# chapters

path: 11331212122121211211111222211211211251114311111
author_id: masktrixie
title: The Rising Danger
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It takes a moment for the true horror of the situation to sink in for Niamh. Then her eyes widen, and she instinctively grabs your hand, squeezing it. <br/>
<br/>
“Oh my God,” she says, her voice hollow and fading as the blood rushes from her face, turning her usual lily-white skin even paler. “She’s gone. Who could have—”<br/>
<br/>
You look at her for a moment, uncertain what to say, before the adrenaline kicks in. You pace the floorspace. “All right. First up, check what’s been taken. When was the last time you were down here?”<br/>
<br/>
“Ah, before I left for the UK. It’s been a week. I figured the book would be safe here. Certainly safer than if my parents found it, and y’know how they’ll take any chance they can to clean out your room.” Boy, do you ever. Although since when was Niamh’s room that dirty? She’s virtually OCD about her consoles.<br/>
<br/>
“OK,” you nod, trying to piece things together. “If someone stumbled on this place they might have taken the book, but why the fuck would you take a statue in the corner? It doesn’t make any sense, unless you know what… I mean, <i>who</i> the statue was. And even then, why the fuck would you take Shelly? What’s the point? She wouldn’t have been easy to carry, either. I imagine her weight plus the gravedirt, but it’d take two people to get her up the stairs. Unless… they used a mask to resurrect her.” <br/>
<br/>
“But who’d even think of doing that?”<br/>
<br/>
Your mind races through the possible suspects. “OK, list of people who know about this place. You, me, Shelly – the fake version, I mean – Acuna. Fuck, if she’s taken it she’ll have probably destroyed the book as demon worship, she’s super-religious. Then there’s Abi Steiner and whoever was dropping off her drugs.” You hop up to the beam and pull yourself up – there’s no stash there. “Doesn’t look like they’ve been. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.”<br/>
<br/>
“So what do we do? We can’t just wait for the book to reappear, who knows what would happen!”<br/>
<br/>
You nod in agreement, even if this is getting ridiculous – the book has yo-yoed in and out of your possession four times now. Maybe it is like Niamh said with the One Ring, trying to find its way back to its master. “I’m more worried what they’re doing to Shelly. Whoever ‘they’ are. There’s no point standing around waiting to see if clues magically appear here.”<br/>
<br/>
“Right,” Niamh agrees. “You check Acuna and fake Shelly. I’ll deal with Steiner and the drug dealers.”<br/>
<br/>
You furrow your brow. “Why do we need to talk to Shelly? I mean, she’s under your command, it’s not like she’d have told anyone."<br/>
<br/>
Niamh looks at you hesitantly. Then nods. “Right. I’ll take Steiner and the dealers, then. You take Acuna. Work for you?”<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. There’s not much else you can do until school, then. For now, you're just going to have to continue life as if everything's normal... even if it's far from it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">***</div><br/>
<br/>
You’re queuing up behind a gaggle of St. X mutants at Don’s Donuts. Since the intrusion at the church they seem to have been popping up everywhere, like whack-a-mole. Maybe it’s that thing where once you notice something, you start spotting it everywhere. The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon? But the words that come out of the first one’s mouth are… incomprehensible.<br/>
<br/>
“Zupfela, kanigehujamwun, eerrm, tha’twerrrleeewun’an. Fookidunow, yerwon summin’lemmnee?”<br/>
<br/>
It’s like he has a speech impediment. It makes you glance up at the back of his head, and for the first time you notice the pair of boys flanking him have an identical set of rusty, ruddy hair that twists itself into knots. Twins. From the other side of the counter, Keith stares at him, trying to understand what he said.<br/>
<br/>
“Downmeyk mehafta poyn,” the speaker says, looking at his friends with exasperation. “Ustel’im. Eeerm, teekow, yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
Keith just shrugs, and gestures with his tongs. “Uh, you want… this one?”<br/>
<br/>
“Fokzaykma!”<br/>
<br/>
The twin on the left interrupts. Unlike his gabbling, spit-inflected friend, his accent is as refined as country butter, the kind of slippery, hushed whisper you’d expect from a Bond villain. “My friend would like one each of the French cruller, the raspberry jelly and citrus surprise, please. To go. Thanks awfully.”<br/>
<br/>
Keith looks palpably relieved, and gets to the order as quickly as possible. You meanwhile, wonder if you shouldn’t have new suspects. Maybe Niamh said something to the wrong person in Cambridge about the book? It seems strange it went missing so conveniently; perhaps they just feigned disinterest and took the chance to head back to Saratoga Falls themselves. Although how they’d know where to go – or ever think of a basement storage unit – is beyond you. For the past half-hour you’ve been desperately trying to focus on having a normal evening. There’s nothing you can do about Acuna now, after all: it’s not like you can muster up a reason to interrogate one of the Westside faculty in her own home. <i>Everything would be easier with the masks, though…</i><br/>
<br/>
“Earth to Will,” Keith says, waving at you. You look up and snap back to the present. “You here to order, or to chat?”<br/>
<br/>
“Waiting for Cassie,” you say, looking around. She messaged you about 10 minutes ago to see if you wanted to do something, and for some reason you’d decided to stick around in town rather than head back to Acheson. With no great plans, you drifted over to see Keith. Don’s is quiet: aside from the trio of creepy brits – the identical twins and their companion who sounds like he’s talking through white noise and spit – the place is dead, save for a young professional who look like he’s just finished work. “Why, you got gossip?”<br/>
<br/>
Keith shakes his head. “Not really, just waiting until m’Kim comes by for her usual. Been so weird today, like a Brit invasion. First some whispy-bearded college kid dressed like Che Guevara, now,” he leans forward and whispers, “the mutants. Just not your Dreamcast girl. What was her name? Narwhal? Nurgle?”<br/>
<br/>
“Niamh,” you say, desperately trying not to think about her, or Shelly, or the monumental pile of shit they’re in. A selfish voice inside your head reminds you that Niamh kicked you out of the coven, but you can’t help feel responsible for their safety. And the mystery of where Shelly’s gone is gnawing at you. “Just give me a coffee, dude.”<br/>
<br/>
Keith nods just as you smile, turning around to glance around the room. The three British kids are talking conspiratorially about something – even the incomprehensible spit-mouth – while the professional seems to be… wait, is he <i>watching you?</i> <br/>
<br/>
You feel an instant sprig of paranoia leap through your body as the man, heavy-set and in his late 30s, immediately turns his eyes and tries to look… too natural. He moves to cover his satchel too, which only draws your attention to it… and the faintest hint of something pale and blue inside.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fuck.</i> It’s a mask. You have no idea who he is, but your mind drifts back to your trip at the other donut shop, too. You could have sworn that he was there, too…<br/>
<br/>
You turn as Keith brings you the coffee, nerves tingling with fear. You try and keep your body controlled, your breath steady and calm, as you turn back to the counter to take it. You have no idea who the professional is, but you’re certain they’re not what they appear. And, worse, you’re certain what they intend to do to you.<br/>
<br/>
“Here you go– hey, you all right, man? You’ve gone white as hell.”<br/>
<br/>
“Keith,” you say quietly, “is there a backdoor to this place?”<br/>
<br/>
“Uh, yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“I need to get out of here. Now.”<br/>
<br/>
Keith looks at you strangely, and half-laughs, expecting some kind of punchline. “You what? C’mon, Will what the hell do you–”<br/>
<br/>
He falls silent as he spies the look in your eyes. The mix of pleading and desperation. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says loudly, “there’s a toilet out back, dude. Down the corridor, turn left.”<br/>
<br/>
You nod, and begin to walk as calmly as you can, trying not to look at the professional or let your hand shake too much. It’s no good. You can sense the professional’s movement, and instantly bolt into a run, rushing back through Don’s and down a small passageway filled with stacked cardboard boxes of straws and little plastic spoons. You have to skid to make the turn, but soon you’re hitting the fire door and pushing past it, bursting free into an alleyway shrouded by night.<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath and think. Your truck is parked outside the Level Cap, so instead you rush toward the Lube ‘N’ Go, south along 20th. It’s a dumb move and you instantly regret it – it’s a full five miles home and there’s no real way you can run a full 10k and make it back. Instead, you find yourself glancing toward Don’s, checking if anyone’s pursuing you as you catch your breath on the pavement. Damn, you need to get in better shape. You’re standing there, confused as hell, when you hear a car pull up to your side. Panicked, you spin around to look inside the cab as it lowers its window.<br/>
<br/>
“Will?” Cassie says, looking at you bemused from the driver’s seat. “Are you all right? What, are we going some place else?”<br/>
<br/>
Cassie must have seen you running and pull in. You knew she was on her way, but you can’t help but laugh at her sense of timing, and you begin to make your way toward her. In six feet you could be safe in her car and away from whoever that professional with the mask was… you’ve got little doubt what they intended to do.<br/>
<br/>
But then a sinking, paranoid thought rushes over you. The masks allow you to be <i>anyone</i>. Is this really Cassie Harper, who just happened to turn up as you made your escape? Or is this just another part of a trap some unknown player has set for you?</span></div></div>


path: 113312121221212112111112222112112112511143111112
author_id: masktrixie
title: Names That Should Not Be Known
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You pause, looking at Cassie. Unable to trust. Unable to do anything. <br/>
<br/>
“I’ve got to go,” you say. “I’ll see you later.” You don’t know if she’s really herself or not, but you can’t get in the car.<br/>
<br/>
“Will? Just get in the car, OK?”<br/>
