/>
<br/>
With a lightning blow, you jam Lucy's mask onto him. The back of his head cracks against the window, and he slumps. But it's not Russell Black's head. It's Lucy Vredenburg's.<br/>
<br/>
You bite your lip. <i>God damn it, but she looks hot inside your dad's uniform.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"What did you--?" She raises claw-like fingers at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up, Dad, unless you wanna stay like that!"<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck have you been--!"<br/>
<br/>
"I said <i>shut up</i>! You can't fucking arrest me, and if you try calling one of your buddies, <i>you're</i> the one who's gonna get arrested. Because I don't care what you tell them, there's no way they'll believe that it's <i>you.</i>" <br/>
<br/>
The girl turns a deep shade of purple. "That's right," you continue, "You'll wind up in the loony bin, which might not be so bad for me and mom. But I can fix it for you, as long as you do one thing for me. Stay here till I get back." You glare until she nods very curtly.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Of all the fucking bad luck,</i> you think as you go into the gym. Now you'll have to get Eric out here for another flensing. Well, you can get Gordon out here too if you call Braydon, so maybe it's not so bad.<br/>
<br/>
Then a fleeting thought stops you in your tracks. Lucy Vredenburg is just a college student. The identity of a cop might be of more value to you and to Fane.</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121121121121122121
author_id: seuzz
title: A World with Only One Impostor
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span><i>Nah,</i> you decide after only a moment's thought. Being a cop probably isn't all that much fun, and you'd have Gordon to deal with. It's just easiest to keep to your original plan. You call Braydon--who sounds eager to escape something or other--and then Eric, explaining what has happened. You carefully watch the patrol car--and Lucy--through the loft window until first Braydon and then Eric appear. You remain in the loft, watching, as the latter approaches the patrol car with his disabler beam (or whatever he calls it). Only then do you run downstairs to the parking lot. At first you think something must be wrong, for Eric is doubled up next to the car. But he looks up at your fast footfalls, and you see that he's laughing hard.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude," he gasps. "This is <i>hilarious!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm glad you find it so fucking funny. I was shitting myself. You don't know this asshole." <br/>
<br/>
You reach through the prowler's window to twitch the mask off Gordon's dad, but Eric stops you long enough to first snap a picture of the unconscious Lucy in the cop uniform. "Gotta keep mementos," he chortles.<br/>
<br/>
While he fits the flensing helmet onto Gordon's dad, you summon Braydon over and put him into the patrol car, and order him to disrobe. It's gotten dark, so there's little chance of being seen as you pull off Gordon's clothes and throw them into the car for him to put on. You take Braydon's clothes--so many more than Gordon's workout ensemble--and stuff them into Eric's car; you drag the golem from Gordon's Bug and put it in Eric's car as well. Back at the prowler, you pull Braydon's mask off, revealing Gordon. Eric shifts over to flense him while you return to his car, hiding in the back and removing Gordon's mask. Too late--as the world begins to dim--you remember: <i>Patterson's golem is still up in the loft ...</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric's car is rocking gently when you revive. You sit up. "Where are--"<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!" Eric jumps. "You fucking scared the crap out of me, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry. Where are we?"<br/>
<br/>
"Almost back to my place. I figured we'd go back to Westside after we were sure those other two were gone."<br/>
<br/>
"And we need to go back there because--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you need to do something about Braydon? Where are you going to put his mask?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh yeah.</i> You drum your fingertips. Your shoulder brushes something cold and hard. It's the golem.<br/>
<br/>
"I could put it on <i>this</i> thing," you say. "That's the kind of job it's designed for."<br/>
<br/>
"Then do that," Eric says.<br/>
<br/>
"Except we should let the real Braydon go," you remember. "Get him out from under my face. We can put my face on the golem."<br/>
<br/>
"Then do that," Eric says in the exact same tone of voice.<br/>
<br/>
"Except it would be better to get Patterson's face on this thing," you reflect aloud. "That way I can order him around. He'd be a useful slave."<br/>
<br/>
"Then do that."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, but his mask has that seal in it, it wouldn't--"<br/>
<br/>
"Make up your freaking mind, dude!"<br/>
<br/>
You slouch, mulling things over long and hard. Eric drives around. "Does your flensing helmet work on golems?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. Those things aren't in my department."<br/>
<br/>
"Let's give it a try. Here's what we'll do." You hope the amnesiac Gordon doesn't call golem-Patterson before you can get hold of him.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your phone calls get golem-Patterson and golem-Prescott up to the loft, where Eric incapacitates them with that flashlight; while they are out, you get them undressed while Eric tries the helmet out on Patterson. "Don't think it's gonna work," he tells you. "It's not latching onto anything to flense."<br/>
<br/>
"Then we'll have to manage some other way." You pull the mask off Patterson, releasing an unconscious Aubrey Blackwell, and move it onto Patterson's own golem, Eric dazes it anew with his flash. You then pull your mask off Braydon and shift it onto Blackwell; you won't be able to order your twin around--that mask too is under Patterson's control--but it will be easier to get to the magician if he's hidden under your mask than under Patterson's. Eric flenses Braydon, then you and golem-Prescott drag him down to his car to revive and dress on his own. Prescott returns home.<br/>
<br/>
And that's the end of the Westside imposters. It still leaves golem-Patterson to deal with, though. He is truculent and argumentative after he revives, and calls you all kinds of names, but you firmly insist that you're working with his boss. "I don't fucking believe you," he yells, but the sight of a grim Eric Kim brandishing that heavy flashlight keeps him from charging you.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't care if you do or not," you retort. "You'll hear from him eventually. Point is that everyone else we've been working with has been coming down with amnesia. Gordon, Jason, Caleb, <i>everyone.</i> Me and Patterson are all that's left, so if you don't want people thinking you're crazy, you'll keep your mouth shut around all your old friends."<br/>
<br/>
"Why do I think the real me is <i>also</i> suffering memory loss," he seethes.<br/>
<br/>
"If he was, you wouldn't be here. Just hang loose, win your ball games, and bang all the girls you want." He looks around for that golem. "Using your own native charm," you add. "No masks or fakes." He curses bitterly, and leaves.<br/>
<br/>
"Can we go home now," you groan to Eric.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," he grins. "Is Lucy coming with us?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But Lucy has been absent for too long, you decide. You give Eric a consolation prize, though, and after moving your golem into his apartment you pull Cindy's mask out of the pile and put it onto the golem you'd made. "Lucy's sister," you tell him, nodding at the frightened girl. "Cindy," you say, leaning close. She flinches back. "You're not afraid. We're your friends. You like us. You think we're a lot of fun, and you want to have fun with us." She looks between you and Eric, and with a much calmer expression she nods. "You're going to stay here and party with Eric," you continue. "You like to party, right?" She giggles, and nods. "Eric is going to show you a good time, and you are going to have a good time. You are going to do whatever he asks, and you are going to enjoy it immensely. And you're going to tell him how much you enjoy it." She smiles and looks up at Eric with a mischievous gleam in her eye.<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, is that, like, hypnotism or something," Eric asks hoarsely. Saliva is forming on his lips.<br/>
<br/>
"No. She's just my slave. She has to do whatever I tell her."<br/>
<br/>
"Really? And you just told her--?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's right."<br/>
<br/>
He grips you so hard it hurts. "Little bro, I am <i>so much in your debt!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
He takes her into the bedroom. You take Lucy's clothes and mask into the bathroom. As you'd done a few days ago, you put the latter to your face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake to a headache, and feel cold tile under you. <i>Oh God,</i> you groan. <i>Not again. Where am I now?</i> You rub your temples while keeping your eyes clenched shut. It helps a little. You were going over to Rob's, but then the phone rang and--<br/>
<br/>
"Gyah!" You shudder at the memory of Professor Blackwell greeting you and ordering you to undress, then grasping your face. And then you were dressing again and calling Steve Patterson and meeting him and--<br/>
<br/>
You sigh and get to your feet. Now that you've got yourself placed, you feel much steadier, at least until you see yourself in the mirror. Your complexion is blotched, and your hair is a mess. You've nothing here to fix things, so you just splash cold water on your face and pull your shimmering platinum hair back into a ponytail. Your clothes-- You sniff at them. They are stiff and grungy. Gritting your teeth, you pull them on. It does feel good to have things sliding up your legs and around your hips and breasts and over your head. You only wish they didn't feel so gritty. You give yourself one last quick lookover, slide your feet into your sneakers, and leave the bathroom. A bed is creaking behind a closed door, and you shut out the thought of fat Eric Kim getting it on with--<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yyychh.</i> Cindy's now your sister. You hope Eric's taking the bottom.<br/>
<br/>