<br/>
“No, sorry Cassie. I’ve got something I have to do.” You give her a final glance, and then, with a shake of your head, burst into a run. If it really is Cassie you’ve probably confused the hell out of her, but that’s a bridge you can rebuild when you get to it. Right now you need to get the hell away from the businessman. You lapse into a jog, knowing that Cassie can’t hope to turn around and track you down without pulling into one of the lots, then cut away from 20th, pushing through the backlots of businesses. It doesn’t take long to hit the sidestreets of the houses that run along Coolidge and King, but you have no idea how the hell you’re going to shake your pursuers – if there really are any – on foot. You can’t exactly trace your steps back to your pickup, either. <br/>
<br/>
Right now, it feels like there’s a manhunt for Will Prescott. And that limits your options. You pause to catch your breath, hiding behind a shrubbery and praying the nearby house’s security light doesn’t ping on, before reaching to your phone. It’s answered almost immediately.<br/>
<br/>
“Will?” Niamh’s voice is balm to your panic. “What’s up? You found something?”<br/>
<br/>
“Niamh, listen, I think… I think I’m being followed.”<br/>
<br/>
“Followed? By who?”<br/>
<br/>
“Whoever took the masks. I don’t know, I think I saw of them – a mask, I mean. I think they were trailing me, waiting for me to do something.”<br/>
<br/>
Niamh takes a breath on the phone. “OK, Will. Calm down. You’re sure?”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m hiding in a fucking bush, Niamh, yeah, I’m sure!” you squint through the foliage. The road is quiet, with no passing headlights of cars that might be looking for you. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, then, quietly, replies.<br/>
<br/>
“OK. I’m going to borrow my mum’s car and come and get you. Where are you?”<br/>
<br/>
You bring up maps – this isn’t your side of Saratoga Falls – and tell her your location. Then all you can do is sit back and wait, feeling the twisting pain in your stomach grow with each agonising, tense second.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">***</div><br/>
<br/>
It’s barely 10 minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The road has been uneasy and still – though nowhere near as uneasy as you’ve felt – with only the odd passing light. Every time someone comes by, you feel your body tense and go on alert, ready to sprint at a moment’s notice. But the cars have been people coming home, or just passing through. The November cold has begun to bite, and your breath has become a juddering series of clouds. Your feet tingle with numbness and you long for a warm, safe space. <br/>
<br/>
And then you see a car approach. It takes a while to recognize the shape of the Stirland family Ford, and even longer to recognize Niamh’s face behind the wheel. Your heart leaps as you step out, waving to her in the darkness. The headlight beams catch your eye for a moment, dazzling you a little as she pulls up. Then you rush inside, closing the door behind you.<br/>
<br/>
“Go,” you say, looking this way and that, even as you scramble to keep yourself low in the passenger seat. <br/>
<br/>
“Will, if they know about you they know about me,” Niamh says. “Sit up and put your seatbelt on.”<br/>
<br/>
You look at her a little bashfully before complying. “Yeah,” you say, sighing. “You’re right. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”<br/>
<br/>
Niamh nods, hitting the accelerator and heading toward the town's main roads. “Fuck <i>indeed</i>. So what did this businessman look like, the one with the mask?”<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. “Does it really matter? Whoever’s got the masks can look like anyone, can’t they?” You blow out your cheeks. “Fuck. I think Cassie might be one of them, too.”<br/>
<br/>
“Your girlfriend?” Niamh says, glancing at you.<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t know. Maybe she just turned up at the wrong time. Why would anyone replace Cassie Harper? Unless they were trying to get to me, I suppose?”<br/>
<br/>
“And why would they be trying to get to you?” Niamh says slowly. “You were out, remember?”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t know! Because I know about this stuff? Because if they get to me, they could get to you? And once they’ve got you and me – and the Shelly golem – then that’s it, isn’t it? They win. Nobody else knows about the masks. Well… except Ian.”<br/>
<br/>
“Of course,” Niamh says. “We should contact Ian.”<br/>
<br/>
And that’s when you feel the world fall through your stomach, a massive, planet-sized weight of fear and dread. The pallor vanishes from your face once again, and you grow cold and nervous just sat in the passenger seat, unable to control the ride. <i>I never told Niamh about Ian.</i><br/>
<br/>
“You OK?” she says, hand reaching over to touch you with concern. You flinch a little; you can’t help it. Whoever this is must have been playing you from the start. The more you think about it, the more you realize Niamh never said anything first; every name, suggestion, location all came from you.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” you laugh a little nervously. “It’s just… been a wild ride since you turned up again. Honestly, I never thought I’d see you again after our bust-up at St. X. Although that was pretty weird. I mean, I was disguised as Mariah, and you were disguised as Todd.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, I’m glad you’re back with me now.” Not-Niamh smiles. <br/>
<br/>
<i>She didn’t notice you said Todd. She was Dalton in that room.</i><br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” you say, as you wonder what the hell you’re going to do, trapped in a cab with an impostor pretending to be your ex-girlfriend - all while being hunted down by another impostor who looks like your current one.</span></div></div>


path: 1133121212212121121111122221121121125111431111122
author_id: masktrixie
title: Kiss With A Fist
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>“Where are we going?” you ask, looking at not-Niamh. Her eyes are focused on the road ahead, not paying you too much attention. Or maybe she just wants to make you think that; your paranoia is reaching new levels just being in the car with her. Your heart thuds, your pulse buzzes and some invisible spider-sense just screams at you to escape as quickly as you can.<br/>
<br/>
“My house,” not-Niamh says. “Unless you can think of somewhere better?”<br/>
<br/>
“Shelly’s mom’s workshop,” you say. “Where this all began.” You take a breath an look at your phone. The lock screen is little more than a flurry of messages from Cassie, wondering what the hell happened, if she did something wrong, if you’d just tell her then she can undo whatever the problem was. It seems genuine from what you know of her, but then if someone was wearing a mask they could easily copy Cassie’s thoughts and feelings, as well as their face. There’s no one you can trust except…<br/>
<br/>
You message the Shelly golem to meet you in the shed. It might have been under Niamh’s control, but at least you’re confident it was the real Niamh; the message the golem gave you and its general hesitation suggests as much. That means whatever happened to Niamh – the real one – happened in Cambridge. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Meet ur mom’s garage. IT’S NOT NIAMH.</i> You tap out the message and send it.<br/>
<br/>
“Who are you calling?” your driver asks. You thrust the phone back into your pocket. <br/>
<br/>
“Cassie,” you lie. “I don’t know if she’s in on this or not, but she just sent me more messages than I can count. I thought I’d try and–”<br/>
<br/>
“Will,” not-Niamh interrupts, “whatever we’re dealing with, if Cassie’s in on it anything you say to her could be a problem. You need to go radio silent, OK? Until we sort this out. Together.” She gives you Niamh’s radiant, rosy smile. It’s meant to be reassuring. It’s anything but.<br/>
<br/>
***<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, Will, and, uh, Niamh! Whaaaat a surprise!” Shelly meets you as you pull up, her terrible acting in evidence. “I was just taking the garbage out. How are you?”<br/>
<br/>
You wince visibly, hoping the Niamh-poster doesn’t notice. If she does, she’s too good an actress. “Hey, Shelly. Will and I are just going to work on some stuff in your mom’s garage, OK? Y’know. Secret stuff.”<br/>
<br/>
Shelly gives her largest, most unconvincing nod. “Oh, yeah. Secret. Stuff. Uh, but you need me for that, right? With the cameras and everything? After the break-in. Yup.” She bounds off ahead of you, while you look at fake Niamh and give her your most uncertain shrug. <br/>
<br/>
“She’s not normally like this,” Niamh says, still trying to stay in character, you assume to stoke your paranoia. You nod. And that gives you all the space you need to make your move.<br/>
<br/>
“Want to take off the mask of her?”<br/>
<br/>
The fake Niamh looks at you, and grinds her teeth a moment in thought. Then she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Let’s do that.”<br/>
<br/>
You fall in to step behind her. You’re not entirely sure what you’re going to do, but the first step is to remove the mask she’s wearing. You’ve thought about just running home, but both the fake Niamh and the others seem to know you’re involved, and that means they can track you down. Your perpetually broke ass means you don’t have enough for a motel room, and you don’t have access to any masks. Your only hope is to find out who not-Niamh is, work against her, and ally with the Shelly golem. <br/>
<br/>
At least, that’s your dumb plan. You wait for her to step inside the room. The Shelly golem isn’t going to be much help here, you figure, but it’s clearly primed for whatever action you take. So, as not-Niamh turns to speak to you, you do the obvious: recite the magic words to remove the mask, and grasp her head.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Hnnnggghhhhh…</i> You strain at her forehead, fingers in the right place, but nothing seems to happen, just flesh slipping against flesh. You stagger back, knuckles white, as she looks at you. <br/>
<br/>
But it’s not a look of surprise, or as if she’s been offended. It’s a look of pure, malicious pleasure. A look that doesn’t break as your chest erupts into a broad, burning thud of agony that reverberates through your heart and makes your ribs feel like they’re about to cave in. It takes you a half-second to process just how quickly – and how hard – not-Niamh has hit you. A half-second during which you’re already flying back into the door.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?” Niamh says mockingly, even as you hear a desperate scream of rage from somewhere behind her. You look up fast enough to see a barrel of energy and straight red hair fly furiously toward the Niamhleganger, only for her to almost casually step aside and slam Shelly’s head into a workbench. The golem reels, staggers, but somehow remains conscious.<br/>
<br/>
“Get away from him!” It screams, throwing punch after feeble punch that the Niamh duplicate blocks with her elbows, stepping back and laughing in almost amusement. <br/>
<br/>
“Tough little bitch, aren’t you?” she says.<br/>
<br/>
“Stop using her face!”<br/>
<br/>
Shelly’s onslaught continues, but with a sweep of the leg Niamh has her on the floor. “Gonna stay down? Oooh, nope, guess you’re not.” As the golem rises, Niamh grabs her and practically throws her across the room. You don’t know what she lands on, but there’s a sickening sound. For a moment, as you desperately scramble to your feet, your heartbeat pounds in your ear and courage seems to vanish as you wonder if she’s killed Shelly. Certainly the expression on the golem’s face seems shocked.<br/>
<br/>
But then the mask slides off, falling idly to the floor as the creature’s body reverts to stone. And, with the inevitability of gravity, it topples and lands face down on the ground.<br/>
<br/>
<i>What the actual fuck?</i> You pause, looking in shock at the creature collapsed on the floor. The imposter pauses too, surprise writ large on her stolen face.<br/>
<br/>
The supposed Niamh blinks. “Well, that was… unexpected.” Then she turns and looks directly at you. “Round two?” She sighs, and gives an almost indifferent shrug.<br/>
<br/>
“Fuck you, whoever the fuck you are!”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m Niamh,” she says, almost mockingly as she sidesteps your clumsy attempt at a punch, drives a knee into your nuts and grabs you by the throat. “Or I could have been,” Niamh smirks at you, even as the pressure from her fingers squeezes your neck and makes black and blue spots crowd your vision and her words are forced out through gritted teeth. “Seriously, Will. You have any idea what a loser you are? We could have done this the fun way. All I wanted was this stupid book of yours. For that, I’d have fucked your brains out as cutey-pie here. I’d have given you an experience that would have rocked your world. And, instead… well. I guess you’re going to end up the same as lil’ Niamh, aren’t you?”<br/>
<br/>
She pushes her lips against yours for the briefest of moments, then loosens her grip and you drop to the floor, throat a death rattle of gasps for breath as you roll helplessly into a ball, slurping up oxygen. From somewhere above, Niamh has pulled out a phone. The words are terrifying in their simplicity.<br/>
<br/>
“This is Knotts. Skin’s compromised, moving to Plan B. I need a clean-up crew, asap.” She pauses and looks down at you on the floor. “Will and I are going to have a talk. And I think it’s going to get messy.”</span></div></div>


path: 11331212122121211211111222211211211251114311111221
author_id: masktrixie
title: Are You Sitting Comfortably?
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You’re sat down. At least this ‘Knotts’ has afforded you that. You look at her, wearing the face of a girl that you still feel for, knowing deep down that Niamh is dead. The rest of it makes no sense whatsoever. Here, bound to a chair as you wait for whatever clean-up crew she’s ordered arrives, you try and unpick the chaos of the past few days in your mind.<br/>
<br/>
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to monologue?” Knotts asks, sat on the bench, twisting the mask of Shelly Nolan, previously worn by the golem, in her hands. “I suppose I could do that, if it’ll get you to answer a few questions I have. Not that you’re going to be tough to break. Fuck, you practically told me everything over donuts. Magic. Books. Shelly here being a… whatever the fuck she is. Why don’t you start at the beginning? Remove yourself of your burdens?”<br/>
<br/>
“What do you want to know?” You are flat out of options, so cooperation seems to be the only move that even slightly makes sense. It’s not likely that anyone else knows you’re here. “How about a question for a question?”<br/>
<br/>
Knotts laughs. “Oh, that sounds like fun, Will! And you’re hardly going to tell anyone. So let’s get going. Question one. Where’s the book?”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t know,” you say. “When you said it was in St. Xavier’s I figured you meant the basement. It’s the only place it could have been.”<br/>
<br/>
“Niamh didn’t strike me as a lying when she said it. So someone moved it. Any idea who?”<br/>
<br/>
“I get a question first,” you spit. “What happened to Niamh?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, dead,” the impostor says with almost casual indifference. “She came to Cambridge, like she, I, told you. Asked about a magic book with the ability to change faces. That aligned with our corporate interests. So we tried to get more from her – and when that didn’t succeed, we initiated our backup plan. Now, who took the book?”<br/>
<br/>
It’s then that you have an epiphany. And, even bound and beaten, you can’t help but laugh. Knotts laughs too. “What’s the joke?” she says.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s going to be your question two,” you say. “The joke is… I don’t think you killed Niamh at all.” You laugh at her, even harder than before. “Masks, right? I don’t know who you killed! Probably a golem! But the only person who could have taken that book, and would have taken Shelly too, is Niamh <i>fucking</i> Stirland.”<br/>
<br/>
Knotts’ face falls, looking at the stone creature that had been masquerading as Shelly until it was impaled on one of the shop tools. Niamh, you’re certain, never went to the UK. She was working on the book, and that meant staying in Saratoga Falls. You’d bet your life that she sent a golem to ask about the book – it’s why she didn’t bring it with her. And, when the golem vanished, she realized something wicked was coming for her. She took the original Shelly, packed up and relocated. Fuck. Now you think about it, it was probably her – or someone on her side – as the businessman. Or as Cassie. And if that’s the case, then maybe… just maybe… she’s on her way to rescue you.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re joking,” Knotts says. “How would that make any sense?”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s another question,” you laugh, even as she walks over, steps behind, grabs a finger and bends it at an unnatural angle. Your scream of agony blots out any rational thought for a moment, before she lets go. <br/>
<br/>
“I’m fucking done with you-ask, I-ask,” she says. <i>Damn, shortest game in history.</i> Obviously cooperation wasn’t the way to go. “Speak now, or I’ll break every bone in every finger, one at a time.”<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. You might as well speak freely at this point. “Niamh cut me out. You must have worked that much out. That’s why you came back disguised as her, right? You only got so far in the UK, so – somehow – you managed to take on her appearance. Figured you’d use me to tell you what she knew, and then string me along like a guide?” You remember the object you thought you saw her hold in the church – was she going to kill you then, only to back down when she realized the book wasn’t there? “But while you’ve been playing me, so’s Niamh. She must have realized you’d target me, so she’s been waiting for you. Maybe she’s going to come for me, huh? Maybe she’s coming through that door any moment now?”<br/>
<br/>
There’s silence for a moment. Then someone ruffles your hair from behind, and you feel a presence lean toward your ear. “Nobody’s coming for you, Will,” she whispers. “No one is…” <br/>
<br/>
You smack your head into hers as hard as you can. It’s a ridiculous blow, a glancing strike that sends your skull ringing even as you collide with her ear, but if cooperation doesn’t work you might as well try something different. Knotts is only stunned for a moment, but it’s enough for you to haul yourself up and rush forward, toward the bench. Your vision swirls a little as you rush for the Shelly mask, hoping that you can plant your face into it, slip your bonds with your new, skinnier hands and scream as loud as possible for your ‘mom’ to hear... <br/>
<br/>
Only you don’t make it halfway before Knotts grabs the chair and pulls you back, landing a fist straight into your jaw. “Wanker,” Niamh’s voice hisses. “What’d you think you were going to do? A headbutt to the <i>ear?</i> Yeah, that’s going to knock someone out. You’re such a loser, Will. You can’t even do defiance properly.” You let your chin fall to your breast, trying to bite out the pain of the blow. Then you look up at Knotts again, smirking with Niamh’s face. “Y’know, I’ve been playing nice up until now,” she says slowly. “I think we’re just going to wait for the cavalry to arrive. And… ah! That sounds like them.”<br/>
<br/>
From outside, you can hear a noise, like an electric hum. It doesn’t sound much like a car. Quietly, it builds, rising from a background noise to a steady, slow rhythm. Then a beat. Then the workshop seems filled with… music? It sounds like some kind of opera.<br/>
<br/>
<i> Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again… </i><br/>
<br/>
You twist your eyes at Knotts, confused. She looks at you, equally uncertain, the smug confidence she exuded about her backup evaporating all too quickly. Then she turns toward the door, and reaches inside her pocket…<br/>
<br/>
She never makes it. In a whirlwind, the door flies open and a scruffy youth, dressed in army surplus smocks and a beret – face covered in a whispy, loose-haired beard that could best be described as ‘pathetic’ – rushes in. There’s a manic gleam in his eye and a cheeky grin as he spies the scene, and a joy as he throws a stone square at her head. Knotts twists effortlessly, watching as the projectile flies past and crashes against the far wall and its stacks of masks. Then continues her own draw as the newcomer careens to a halt, eyes drinking in the scene.<br/>
<br/>
“Ten for effort, four for execution,” Knotts says as she raises her hand. From your position, you can’t see what she’s holding, but then you’re hardly looking at her, either. The rock the stranger threw has hit one of the silicone busts Shelly’s mom worked on, causing it to topple. Even as Knotts speaks, a domino effect is cascading along the shelf, before one of the head topples square onto a power socket, causing it to spark and whiz. The noise is enough to distract Knotts, and who turns just as the socket overloads and sends the buffer into overdrive, kicking up a cloud of dust that blows straight into her – and your – eyes.<br/>