You stride outside and call a cab. Your SUV is still over at Blackwell's villa, where the fake Lucy had left it after he'd summoned her out so he could step into her place.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's very dark when the cab drops you off, and all the lights in the villa are out. A breeze hisses over the wall. You shiver. The place is so creepy at night.<br/>
<br/>
You've been there before at night. Or, rather, golem-Lucy has. Occasionally Blackwell would summon her out, put on her mask, and laze around the house, sometimes reading or making notes in the library; sometimes doing housework in her nude form. <i>Dirty old pervert.</i><br/>
<br/>
But although the house holds many unpleasant memories and associations, at least so long as you are in this form, you regard it speculatively now. Blackwell's car is gone, so his golem must be elsewhere. You could sneak in and scope it out, send some intelligence back to Hyde-White. <br/>
<br/>
You could also gather some intelligence for yourself. The place has got to be stuffed with magical whatsits and hoo-hahs. There might be stuff that you could find useful. Privately useful.</span></div></div>


path: 11123122212212212111112221111221121222222222222121221211211211211221212
author_id: seuzz
title: Life as Lucy
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>No, you need to get back to Lucy's place. Besides, you really don't like the looks of Blackwell's villa.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I'm home," you call as you let the door slam behind you.<br/>
<br/>
Mrs. Vredenburg's head bobs up from the sofa. "The prodigal," she says with faint asperity. "Where have you been?"<br/>
<br/>
"Out with Jenny." You pass into the kitchen, to yank open the refrigerator and sniff disdainfully at a leftover pizza. You take an apple from the crisper. "We were up late watching movies and the time got away so I decided to stay over with her."<br/>
<br/>
"And the night before last?" your mom calls.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that was the night before. It was too late to call you, and I forgot yesterday morning. Then last night it happened all over again."<br/>
<br/>
She sighs deeply as you return to the living room munching on the apple. "Next time don't forget, child," she says. "Your father's been worried sick. You weren't answering your phone."<br/>
<br/>
"It wasn't-- Oh my God!" You pull it out from your purse. "It fu-- It <i>died</i> on me! Again! Oh, this piece of crap. No wonder I didn't hear back from Ray!"<br/>
<br/>
"Who's Ray?"<br/>
<br/>
"My math tutor! I've got that assignment due day after tomorrow, and he has to-- We have to get together so he can help me with it! Of all the times for it to--" <br/>
<br/>
You stomp from the room, then smile to yourself as soon as you're out of sight of Mrs. Vredenburg. <i>Such an easy play.</i><br/>
<br/>
You do have a lot of school work to catch up on, but you first duck into the den, where you hug your dad and kiss him on the head and apologize softly and profusely for making him worry about you. He pats you rather gruffly and says it's all right. It isn't, you can tell, but give him twelve hours of you at home, and it will be. Lucy is what she ever will be to him: the bright-eyed little five-year-old who used to fall asleep in his lap.<br/>
<br/>
In your room, with the door closed and locked, you get down grimly to working on your grades. You start by calling Ray. "Oh my God, Ray, this is Lucy. You've been trying to call me, haven't you? I'm so sorry. I was so snowed under with my other classes I turned my phone off and forgot to turn it back on and then it died on me. I've only now come up for air. You <i>have</i> been trying to call me, haven't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he sighs in that reedy voice, and you try to shut out the vision of his pimply, ardent face. "I've got your homework done, but--" He breaks off, and you grit your teeth. He does this every couple of weeks. He resumes with the now familiar tune. "I really shouldn't be doing your work for you, Lucy. You're not learning anything--"<br/>
<br/>
"But I am," you insist. "It doesn't make any sense when I stare at it in the book, but when I see the work done, I'm like, 'Duh'! I'll pick it up from you tomorrow morning and then-- What are you and Gary doing this weekend?"<br/>
<br/>
"Same old stuff--"<br/>
<br/>
"You need a break. I do too after writing my history and lit papers. Let's go see a movie. Or, I know! You can rent one and we'll watch it at your place. I'll bring Jenna along--you remember Jenna--so we can sit boy girl boy girl while watching it. We'll bring the pizza!"<br/>
<br/>
He swallows noisily. "Yeah, okay--"<br/>
<br/>
"Excellent! We'll talk tomorrow." You quickly hang up and call Aaron. "How's the dissertation going, sweetie," you chirp. "I almost stopped by to see you yesterday, but remembered you'd said something about meeting your adviser?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, that's not till next week, and I thought you <i>were</i> going to-- So, I guess you wrote your paper for Brown by yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wish. Stupid math homework was kicking my butt. You wrote it for me, didn't you, sweets? Because I have to turn it at two tomorrow. When's your first class?"<br/>
<br/>
"Four. I'll have to set my alarm if you're gonna-- Can you come pick it up tonight?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can't, Dad was giving me dirty looks because-- What time are you gonna set your alarm for?"<br/>