<br/>
There’s a crash. You have no idea what’s going on. A bang. A thud. A fight going on just beyond your eyeline, punctuated by sounds of scuffles and heavy blows, and the occasional cloud of dust from where a foot skids or slides. Then something – it feels like an entire body – hits you, causing you and the chair to topple to the ground. You blink furiously, scrambling to see what’s going on, or who’s winning, but all you can see is the fallen stone golem that had been Shelly Nolan, and the dark recesses of under the bench. Your head rings, jaw aches and left arm feels crushed against the floor. Then, without warning, another body lands hard on the ground in front of you, tossed like a ragdoll, its head slamming into the ground at an unnatural angle, unconscious.<br/>
<br/>
You watch as blood drizzles through Niamh Stirland’s short blonde hair. Only it’s not Niamh. It can’t be. It has to be Knotts.<br/>
<br/>
Then two hands pick up your chair, hauling you up. You focus on the face in front of you, grinning with burgeoning mischief, his whispy beard smeared red from a bust lip and what looks like a broken nose. Next to him, looking at you with palpable relief, is a second Niamh Stirland. You can see from her eyes it’s the genuine article, too.<br/>
<br/>
“Will Prescott, I presume?” the stranger says with an English accent. “Let’s get you out of here, comrade.”</span></div></div>


path: 113312121221212112111112222112112112511143111112211
author_id: masktrixie
title: Happily Ever After
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You’re still in a daze, covered in dust and debris, that you almost fall to the ground again as the Brit helps you up. Your legs are like jelly and feel ready to cave again, but before you can tumble you feel yourself wrapped in an embrace. You see the blonde hair, smell a familiar scent, close your arms around a known pair of shoulders. <br/>
<br/>
Niamh Stirland – the real one – holds you tight. “You idiot,” she says, voice muffled as she leans into your shoulder. “You have any idea the dance you’ve led us on?” She says it with affection, although you have no real idea what she’s been through. Behind, the scruffy Brit is poking at the far end of the garage, near the golem.<br/>
<br/>
“Should have worked! Bugger. Would have worked, too, if Will here hadn’t tried to do something himself.” He pauses and wrinkles his nose. “Sometimes you should leave things to the professionals.”<br/>
<br/>
“Professionals?” You break from Niamh’s embrace, looking uncertain. “And you know we need to get out of here, right? Fake Niamh, uh, Knotts, she…”<br/>
<br/>
“Called me,” the Brit grins. “Don’t worry, that’s all taken care of, intercepting a cell signal isn’t tough. Once you sprinted off from your pastry shop, we figured where you were going and set a trap.” He flicks the tool the Shelly-golem had impaled herself on. “Honestly, you think her mum would leave a giant spike in the shed? I’d set the whole thing up like a game of Mouse Trap, the idea being to snare our corporate stooge here once and for all. Which I suppose we did.” He shrugs. “Oh, hi, by the way. Hal, nice to meet you. I’d say ‘good work’, but honestly you are bloody awful at this whole spy lark.”<br/>
<br/>
You turn back to Niamh. “OK, you’re going to have to explain…”<br/>
<br/>
“I know,” she says. “But not now. All that matters right now is you’re safe, fake-me is –Jesus, is my ass really that big? – fake me is taken care of, and the Stellae are going to clean things up.”<br/>
<br/>
“Stellae?”<br/>
<br/>
She gestures to Hal, busy looking at the golem, poking it and prodding it with utmost fascination. “Short version? Secret society of super-magicians. You can trust them. And, Will, I’m going to have to ask you to trust me, OK?”<br/>
<br/>
“With what?”<br/>
<br/>
Niamh sighs, and looks a little embarrassed. “Our plan had been to get you away from her before any of this went down – or before she realized you couldn’t help her and decided to tie up a loose end. I’ve been trying to get close enough to you to slip a mask on you, copy you so we could replace you. But, genuinely, it was just to keep you safe. We figured this ratty b-word here wouldn’t notice a fake Will, and that’d help us when we had to take her out. It’d also give us a chance to put you somewhere out of harm’s way, and explain to you everything that’s been going on while you’ve been running around with a cheap-ass version of me.”<br/>
<br/>
“You were at the donut shop,” you say.<br/>
<br/>
Niamh gives a nervy laugh. “Actually, that was Shelly. I could hardly move her out of the church on my lonesome, so I copied a stranger and used her as a normal golem. It’s fine – she’s safe under there. At least, we think so. I…” she pauses. “I sort of borrowed your new girlfriend’s face for a while. Cassie Harper? Oh, she’s fine! I just thought it was the easiest way to get close to you, is all.”<br/>
<br/>
You wonder if there was more to it than that (a desire to reconnect, maybe?) but you don’t press. Nor do you throw her hypocrisy at her – replacing Cassie wasn’t much different to you replacing Mariah Alloway, all those weeks ago. But you don’t want to start a fight. There’s too much going on. <br/>
<br/>
“What do you want me to do?” you ask.<br/>
<br/>
“Let us put a replacement Will Prescott in your stead,” Hal says. “Just temporarily, while we undo all of this stuff. Knotts here – two t’s, in case you’re wondering – is a very small cog in a large, multinational capitalist Satanic behemoth called Fane. You, Niamh and Michelle are all on their radar now. And, trust me, comrade. That is not a place you want to be.”<br/>
<br/>
You sigh, and glance around the room. You look down at the fake Niamh on the floor, the golem, the Brit wizard, the girl who you sucked into this mess. In her hands, she holds a blue, polished mask. Quietly, you nod.<br/>
<br/>
“Put a mask on me,” you say, laying yourself on the floor to get comfortable. “Just do me a favor, in the future?”<br/>
<br/>
“What’s that?” Niamh says, as she kneels.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t lie to me and say it’s temporary.”<br/>
<br/>
If you’ve learned anything, you think as Niamh gently lowers a mask toward you, it’s that magic will be part of you for the rest of your life.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">***</div><br/>
<br/>
It’s sunny when you open your eyes. The room is unfamiliar, but the bed is comfortable and the place exudes a sense of safety and calm that you haven’t felt in far too long. It doesn’t take long to realize you must have been placed under a golem mask after they created their Will copy that night. A month ago you’d have raged about it, branded it a personal betrayal. But somehow it doesn’t feel right to do so.<br/>
<br/>
The Stellae, as they call themselves, are hospitable. There’s more than just the Brit; two brothers who seem to have more mysteries than answers; a surly investigator that calls you ‘squirt’ whether you like it or not; an entire family of disparate skills and abilities, all linked to the planets. And, what’s more, there’s interested in you. As you tell your story from the beginning – from the first moment you clasped hands on the book to their intervention that night in the Nolan garage – you see faces interested in parts of the tale you thought inconsequential. <br/>
<br/>
You never thought much about why Abigail Steiner and her lackeys didn’t see you in the church that night; nor did you really ask why you found it so easy to pick up memories from the mask, and yet Shelly and Niamh both struggled. The Stellae introduce you to a new word: <i>Sulva</i>. And with it, there’s talk of sending you to Los Angeles, under the tutelage of someone called Kali. Magic, it seems, goes so far beyond the reaches of the <i>Libra</i>. And the Stellae believe you may have an innate ability… one you could never have imagined as you drifted, aimlessly, through high school.<br/>
<br/>
You get explanations too, with patient voices willing to fill in the blanks of the story. Niamh never went to Cambridge; she stayed in Saratoga Falls, sending a fresh golem, created as she had worked her way through the book, in her stead. Over in the UK, the golem had asked about the <i>Libra</i> at the university, only to be ensnared by a sinister corporation called Fane. When the golem suddenly went quiet, Niamh had realized something was amiss and had moved her base from St. Xavier’s church, taking the book and Shelly with her. <br/>
<br/>
Fane, meanwhile, had found out about St. Xavier’s and the <i>Libra</i>. They’re used their own, industrial take on magical disguises to turn this ‘Knotts’ into a replacement Niamh, and sent her to obtain the artifact. To do so, she’d decided to enlist your help in tracking it down, all the while pumping you for information.<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, in the UK, Hal Swann – the Stellae agent you met – had already been tracking Fane. He’d followed ‘Niamh’ back, only to run in to the genuine article. And, together, Hal and Niamh had ‘struck a blow for workers against corporate oppression’. They’d also made a deal. The Stellae would take the <i>Libra</i> for safekeeping and deal with Fane. And in exchange, they’d do the one thing you – and Niamh – couldn’t do.<br/>
<br/>
And so you find yourself in a clean and splendid room, sat with Niamh, unsure what to say. Uncertain what the future holds. Niamh herself is of no interest to the Stellae, but with the shadow of Fane looming large, she knows she can never return to her old life. There are tough decisions to be made.<br/>
<br/>
“So,” you say, smiling over at her. <br/>
<br/>
She nods, and blows out her cheeks. “So.”<br/>
<br/>
“They’re dealing with the book. The <i>Libra</i>. Mount Doom treatment, like you wanted. Or at least the <i>Raiders of the Lost Ark</i> treatment.”<br/>
<br/>
“I know,” Niamh says. “Good. It’s what needs to be done.”<br/>
<br/>
You scratch the awkward tufts of beard poking through on your chin. “Yeah,” you agree. “For what it’s worth, I’m still sorry. About everything. About how I dragged you into this in the first place.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not,” Niamh says. “I mean, I’d rather you hadn’t started off by stealing my identity. And I’d rather be home with my folks. But, Jesus, Will. We’re one of the few people in the world who get to see things exactly how they stand. We get to see something we would never have known otherwise. That magic—” ¬<br/>
<br/>
“— Is <i>freakin’ real</i>.”<br/>
<br/>
You both pause at the new voice. You both stand, turn, and stare at the newcomer who’s entered the room. A short girl. Plain with unkempt, wild red hair. The kind that, only a few months ago, you never noticed as you passed her in the corridor.<br/>
<br/>
Shelly Nolan. Alive. Back from petrification. The corpse-golem spell’s magic unwrought by the Stellae and her death unwritten. <br/>
<br/>
You can barely process your emotions as she rushes over, arms open as she wraps you in an embrace, tighter than anyone’s ever hugged you before. From out of the corner of your eye, you see Niamh’s face break into the largest grin you’ve ever witnessed.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” you say, as you squeeze Shelly tight and break down and cry tears of drunken, delirious joy. “Magic <i>is</i> freakin’ real.”</span></div></div>


path: 11331212122121211212
author_id: masktrixie
title: Race to the Net
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You look down at the mask of Kim Walsh. That was too easy. All you needed to do was ask her to take a look at something for you, and the moment she stepped behind your desk, you swooped. You had a few nervous minutes making sure Coach Acuna wasn’t found to have an unconscious student in her office, but otherwise it was a cakewalk. It did, however, delay you getting over to B block to get Ian out of detention. <br/>
<br/>
Detention at Westside isn’t something you’ve thought about for a long time. Seniors are expected to be mature enough to handle their academic responsibilities and the same applies for juniors. As such, it’s usually only younger pupils who ever end up in one of the dreariest classrooms in B wing, staring vacantly at their desk.<br/>
<br/>
You hum as you walk down the corridor, very much at home in your new body, tennis bag in hand, a mask destined for Kelsey Blankenship jumbled inside among the balls, racquets, towels and energy drinks. Tennis is, much like volleyball, an oddity at Westside: less a sports program and more something students – usually the rich kids who grew up at the country club – can play. Carmen considers herself a full-time P.E. teacher, far more invested in the development of her students than managing a program.<br/>
<br/>
“Mr Carr,” you say, stepping inside to where your colleague is busy marking papers and monitoring his five charges: two sophomore stoners; known troublemaker Scott Winkler; a highly embarrassed freshman called Erin Richardson (you have no idea what she did, but your Acuna heart breaks a little that such an apparent angel is in trouble); and your target.<br/>
<br/>
“Coach Acuna. What brings us the pleasure of your company?”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m looking for a volunteer,” you say. “We have a cup match on Wednesday. I’ll need someone to replace all of the court nets and scrape gum off the bleachers.” The nets don’t need replacing and you doubt there will be a crowd, but it’s a reasonable request.<br/>
<br/>
“By all means,” Carr says, happy to bring indentured servitude back to this corner of America. Erin Richardson’s hand immediately shoots up, practically straining to be picked, but instead you point to the kid at the back of the room.<br/>
<br/>
“Ian Cowdray. Vamanos.” He’s a scrawny, dozy boy, light hair cut short, and he ambles out with you pretty quickly. You give a nod to Carr, exchange pleasantries, and get the hell out. Ian, for his part, is smart enough not to speak until you’re alone, halfway down the corridor.<br/>
<br/>
“Shelly?” he asks. Of course, he thinks you’re her.<br/>
<br/>
“Coach Acuna,” you correct. “At least while I’m looking like this.”<br/>
<br/>
“You took your time. I thought I was going to be stuck in there all evening.”<br/>
<br/>
In a split second, you figure you might as well lean in on Ian’s beliefs, and begin to speak as quickly as your new tongue will allow. “What? No freakin’ way. I told you I’d bust you out. Awesome, right? Like how I said ‘vamanos’? And now I know how to take it off, I can totally cosplay as her whenever I need to.”<br/>
<br/>
“This is so weird.”<br/>
<br/>
“So freakin’ weird,” you concur. “And so, so cool.”<br/>
<br/>
“I still mean what I said earlier, though. I don’t want no part of whatever this is. I don’t want to dress up as a woman or anything.”<br/>
<br/>
“You’re so non-committal, Ian.” You wonder how you’re doing at playing Shelly Nolan play Coach Acuna. You soon find out.<br/>
<br/>
“Maybe, maybe not. And Shelly, I meant the other thing, too. About that senior kid. We don’t know him. Rich says he’s just kind of average, that nobody knows him. If we need muscle, we can trust my cousin Rich. He’ll handle that guy. You say the word, I’ll tell Rich everything and it won’t matter who Prescott looks like.”<br/>
<br/>
You let the words sink in as Ian begins to head for the door, only to stop at the entrance and barrel straight for you. <br/>
<br/>
“C’mon, you gotta hide. Coach Acuna. She’s outside, heading straight for the gym.”<br/>
<br/>
Your mind races to come up with a plausible explanation. Maybe Kelsey asked Acuna about the session after Shelly put the mask on her and she changed her plans. That means she’s going to head to her office. Kim’s gone, but you’ve still got her tennis bag. You look at Ian. <br/>
<br/>
“Can you stall her?” Ian nods and heads out. You marvel at having such an obedient patsy. And then, as fast as your legs will allow, you sprint to the gym.<br/>
<br/>
Acuna’s body is in good condition. She’s not the most naturally athletic of Westside’s coaches, but her thighs can motor when she needs to. You reach the office, swing the tennis bag off your shoulder and throw it down in a corner, scooping up your own backpack in the process. At the last moment, you remember to grab the Kim Walsh mask too. Then you rush around the corner, just as you hear flustered footsteps stepping down the hall. You wait patiently for Acuna to leave before slipping out toward the exit.<br/>
<br/>
“Coach.” It’s Ian, waiting for you outside. <br/>
<br/>
You give a firm shake of the head. “What the freak is going on?”<br/>
<br/>
“Take a look,” he says, nodding toward the courts. Cautiously, you peep around the corner. Kelsey, Brooke Galloway and another figure you can barely make out – presumably Lynette Kolaya – are talking. None of them look happy. Coach Acuna is already walking over, arms folded. You’ve no idea what’s going on, but you’re glad not to be involved. You say a little thank you to Kim Walsh’s curiosity, press your back against the wall and take a deep breath.<br/>
<br/>
“We should get going,” you say to Ian. The farmer kid nods.<br/>
<br/>
“That was my plan all along, Shell. But you see what I mean? This magic stuff ain’t as simple as you pretend. You got to learn to be careful. Particularly around this Prescott guy.”<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">***</div><br/>
<br/>
Shelly’s excitement is practically bursting from the seams as you step into her workshop. “I was just starting to look at the fifth spell. I have no idea what ‘pedisequos’ means. Foot follower? We need a lot of material to do this one, though. And I mean A. LOT. Dead soil, I think? That can’t be right. Anyhoo, how’d it go? Did you get Kelsey Blankenship? Was it fun? It must have been so much fun!”<br/>
<br/>
You shake your own head. As soon as Ian left, you found a quiet spot to change back. You took your time, but even so almost forgot to remove the coach’s earrings before the mask came off. You have no idea what would have happened if they were still there when you changed, and you don’t want to find out. <br/>
<br/>
“It was almost a disaster,” you report. “Coach Acuna came back to school. Ian warned me, so I narrowly missed getting spotted. She must have rescheduled after we used the mask.”<br/>
<br/>
“See?” Shelly says. “I told you we could trust Ian. Sucks you didn’t get a mask, though.”<br/>
<br/>
“Didn’t I? Ta-da!” <br/>
<br/>
Shelly’s eyes widen as you pull it from your bag and place it in her eager palms. “YOU. ARE. THE. BEST. Kelsey freakin’ Blankenship. I’m gonna be so condescending to everyone.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not Kelsey. Couldn’t get her once she was with the real Acuna. So I improvised.”<br/>
<br/>
“Who is it? Someone cool? I want to be cool, Will! And pretty. And popular. And I don’t really care if I’m a boy or a girl.”<br/>
<br/>
You drop the backpack. “Try it on and see. Acuna’s clothes should fit. I’ll wait outside.”<br/>
<br/>
You step out into the cool evening air and let Shelly get on with the metamorphosis, leaning against the shop and thinking about magic. Put the crucible on a sigil, add the ingredients and stir. You wonder what the sigil actually does. It must be the spell, but each part of it has to have a specific controlling component. Maybe, if you looked at the sigils for later spells, you could start working out what each aspect does. You mull it over in your head for what feels like an age, wondering if you should use a mind band on someone with a better grasp of linguistics. A knock from inside disturbs you, and you return to your coven-mate.<br/>
<br/>
“Hello, fellow student. I am your president, Kim Walsh. A vote for Walsh is a vote for magical substitution. I hereby proclaim Michelle Nolan to be the coolest kid in Westside, followed by William Prescott. Free oreos for everyone.”<br/>
<br/>
You laugh. “Shelly, you are the worst actress I’ve ever seen. Why don’t you just tap into her mind and act like her?”<br/>
<br/>
Kim frowns. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to work properly. Did it take this long with Acuna?”<br/>
<br/>
“No, it was pretty much instant. When I used the mask the first time I felt like I was Carmen Acuna and always had been. It took me a while to grasp what was going on. Maybe we didn’t do the band correctly?”<br/>
<br/>
“I definitely did it right, Will. I’m not going to miss a step again.” Kim walks around the room and turns on Shelly’s phone, holding up the Ravenclaw case to you as she flips the camera and uses it to appraise her new face. Kim Walsh sticks her tongue out, prods her nose and crosses her eyes. “But this is so freakin’ awesome! KIM WALSH. This is even better than Kelsey Blankenship! Everyone likes me! We’ve GOT to go into town tonight. Just for a little bit.”<br/>
<br/>
“What about your curfew?” Shelly waves you off.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh this is totally worth irking my mom. I’ll just message her that we’ve gone to the DQ, as long as I’m safe she’ll get over it because I’m ‘trying to fit in’. Besides,” she walks over to the buffer and retrieves the spare mask, “I’ve got a mask and a mind band already made. As Kim Walsh, I can get you a new identity, too. Someone even more fun than Coach Acuna.”</span></div></div>


path: 113312122
author_id: seuzz
title: The Precessionary Times-Picayune