<br/>
"Two, I guess," he grumbles. "I won't be going to bed for another seven hours."<br/>
<br/>
"Set it for eleven thirty. I'll surprise you with breakfast in bed."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need breakfast in bed, I need sleep--"<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>need</i> someone to relieve all that tension I hear in your voice."<br/>
<br/>
"Do I sound tense?"<br/>
<br/>
"You sound <i>turgid.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh," he grunts. Then the penny drops. "Oh!"<br/>
<br/>
After that you call Rachel. "Where have you <i>been</i>," she shrieks. "I need that paper for Brown tomorrow!"<br/>
<br/>
"I know, and it's done, girlfriend, I'll have it for you by--" You quickly calculate how long it will take you at Aaron's. "Twelve. Oh, make it twelve-thirty, something might come up." It's a safe bet Aaron will only get it up once, but it's best to give yourself a margin. "I'll drop it off along with another math assignment for you to copy out for me. You have anything for Lit I need to do for you?"<br/>
<br/>
"What can you tell me about Kubla Khan? I just know Lincoln's gonna call on me tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, that's a big one," you improvise. "To be honest, um-- Anything I told you would get you in good with him, but if he asked you a follow up question it would look bad if you couldn't answer."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, could you at least work me up some notes tonight, drop them off with--"<br/>
<br/>
"You have Lincoln in the morning, right? 'Fraid I can't, then, Rachel, but can you write your next paper on it? I can do that for you."<br/>
<br/>
"I need something that'll keep me from looking stupid in front of that guy I was telling you--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, is <i>that</i> what it's about? Why didn't you say so? We can set that up!" Rapidly you outline a plan that involves her cute, smart crush chancing on Rachel while she's tutoring you on nineteenth century English literature. "I'll give you the notes, and you parrot them back to me while I play dumb. Isn't that perfect?"<br/>
<br/>
"But we'd have to make sure he--"<br/>
<br/>
"Leave it to me, Rachel! What's his name?"<br/>
<br/>
"Tom Liddell, and when he looks over at me and I'm being stupid I just want to <i>die!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll do a little digging. You know me, if I don't know them I know someone they know."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
An exhausting two hours pass as you resume contact with Lucy's numerous friends, supporters, and scholarly slaves. You pepper the social sites and Twitter with cryptic comments about being "buried alive" and "crucified" and "feeling sucked dry like an orange" which as the hours pass provoke catty, smutty replies from your friends, all of which you laugh off. "Working too hard to have fun, but having fun anyway" is your all-purpose reply: nicely ambiguous in case your family sees it, but a winking acknowledgement to friends who know <i>exactly</i> how Lucy's college life runs. <br/>
<br/>
You are longer online than you should be, but you finally drag yourself away and into the bathroom. You feel dirty inside the clothes, so you cast them off and take a very quick cold shower to cleanse yourself and restore feeling to your skin. Then, while the tub fills with very hot water, you give your naked body a very minute examination in the mirror.<br/>
<br/>
Like all the Vredenburg girls you are very pale, but with the healthy glow of alabaster. Your face is a flat but regular oval with wide cheekbones under large, blue eyes. You touch your small nose at the tiny scar, the only clue to the minor surgery that straightened out a bump. Small lips that bunch up easily into a pert, mischievous smile. You pull the long, flat hair back--it frizzes a little--and drape it over your shoulder. Your arms are firm and strong without being bulky. You set a foot on the vanity and stroke the long firm thigh and well-shaped calf. There's only a little stubble, and you'll shave in the bath. You stretch out your leg and grasp your foot and put your face to your knee. It feels very good to stretch, and you thrum pleasantly at the prospect of the workout tomorrow with the cheerleading squad. Lucy was the captain in high school, but she's content to let Jenna, her best friend, run the college team; it gives her the fun without the responsibility. Then you stand again and drink in the firm, well-shaped torso that sits on wide, healthy hips: the curves at the side of the stomach, and the shallow pan of the belly with the scoop of the navel just below the center. And hanging above-- <i>Mmm.</i> You cradle the firm, round globes and let the nipples harden as you lightly brush them.<br/>
<br/>