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The book does not like for you to copy down any of the words it contains, except in short snatches, but you've managed to get some of the phrases from the title page into a search engine. The phrase <i>Libra Personae</i> returns one hit that seems promising. Alone among the handful of results entirely in Latin is a single blog post, and the hair on the back of your neck goes up as you read it. In its entirety, it says:<br/>
<br/>
<i>Commenters on this site have long impressed me with their wit, their erudition, and their patience with its owner's eccentricities, so this recent dispatch from the world of computer science leaves me serenely confident that I have not set myself up as the idol of androids:<br/>
<br/>
<div class="bquote">Researchers at the University of Birmingham say they are one step closer to inventing a computer capable of thought. <br/>
<br/>
... In their quest to construct a machine capable of passing the "Turing test" by fooling human interlocutors into believing they are talking to a real person, [the team] has written a software program that can emulate posters in internet forums and chat rooms.<br/>
<br/>
... "Programs that mimic the behavior of paranoid schizophrenics have fooled professional therapists when put in a Turing situation," Dr. Barzun says.<br/>
<br/>
... So, working with university psychologists, [the team] fashioned a program that melds many of the characteristics of several mental diseases, and came up with an artificial intelligence capable of writing internet posts that are hostile, abusive and weirdly on-topic while being completely off-point. In a controlled test involving volunteers, the program was quickly identified as a "troll" and treated accordingly.</div><br/>
<br/>
So, when the robots finally arrive, they may turn out to be a lot of jerks? <br/>
<br/>
Actually, Luddites on the internet need not fear that they are about to be rendered redundant; a patent on a mechanical calumniator is unlikely to prove lucrative. Rudeness over the internet is a perquisite that humans will likely preserve jealously for themselves.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~</div><br/>
Speaking of things that are human in only the worst possible ways, moviegoers who remember Alexander Payne's eerily prescient </i>Election<i> may be forgiven for rushing to file for political asylum in Papau New Guinea after viewing the trailer for Payne's forthcoming movie, which the latest issue of </i>Entertainment Weekly<i> summarizes thus: <br/>
<br/>
<div class="bquote">It's Star Wars<i> meets </i>American Pie<i> in next year's </i>The Student Body,<i> when a group of rebel aliens and their pursuers crash in a small town and body-snatch many of the teens at a local high school. <br/>
<br/>
... We not only get an outsider's view of teen life, but a satire on some of its workings. "The student council gets totally taken over by the two different factions," Payne says, "and since they can't fight with ray guns they fight with something even dirtier: politics." So Democrats and Republicans are from outer space? "Yes," Payne grins. And what about the Libertarians? "Not even advanced alien science can explain Libertarians."</i></div><br/>
<br/>
It is, of course, this "student council" angle that leaves me laying awake at night, plotting traffic routes that will not take me past any marquees advertising this nightmare. It's not a new idea that our politics has been hijacked by shapeshifters and things not of this world: the United States has long deserved its characterization as a nation of pious Hindus governed by an elite of atheistical Swedes. Nor is it unique to Americans. In sixteenth century Lower Saxony, we hear, a witch employed the legendary </i>Libra Personae<i> to manufacture "simulacra" of local notables, and herself even impersonated one, in a bid to gain control of a duchy. That witch was routed, but the duke's heirs apparently found it expedient to accept a promotion to the throne of England, where repressed emotions are less likely to be taken as evidence of suppressed humanity.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">~ ~ ~</div><br/>
Yes, yes, but what about the zeppelins, I hear you impatiently ask. It is not only for spaceships bearing the next class of House Representatives that we should be fretfully scanning the skies. Lockheed this week unveiled its design for a dirigible with a "sky hook," suitable for moving large, heavy objects over and into inaccessible terrains; the specs suggest its designers sought inspiration in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Horror of the Heights." Let us not fear such things; military pilots, like Doyle's hero, who glimpse these blasphemies will know exactly what to do.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The blog is called "The Precessionary Times-Picayune," and the other entries seem to be written in the same bizarre spirit. You really have no idea what to make of it, its author (one John Reilly), or what it says about this "Libra Personae." It does sound like a description of the book you picked up at Arnholm's, though, and it seems to refer to a book at least as old as the one you found.<br/>
<br/>
You find the blog owner's email address, and send him a note. You keep it cagey, though, and only tell him that you stumbled on his blog post referring to the "Libra Personae," and ask him if he has any more information about it. Of course, you do not tell him that you have the book itself in your possession.<br/>
<br/>
Then you go downstairs, intending to head out to meet Caleb and/or Keith. Instead, you are caught by your mother, and put to work doing chores.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"For Christ's sake, don't put <i>that</i> song on the thumb drive!" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not putting <i>any</i> songs on the thumb drive, on <i>any</i> thumb drive." Caleb's voice buzzes in your ear. You shift the cell phone to your other hand so you can tap more comfortably at your laptop as you check his list again. "What's wrong with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"In the first place, it's a dumb song. In the second place, the future is going to have no idea what 'rickrolling' is, so they're not going to get the joke you're playing on them. I barely remember what it is. And in the third place—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not actually putting any songs on a thumb drive, Will! It doesn't <i>matter!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"But Walberg doesn't know that! If you want to give him a good list of songs and not just a bunch of top twenty—"<br/>
<br/>
"Will!" Your dad's voice rings from downstairs. "Down here!"<br/>
<br/>
"Hang on," you tell Caleb. "I gotta see what my dad's—"<br/>
<br/>
Running steps sound on the stairs and in the hall. A fist tattoos on the door. "Will, Dad wants you!" Robert yells through the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, I heard him!" you shout back. "Be right back," you tell Caleb, and drop the phone on the desk.<br/>
<br/>
Downstairs, your dad jerks his head at the front door, which is open. Some kind of deliveryman stands there. UPS, by the look of his brown shirt and brown shorts. "You Will Prescott," he asks, and clicks a pen when you nod. "You order something from—" He glances at the box in his other hand. "John Reilly Booksellers?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>John Reilly?</i> That's the guy you emailed this morning. When you got done with your chores, you found a reply in your email box: The blog-owner telling you that he had a small treasure trove of research on the "Libra Personae" and that he'd be happy to mail it to you if you'd only give him your snail mail address. With some trepidation, that's what you'd done.<br/>
<br/>
And now, only two hours later, it's arrived? All the way from New Jersey?<br/>
<br/>
But it looks legit, though the UPS guy seems very young, and there's something slightly unsettling about the very bright smile shining out from under very blonde hair that seems too long, even when tucked under that brown cap. You nod, and take the pen, and sign for it. "Good luck with that," the driver says, and there's a loud snicker behind those words. You watch him go before closing the door. His truck must be around the corner.<br/>
<br/>
"What did you get?" your dad asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Just some research materials," you reply, looking down at the box. "Something for a school project. It didn't cost me anything," you hastily add. Word that you didn't put anything on his credit seems to exhaust your dad's interest in it, and he turns away.<br/>
<br/>
You take the box upstairs. "I'm back," you tell Caleb as sit with the box in your lap. From your dresser drawer you take out a pen knife. "Yeah, it's the craziest thing. I ordered something online about two hours ago, and it's already come. From New Jersey, even."<br/>
<br/>
"If I was in New Jersey, I'd be out of there like a bat out of hell too," says Caleb. "Now come on, I think Walberg would really appreciate a good 'rickroll' joke in here. It's like I'm not just including the music, I'm including a contemporary meme—"<br/>
<br/>
But you're not listening. You've got the box open. You were expecting a stack of papers, but it only contains a small, clear tablet. You pick it up.<br/>
<br/>
It's sticky. Your fingertips won't separate from it. "Hang on," you tell Caleb, and put the phone down. Then, like an utter moron, you grab the tablet with your other hand so you can pry it off your first hand.<br/>
<br/>
Now both of your hands are stuck to it. You clench them. Now your palms and the heels of your hands are stuck to it. "Hey Caleb," you shout at the phone in a wavering voice.<br/>
<br/>
You're distracted by a sound from your window, as of someone climbing up the trellis. A face appears, and the lower sash pops up. That delivery guy sticks his head in. "Hey Prescott," he says with a grin. "Want some help with that thing? Shh," he adds when you open your mouth to yell. "I'm the only guy who can get you unstuck from it, and if you scream, I'll be out of here in point-oh-seven seconds and you'll never see me again."</span></div></div>


path: 1133121221
author_id: seuzz
title: An Unusual Burglary
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Who are you?" you ask the guy grinning in at you through your second-story window.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't worry, I'm friendly," he says. "I only bite pretty girls who've bitten me first. You gonna be a good kid, not yell?" His head briefly disappears, and then he's swinging his whole body into your bedroom. He rubs his bare thigh with his palm, leaving a thin red streak of blood. "Those vines need trimming," he observes.<br/>
<br/>
"Now, the 'Libra Personae'," he says, rubbing his hands. "Where would you have— Ah, here it is." He twitches it from atop your desk and flips through the first few pages. "Hardly got into it, did you? Most excellent. But we're not done yet. You wanna spend the rest of your life learning how to hold a fork and spoon between your toes? Then stay right where you are. Otherwise, go downstairs and tell your parents in a very casual way that you're gonna take a quick walk around the block. Go out your front door, turn right, and meet me two houses down. You got that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not gonna risk getting caught up here, Prescott, so unless your next words are 'No hablo ingles', and I know they won't be, hop to it. Meet you in two." With the book under his arm he ducks back out the window. Leaves rustle and wood creaks, and he's gone.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow hard and look down at your hands. They feel welded to the tablet. So you get up and go to the door. You have to open it with your elbow, and in the process the tablet gets stuck to the front of your shirt.<br/>
<br/>
So you're quite a sight, you suppose, when you get downstairs and trot through the empty living room. "Going out for a few minutes, be right back," you holler. No one replies, which is fortunate, because the knob to the front door is even heavier than the one to your room, and you spend a very sweaty twenty seconds getting even more attached to that cursed tablet as you use your forearms to twist it open.<br/>
<br/>
"Over here," a clear voice shouts when you reach the sidewalk in front of your house. To the right is a white truck, not dissimilar to your own, and the blonde guy is waving at you from it. You trot over—an ungainly trot, more waddle than run what with your hands pinned to your chest. The blonde guy laughs, though not in a mean way, as he opens the passenger side truck door for you. "Oh, you made a right mess of it, didn't you, Prescott?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
You glare at him as you hop into the truck. There's another guy—not dressed as an UPS man—behind the wheel. This one is dark of hair and eye, and he gives you a rather sour look as the blonde one pushes you into the middle of the cab. "I thought you said you'd get me out of this thing," you say, and waggle the tablet as best you can.<br/>
<br/>
"All in good time," says the dark-haired one. "As soon as we get back to our place." He looks around you as he puts the truck in motion, and says something to the blonde one in a language you don't understand. The blonde guy replies. Then the dark one gives you a half-smile: friendlier, though still sour. "Then it should be easy, shouldn't it?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
You slink down in the seat.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The trip ends in front of a dowdy little house in the "student ghetto" section of town just a few blocks south of the university. The blonde one—who has introduced himself as "Joe"—helps you out of the truck and leads you inside; the dark one—"Frank"—trails and closes the door. "Alright Joe, I think we can take the cuffs off," he says as he locks the three of you in.<br/>
<br/>
Joe grasps the tablet, says some words you can't make out, and tugs the tablet from your grasp. He tosses it away. "Sorry to be so melodramatic," he says. "But we had to make sure."<br/>
<br/>
"Make sure of what?" you ask. You flex your hands tentatively; there seems to be no residue on your skin or the front of your shirt.<br/>
<br/>
"That we don't need to dispose of you as well as the Libra," says Frank. "Sit down."<br/>
<br/>
"Dispose of me?" you ask in a squeak. "What do you mean by—?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said 'Sit down'." Neither Frank nor Joe touches you, but you are violently thrust backward by an invisible force onto a nearby couch. Frank advances, puts his foot on the cushion by your knee, and leans in on you. While holding your eye he extends a hand toward Joe, who hands him the book. "Now you will tell us exactly how this thing"—he brandishes the book at you—"came into your possession, and what you did with it the entire time that you had it. Or else—"<br/>
<br/>
Still he doesn't touch you. No one—that you can see—touches you. But a hand, a big hand, a large, strong hand seemingly wrapped in a mailed fist, closes about your entire neck.<br/>
<br/>
"Or else your face is going to become very closely acquainted with the ceiling," Frank says.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So you talk. Probably you'd have talked without the threats, as you mention—a trifle sulkily—when you're done. It's not a long story either: You bought the book at Arnholm's Used Books, got freaked out by it, tried to get rid of it, showed it to a few people, lost it for a few days after a scrum with some bullies at school, got it back after the administration intervened, and sent John Reilly a query about it. They ask you to tell it a few more times and challenge you on a few points—which you are able to meet, because you're telling the exact truth—and when you're done Frank and Joe stare at each other for awhile. "All that's open is the title page," says Joe.<br/>
<br/>
"It's been in circulation for a very long time," says Frank.<br/>
<br/>
"Sitting on a shelf at Arnholm's."<br/>
<br/>
"And how did it get there? That professor is unlikely to have willingly parted with it."<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott didn't willingly part with it, but part with it he did."<br/>
<br/>
Frank snorts. "Are you suggesting a gang of high school thugs broke into his house—"<br/>
<br/>
"So maybe something broke in. Something more in his line of work."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, what professor are you talking about?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"A guy named Blackwell. You know him?" Frank asks sharply. He continues to stare hard at you even after you shake your head. "There's still a lotta loose ends, Joe," he says to the other.<br/>
<br/>
"We got the book back. That's the job."<br/>
<br/>
"And artifacts. We need to put away any artifacts that got let loose."<br/>
<br/>
"There won't be any, Frank," Joe groans. "I told you, the title page is still locked in place. And if Prescott never sold it—"<br/>
<br/>
"But the professor would have sold it, right?" Frank says. "How else does a book wind up in a used book store?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe turns pink. "At any rate, Prescott is out of it," he says. "Aren't you?" He turns toward you.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't even know what's going on," you whine. "Who are you guys?"<br/>
<br/>
"It doesn't matter," Frank says. "Is there anything else we need to do here?"<br/>
<br/>
For a moment you don't know how to reply, but when Joe speaks, you realize Frank was talking to him. "The title page is still sealed, so he has no real claim on the book. If we want to be scrupulous, we'll give him two bucks for it."<br/>
<br/>
So, to your surprise Frank digs into his pocket and pulls out one crumpled bill and some change. "You said you were trying to get rid of that book," he tells you as he pushes the money into your hands. "So tell me you're selling it to us."<br/>
<br/>
"I just didn't want a bunch of bad guys getting ahold of it," you blurt back.<br/>
<br/>
Too late you think this is the wrong thing to say, that Frank would take amiss the implication that he and Joe are "bad guys." But he actually smiles. It's not the most pleasant smile—it's hard and humorless and it's even a little frightening—but there's nothing mean or cruel in it. "Attaboy, Prescott," he says. "I knew you were a good egg the moment I saw you."<br/>
<br/>
If he's been treating you as a "good egg," you'd really hate to see how he treats the bad ones. You take the money and bob your head wordlessly. Frank claps you on the shoulder and tells Joe to take you home.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Joe doesn't prattle, exactly, but he talks a lot without saying much that's informative or which even makes a lot of sense. "This was a really awesome little adventure you gave us," he laughs in one typical outburst. "Gave me a chance to dress up. You like the disguise?" He plucks at the brown shirt. "Frank was all, like, 'You don't need to dress up like an UPS guy, you don't need to dress up at all, we just need to get over to this place and grab the book,' but I'm all, 'Frank, it has to look convincing when we deliver the tar baby,' and I finally wore him down and we went shopping. That's how come we were so late getting to you. But it all ended okay. Would you have said anything if I'd shown up at your place dressed normally?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," you reply. He talks so fast it leaves you in a daze.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway," he says, "I don't get to play dress up often enough, so maybe it's a really good thing you didn't unseal the Libra or else Frank would have a really hard time keeping me out of it."<br/>
<br/>
And so on like this until he pushes you out of the truck in front of your house. You go inside and discover that no one even knew you'd been out. "Thought it was a little quiet around here," is your dad's comment.<br/>
<br/>
Back upstairs, you sit quietly at the computer, not knowing what to think.</span></div></div>


path: 11331212211
author_id: seuzz
title: Will Prescott and the Butt of Itchiness
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You pass a very moody Saturday up in your room, replying to texts from Caleb and Keith with noncommittal grunts. The afternoon fades to evening, and the dusk deepens into night, mirroring your own darkening mood.<br/>
<br/>
It's not that you're angry or upset. Sure, those guys—Frank and Joe, or whatever their names were—basically mugged you. But you were already trying to get rid of that book anyway.<br/>
<br/>
No, what bothers you is the sense that you have just missed having some kind of adventure.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, sure, you have had some kind of adventure, though as that one guy (Joe?) observed it was a very "little" one. And yes, by trying to get rid of the book you were trying to dodge having even that much of one.<br/>
<br/>
But you've had your appetite whetted. And if you were trying to dodge adventures earlier, it was because you were feeling very small and solitary and inadequate.<br/>
<br/>
But those guys are having adventures, clearly. They seem to know what they were doing, and—most intriguing of all—it sure seemed like they had "magic powers."<br/>
<br/>