The tub has filled by now, and you slip into it, gasping and hissing as the hot water pinches and bites your tender bottom, then slip down so the water laps at your chin. Slowly you relax. After the water has tingled sharply all over you spread your legs and gently massage the heat into the sensitive membranes under your bush. Lucy lost two days, but that just means you have fresh memories of being with Rob. He was so attentive, and you thrum at the memory of his cock-- You gasp and arch your back and let dizzy memories enfold you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your phone rings early the next morning while you're putting on makeup. You frown at the unfamiliar number, and answer very tentatively. "I do beg your pardon," a crisp, English-accented voice says. "I seem to have a wrong a number. A Will Prescott wouldn't be there by any chance, would he?"</span></div></div>


path: 111231222122122121111122211112211212222222222221212212112112112112212121
author_id: seuzz
title: LIfe as Lucy, Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Speaking," you reply to your caller's query. "Professor Hyde-White?"<br/>
<br/>
"Quite. But I am also speaking to a Lucy Vredenburg, am I not? In that case, let us say you are passing along a message to a mutual friend."<br/>
<br/>
"I like that way of putting it too," you reply. You let the phone fall away a little from your mouth as you slide a pale shade of lipstick over it. "What can Will do for you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm. Mr. Kim says that Lucy Vredenburg is a very lovely girl. I can say that she has a very lovely voice. Is there anything that <i>you</i>, as opposed to Mr. Prescott, need to tell me?"<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't sound like a leading question, but you think hard and carefully before answering. "I don't think so. I think everything I know went into Eric's report. When Aubrey Blackwell wasn't impersonating Lucy Vredenburg--" You grimace at the thought of that fat old fucker hiding under this luscious form. "When he wasn't impersonating her he let her go about her life."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you familiar with his house and possessions?"<br/>
<br/>
"I spent some time inside it, doing some work. Some reading and note-taking, some regular housework too--"<br/>
<br/>
"Would it be unusual if you spent time in the professor's company, at his house and in his office?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. He rather took me under his wing after he got rid of the original girl. But Professor Blackwell--his golem, I mean--might think it weird. I don't think I could fool him."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you asking me to pretend to be Blackwell, but hiding under Lucy's mask?" You brush away a slight blemish in your cheek powder. "Because golems can sense their masters, and he would sense I'm not Blackwell."<br/>
<br/>
"I see. That <i>is</i> a complication." The line goes silent for a bit. "You say that you did some reading and note-taking in his house. What sort of reading and note-taking?"<br/>
<br/>
"Things having to do with magic," you say. "I have to tell you that I don't remember any more than that."<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" His tone sharpens.<br/>
<br/>
"Because of the way the masks work. They don't really pick up on what the mask-wearer is thinking." You hear Cindy hollering your name, but ignore her. "So whatever he was thinking and understanding under the mask didn't go into it. And Lucy--" You stumble over the name; it now sounds strange to refer to her in the third person instead of the first. "She doesn't have a head for those things. I can't understand what she saw and did, because she didn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah. Very interesting," he says, and you wonder why he hasn't been experimenting with the book himself. "In that case, I shall have to call you back at--shall we say--four o'clock your time?"<br/>
<br/>
"I have cheerleading practice," you cautiously say. "I guess I could--"<br/>
<br/>
"No no, you must stay in character. When would be a good time to call?"<br/>
<br/>
Cindy yells for you again, and there's banging on your bedroom door. "Three o'clock my time would work fine," you say.<br/>
<br/>
He's silent for a bit. "I shall have to call you on Wednesday, then. Three o'clock? In the meantime, I have some instructions you can pass along to Mr. Prescott." You are momentarily confused, thinking he might mean your golem, but quickly realize he means you yourself. Cindy bangs on the door again. You step out of the bathroom with a fierce frown, wondering how to balance the professor and your sister. But Professor Hyde-White's instructions are very brief and easy to understand.<br/>
<br/>
You grip the phone after he's hung up and wrench open the door. "What <i>is</i> it, Cindy," you bark at her. "I was on the <i>phone!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm going to be late, Lucy!"<br/>
<br/>
"Cry me a river. I'm ready to go--" You grab up your book satchel. "So move it!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Move it," you yell at the driver in front, and blast the horn of your SUV. Traffic leading into Westside High is backed up badly. It's now Wednesday morning, and you've had a few pleasant days as Lucy. But driving to school is never the best part of any day.<br/>
<br/>
"It's really weird," Cindy cries. "I'm worried about him."<br/>
<br/>
"So dump his ass, then you won't have a reason to worry about him anymore. Problem solved," you snort.<br/>
<br/>
You sense, rather than see, her turn a tear-stifling frown on you. "I can't-- Haven't <i>you</i> ever loved a guy, Lucy?" A haggard, accusatory tone invades the last question.<br/>
<br/>
"Only ones who were worth it, Cindy. Seth's an asshole, as I've told you any-- For God's sake, there's almost <i>ten fucking feet in front of you!</i> Oh!" You fall back and press tense fingers to your forehead. "The <i>idiot drivers</i> at this school! You said he's been doing drugs, Cindy?"<br/>
<br/>
"No! He swears--!"<br/>
<br/>
"They <i>all</i> do, Cindy, they <i>all</i> swear they don't! But if a guy has to promise you he isn't, then you dump his ass, because you don't even <i>want--</i> Finally!" You jam onto the accelerator and jerk the wheel; the right-front tire bumps over the curb as you turn into the parking lot; but traffic has stopped again, and the back half of your SUV is still sitting in the street. "Fuck you, you morons!" you scream. "If you all just moved up half a foot!"<br/>
<br/>
You turn to Cindy, who's eyes are red and puffy. "Cindy, I love you because you're my sister and I don't want to see you hurt. If all these rumors you were telling me about are true, about those guys dropping acid up in the wilderness--"<br/>
<br/>
"Seth wouldn't! There's no way he'd hang out with losers like some of those guys!"<br/>
<br/>
"But everyone says he was there, you <i>told</i> me--"<br/>
<br/>
"He says he doesn't remember--"<br/>
<br/>
"What a fucking <i>perfect</i> excuse. 'I don't remember'! It's bullshit, Cindy, and if he thinks you'll swallow it then he thinks you're stupid, and if you do swallow it then you <i>are.</i> Don't make me ashamed of you."<br/>
<br/>
She crosses her arms and sulks. "Then I guess I am that stupid, because I <i>do</i> believe him. If you only talked to him, Lucy, you'd <i>see</i>--!"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll buy condoms for him," you retort, "because I'm doing my best to look out for you. But I'm not gonna <i>talk</i> to him!"<br/>
<br/>
Tears trickle down her cheeks. "I can't just <i>abandon him,</i> not when he's hurting."<br/>
<br/>
You sigh deeply. "You've got a good heart, Cindy. I'm actually glad you're torn up. But trust me. I've been telling you for months now that Seth is no good for you. How much more evidence do you need?"<br/>
<br/>
She sniffles and chokes a little. "I just can't believe-- Maybe it was a one-time thing. He's learned his lesson!"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't want to be mixed up with a guy who has to be burned that hard just because he's a thick asshole who likes to play with matches. Listen." You take her by the chin; she tries jerking away, but gently you turn her face toward yours. "I'm being tough because one of us has to be. But don't worry, I'm not gonna tell Mom about any of this." She sniffs some more, and nods and mutters something that might be "Thanks". "If you think it was just a one-time thing, something weird-- Well, tell me all about it tonight. A drive to school isn't the place to spring it on me. Okay?"<br/>
<br/>
She nods and thanks you again, and gets slowly from the SUV. "How long do we have to sit here!" you scream at the line of cars.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric grins like the cat that's caught a cage of canaries when you breeze into the shop after dropping off Cindy. "Duuuuuuuuude!"<br/>
<br/>
"That's my sister you're banging, you know," you remind him with a sniff. "But you'd be better for her than her current boyfriend. I could set you up."<br/>
<br/>
"Nah. Why deal with the shit when that golem thing gives you only the sugar." From beneath the counter he draws out the mask: Maddy Caron. "You can use the back." You nod, and take the mask into the "interrogation room."<br/>
<br/>
You spend thirty minutes--including the time to change masks out--and put down all the notes you can about "Maddy's" encounter with Rick Bredon at the Durras house. You pass them to Eric and set off for the university.<br/>
<br/>
The day passes pretty much as usual--picking up papers and passing out favors in payment, and shuttling from one boring class to the next. You hide out in the library at three to await Hyde-White's phone call. He rings you on the dot. You start by asking him about your notes on Bredon.<br/>
<br/>
"It was a reasonably informative sketch," he says. "He sounds easy to identify. You have my thanks, but he will not be any business of yours. You and I must discuss Professor Blackwell now."<br/>
<br/>
A pit forms in your stomach, for you have a dreadful premonition.<br/>
<br/>
"We are sending one of our associates to Saratoga Falls," Hyde-White says. "He will be assuming the persona of Professor Blackwell. Help him to make the substitution, and send the real professor back to us, suitably tranquilized under a mask, of course."<br/>
<br/>
You breathe a sigh of relief: at least <i>you</i> will not have to play Blackwell's part.<br/>
<br/>
"In the meantime, you need to find him a student, an acolyte that he can train in the arts of dark magic. It might be Ms. Vredenburg, I suppose, but it can be anyone, really."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't understand," you say. "Why do you want a fake Blackwell teaching--?"<br/>
<br/>
"That is not your affair," he says firmly but gently. "It seems to us good that such a thing should happen. But he needs a student. And we have one more decision for <i>you</i> to make, Mr. Prescott." He hesitates. "You could be that student, learning what the new Professor Blackwell has to teach you. Or, now that you have fulfilled this mission in Saratoga Falls--and so capably too--you could return to England to embark on a different kind of training."</span></div></div>


path: 1112312221221221211111222111122112122222222222212122121121121121122121211
author_id: seuzz
title: New Boss, Much Worse Than the Old
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You've  just gotten yourself into a comfortable position, playing the role of Lucy Vredenburg, and feel rather disinclined to give it up for a return to England. You are also intrigued by the idea of exploring "magic" a little more in depth. So you tell Professor Hyde-White that you would like to stay.<br/>
<br/>
"Very well," he says. "You will have to do some preparatory work on your end, of course, so that our associate can slip into the life of Professor Blackwell. But after your great recent successes, that should be very easy for you. I will telephone Mr. Kim now, informing him of what he must do on his end. I wish you luck." He hangs up.<br/>
<br/>
There seems nothing else for you to think about, and you go to cheerleading practice, and relax.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Eric calls you around dinnertime. He sounds mournful. "Aw, dude, we were having so much fun," he sighs. "I guess it had to end."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you leaving town," you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"No, and I guess we'll see each other around. But this new guy Fane's sending out, he's gonna be your new boss. He'll be here tomorrow. Can you leave Cindy with me for another night?"<br/>
<br/>
"As far as I'm concerned you can keep her until the new boss says otherwise," you say. That cheers him up. But you are also a little disconcerted to learn that the new arrangement will change your working relations with Eric.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The new guy touches down at seven the next evening, at the private airfield, in a Fane jet. You were expecting someone older and urbane, like Hyde-White. He's quite the opposite. "Oi, you Presc'tt?" he asks as he slides into Eric's front seat. "Oi'm Bob. We gunniv s'm fun." He grins, and you draw your sweater more tightly about your shoulders. "Yeah, lo'ah fun."<br/>
<br/>
You don't like the idea of "fun" coming from a guy half of whose skull is shaved, and whose long black hair--clearly dyed to be even blacker--drapes over the other half of his head. He's ghastly white in color, with an obvious five o'clock shadow that further disfigures a pock-marked countenance. He's puffy, and you have the strong impression that he likes to drink. You can't see his eyes, for he wears oversize sunglasses. There's a big earring stuck in one ear, and he wears leather clothes.<br/>
<br/>
"Did Professor Hyde-White tell you how we'd be working together?" You try to keep Lucy's distaste out of your voice.<br/>
<br/>
"'E said 'oo go' 'ese magic masks. 'As brilliant. So 'oo'm Oi go'na be? Go' a gull f'r me?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's a professor at the local college. He's middle-aged, very fat, and bald."<br/>
<br/>
Bob laughs nastily. "Lurvly. Respec'ability. Be ible t'old moi 'ed up nes'toim Oi see Jamie. 'Ow 'e doin' th' switch? Jamie tells me you're th'exp'rt."<br/>
<br/>
You brief him. In your guise as Lucy you had gone up to see Blackwell's golem at his office, pretending to be his other golem and bringing word that the professor wished them both to meet him at King Kong Komics. The fake professor had evinced a certain amount of skepticism, but agreed to follow you. Once there, you and Eric had gotten him in the back room and overpowered him so you could get the mask off the golem. Meanwhile, "Will Prescott" (still hiding the real professor) had joined you. He is waiting in the back room still, thumbing through a stack of comic books Eric had given him.<br/>
<br/>
Bob laughs when he sees Will. "An' oo's 'is?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's me. When I'm not looking like this." You indicate Lucy's much more attractive figure. <br/>
<br/>
"Cute, both iv'ya. So--"<br/>
<br/>
"So I'm going to take Will's face off him," you explain, "and put it on that lump of mud over there--"<br/>
<br/>
"'At's a golem?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know the term?"<br/>
<br/>
"We bin thumbin' thro' the <i>Libra.</i> Oi know th' spells, f'rst se'en o' 'em anywiy."<br/>
<br/>
"So we'll put my face on the golem. And this is for you." You hand him Blackwell's mask. "We've got two of them, but this one has his most recent memories."<br/>
<br/>
"An' 'ow're we 'handlin' the p'fesser?"<br/>
<br/>
"We're using this one." You hold up one of masks Eric had taken from the Westside loft. "Someone named Emily Shaffer."<br/>
<br/>
"It go' summa 'at golem stuff innit?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not yet. We were waiting for you to get here, so you could check over our plan." You're glad you did, for you have the impression that Bob will be a much more demanding boss than Eric. From the way he holds himself, you wonder if he might hit you when you mess up.<br/>
<br/>
"Roight. We'll pu' s'm in, but we'll use moi 'air. Keep 'im quiet, like 'em boys."<br/>
<br/>
"Frank and Joe?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." He shivers. "Gla' we go' 'em locked up toight. Le's do 'is."<br/>
<br/>
It all goes off quickly and you're able to send your reconstituted double home almost immediately. Blackwell--the real man--is a bit more of a challenge, for you'd had no good clothes on hand for the mask you put on him. Emily Shaffer, it turns out, was the Westside school nurse: a very matronly fifty-year-old. (You've no idea what Patterson was thinking when he copied her, and are pretty sure you don't want to know.) Bob orders Eric to take her to the airfield for the trip back to England. As Bob readies his own transformation, you wait in the outer shop. You've no desire to see <i>him</i> naked; still less to see the professor naked.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wait almost thirty minutes--time enough for Eric to drop off Nurse Shaffer and get back--before tapping on the door to the interrogation room and looking inside. Blackwell--Bob, of course--is on his feet, but he's fumbling with his clothes. "Uh, having trouble there, Professor?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, just a spot," he says vaguely. "I know how to put these on, but fuck if I can concentrate with all these--" He frowns and glances about.<br/>
<br/>
He must be disoriented from Blackwell's mind. "Just relax and let the mask do the work," you tell him. "It'll come." You're relieved that Bob's accent has at least disappeared.<br/>
<br/>
"Will it? Better. I'm having a hell of a time concentrating."<br/>
<br/>
You leave him to battle it out on his own; fifteen minutes later you go back to find him again. He's slumped against the wall, looking distracted and irritable. "Something I'm forgetting," he says. "Something really important."<br/>
<br/>
"I can drop you off if you don't feel like driving."<br/>
<br/>
He thinks a moment. "No, I can drive myself." He wobbles as he tries to follow you out. "Hard to walk in this fat suit."<br/>
<br/>
His troubles with the mask worry you enough that you suggest he bed down for the night at Eric's. Eric shoots you a dirty glance.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Ah, Miss Vredenburg," Professor Blackwell says the next morning when you look into his office. It's a spacious thing on the second floor of the Anthropology building; it occupies a corner, so there are two windows looking out over the busy quad, and there's even a little sitting area with a low couch and coffee table. After shutting the door you sit in the chair opposite his desk.<br/>
<br/>
"How are you feeling today, Professor," you ask. You cross your legs--tightly bound in white hose--and pull your skirt over your knee as his eye goes to them.<br/>
<br/>
"Much better. But it takes a lot of concentration to stay in character."<br/>
<br/>
"Does it? I have to concentrate to stay <i>out.</i>" Probably you shouldn't dimple at him, but you can't help it.<br/>
<br/>
"Hmm. Jamie said something about you having a 'native talent' for these things." He blinks. "I might have to start drinking to cover up any lapses."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's just the two of us now, so you can relax a little. Professor Hyde-White said I'd be studying with you," you prompt.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>You</i> will, Prescott," he says. "Not the girl."<br/>
<br/>
"But if I'm playing her--"<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna have to change places, get a much younger face."<br/>
<br/>
The statement baffles, even angers you. One of the reasons you chose to stay in Saratoga Falls was so that you could continue to play Lucy. "Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't argue. You can have your pick. But it's gotta be a young 'un. No more than--" He mulls a bit. "Thirteen."<br/>
<br/>
You stare, and his gaze darkens as he stares back. But you've got some tricks you can play to weasel out more information. "If I'm going to pick a new face, I have to know how I'm going to use it. That way I can pick the right one."<br/>
<br/>
Your boss grumbles and sighs. "We're playing a long-term game here. Certain pieces have to be put into position. The payoff might be years away, and we want to be sure those pieces are still here in Saratoga Falls if and when it comes time to collect our payoff. That's why your new face has to be young."<br/>
<br/>
"Am I going to be in Saratoga Falls for five years?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. Maybe not even one. Maybe no more than a few weeks. But I laid it out on the plane trip out here, and university students won't work for us."<br/>
<br/>
"Can they be freshmen?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's that? I don't understand your system over here."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Jesus, he doesn't understand that even inside Blackwell's mask?</i> "Kids in the ninth grade," you explain, but Blackwell still looks blank. "They'd graduate for college in three and a half years."<br/>
<br/>
"No, got to be at least a year younger than that. You know any you can use?"<br/>
<br/>
You try to keep a poker face. You know only one middle-school student: your own brother, Robert.<br/>
<br/>
"Because if you don't," he continues, "I'd have to pick one out for you."<br/>
<br/>
Robert doesn't have to be your victim, you reflect. You could just use him temporarily to get to one of his friends.</span></div></div>