They were your age too, which makes you feel a little less shy about talking to them about ... Well, about the <i>possibilities for adventure.</i> And they didn't seem like bad guys, and if they were big and really pushy, they weren't nasty the way the basketball and football players at school are.<br/>
<br/>
So what if you went out to talk to them, asked them why they're interested in that book, asked them what kind of things they do, and asked them if you could ... help?<br/>
<br/>
You almost die of embarrassment as you picture the scene.<br/>
<br/>
And yet, after you go to bed, you feel it sprouting within you like the seed of a beanstalk: <br/>
<br/>
<i>A desire to go in search of giants.</i><br/>
<br/>
The feeling is still there when you wake the next morning.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're restless all during church, and after you get home and your dad has laid down for his afternoon nap, you tell your mom you're going to drive around town. You have no very clear idea of where you're going to wind up ...<br/>
<br/>
... But you are not at all surprised when you steer an almost direct line back out to that dingy little house where those guys took you yesterday. You drive past it once, peering at it, and note that the pickup is not out front. <i>Okay,</i> you tell yourself as you pull up at the curb and slowly dismount. <i>They're not home so it'll be totally safe to get out and ring the doorbell because nothing will happen and then I can go home feeling like I at least </i>poked<i> at some kind of adventure, and if nothing comes of it it's not because I was—</i><br/>
<br/>
The door pops open even before you put your fingertip to the bell. That blonde kid—Joe—grins at you with dancing eyes. "Prescott!" he exclaims. "What are you doing here?"<br/>
<br/>
Your brilliant reply, after a half-swallowed "G'uh" is, "Nothing, I guess." You shrug. "I was kind of bored, and—"<br/>
<br/>
"You have lunch yet? I have, but I'm still hungry." Joe shoves the screen door open, then withdraws into the house; you find yourself lurching after him. <br/>
<br/>
"Frank's not here," he continues, "and his portion's not doing anyone any good. Close the door, will ya?" He disappears around a corner. "Anyway, I'd be obliged if you shared the blame for it's disappearing prematurely!"<br/>
<br/>
You'd forgotten what a talker the guy could be.<br/>
<br/>
You follow him into a kitchen and somehow feel yourself invited to perch on a stool at a bar while he pulls a large pizza box from the refrigerator. It's from Balducci's, the city's premier pizza place, and though you are full from lunch your mouth begins to water as Joe opens it up. To his question "Cold or heated?" you stammer, "Doesn't matter," and you and he grab at the stiff wedges.<br/>
<br/>
"So you say you were bored," Joe mumbles around a mouthful of food. "What kind of bored? Itchy hands, itchy feet, or itchy butt?"<br/>
<br/>
Though you don't know this guy, the urge to reply rises in your gullet like an inflating balloon. "'Itchy butt'? What do you mean by—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, you know what I mean!" Joe grins, showing the cheese and tomato sauce in his teeth. "Itchy hands. Gotta do something, gotta do something, gotta do something!" He kneads the air with his fingers. "Usually means there's something you shouldn't be getting into but you can't resist, amirite?" He punches you in the shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
You remember the time you built a potato gun, not because you especially wanted to build a potato gun, but because it was something that seemed like you'd get into trouble for doing, and that made the idea irresistible.<br/>
<br/>
"Or itchy feet," Joe continues, "gotta go somewhere, gotta go somewhere." He bounces on the balls of his feet. "Sick of the same four walls, the same street, the same people. Gotta see something new. I sure know what the fuck that feeling's like."<br/>
<br/>
You remember all the times you've been chased—by invisible bats wheeling at your head, it sometimes felt like—out of your room and into your truck and up to the mall or out to the river or just out of town for five miles because you couldn't stand the rut you were stuck in.<br/>
<br/>
"Itchy butt. That's when you wanna sit yourself in a catapult, cut the rope, and fling yourself at the Moon or maybe just into a brick wall, because you're so sick of you and yourself everything in your life."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh God. It's </i>that<i> one you're feeling, isn't it?</i><br/>
<br/>
You're brought back from a momentary reverie when Joe leans into your face with a hard grin. "Okay, it's your turn to say something."<br/>
<br/>
But you turn very shy, even though you feel confessions welling up inside your chest. "Oh, I was just thinking about that book is all," you stammer. "And I was wondering—"<br/>
<br/>
"That's boring," Joe says, and he waves you silent. "Already gone. Let's talk about something else."<br/>
<br/>
You're not to be dissuaded though. "So how did you guys know about it? That book, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
"We explained that yesterday. When you emailed John Reilly, he let me and Frank know, and we—"<br/>
<br/>
"Were you looking for it? Where did it come from? Who <i>are</i> you guys, and—?" You swallow as you remember the weird stuff they did to you yesterday: that "tar baby" they trapped you with, and the invisible claw that picked you up and threw you around. "The stuff you were doing to me."<br/>
<br/>
The smile vanishes from Joe's face, and eyes glint with sudden fire. "Oh!" he exclaims. "It's like that, is it?"<br/>
<br/>
Your fear rises like smoke. "Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
The front door opens, and a deep voice calls out. "Whose truck is that blocking the driveway?" <br/>
<br/>
Joe leaps past you into the dining room. "It's Prescott!" he yells. "He busted in here, Frank, and he's eating the rest of your pizza!"<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott? Who the—?" Frank swaggers in. He's in a t-shirt and athletic shorts, and he's bunched all over with muscles. It may be a trick of your imagination, but he seems to swell up when his eyes fall on you. "Oh," he says, and his eyes are cold. "Hey. What brings you around?"<br/>
<br/>
"Your part of the pizza, Frank! I told you—! Hey!" Joe flinches as Frank slaps him on the side of the head, then he flies at him. They tussle a moment before Joe gets flung aside. Frank, paying no more attention to his roommate, draws up to stare down at you. (It's like he's grown a couple of inches while crossing the dining room.) He snags the last triangle of pizza. "Thought we were done with you," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"He's got itchy butt syndrome," Joe says as he picks himself up. "So he came over."<br/>
<br/>
Frank holds your eye. "Don't ask me to scratch it for you." His gaze isn't unfriendly, exactly, but it's definitely wary.<br/>
<br/>
"He wants to know about us," Joe says. "All about us." He laughs. "Where we come from, what we do, and how we do it." He drops heavy hands onto the base of your neck and kneads your shoulders. "Fuck you for being such a showoff yesterday, Frank. Because after that, Prescott is <i>fascinated</i> by us. Aren't you, Prescott?" He kisses you on the cheek and laughs again.<br/>
<br/>
You tense all over but say nothing.<br/>
<br/>
"It's dangerous being fascinated, Prescott," says Frank. "Snakes are fascinating. Crocodiles are fascinating. Tigers are fascinating."<br/>
<br/>
"Dragons are fascinating," Joe chimes in. "And elves." His fingers continue to work on your shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
You try shrugging him off. "Look, I was just bored," you insist, "and I was driving around, and I happened to drive by your place—"<br/>
<br/>
"You didn't just happen to drive by," Joe says. "We're not in a part of town where anyone 'happens to drive by'. We made an <i>impression</i> on you." He chortles. "I'm naturally memorable, but Frank made an effort."<br/>
<br/>
Now you do squirm. But Joe doesn't give you a chance to protest. "Tell me I'm wrong, Prescott. Tell me you don't have our scent in your nostrils, tell me you don't want to know what that scent is!"<br/>
<br/>
"No, I just—"<br/>
<br/>
"Tell me I'm wrong." He pokes you in the shoulder. "Say it, say it. Say I'm wrong."<br/>
<br/>
"You're wrong, I—"<br/>
<br/>
"Say 'You're ring-a-ding, shing-a-ling, ding-a-ling wrong!' Say it exactly!" He pokes at you until you quote his stupidity back at him just to shut him up.<br/>
<br/>
"Good." Joe slaps you lightly on the side of your head and hops up onto the counter. "Now we can have the job interview." He winks at Frank, who returns him a very skeptical scowl. <br/>
<br/>
"First question," Joe says. "Are you fascinated by us?"<br/>
<br/>
Every organ in your body, from your appendix to your lungs, leaps and spasms and swaps places with another organ. Out of the capsized wreckage a single word bobs up out of your chest and out of your mouth: "Yes."</span></div></div>


path: 113312122111
author_id: seuzz
title: Weird Interviews with Weird People
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There follows one of the most unpleasant interviews you've ever suffered.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, it's not that the questions are hard. After a few easy ones about your personal history—where you come from, where you live, what classes you're taking and who your friends are—Joe (with a few assists from Frank) starts asking you the same sort of questions they asked you yesterday. <i>Where did you find that book? What did you think when you found it? Why were you so shy of doing anything with it?</i> After that, they ask you more general questions about fantasy and magic. <i>Do you like fantasy books? Do you daydream about being in one? How scared would you be if a vampire knocked on your door?</i><br/>
<br/>
They don't seem very impressed with your answers, most of which run along the lines of, <i>I wanted to stay out of trouble</i> and <i>I'd probably shit myself.</i><br/>
<br/>
But it's not the questions nor is it even the embarrassing answers that make the interview so nasty.<br/>
<br/>
It's the weirdly compulsive way that your answers come popping out of you.<br/>
<br/>
You'd felt something like it before, when you first walked into their house: an upwelling in your chest and throat, like words were trying to vomit out of you. But it's worse now, for the words come flying out whether you'd want them to or not, and they are sharp and jagged with dismaying truths. So it's not only embarrassing to hear yourself confess that <i>of course</i> you've imagined yourself as the hero in a sword-and-sorcery epic—"Hasn't everyone?" you pant afterward—and that you'd scream like a little girl if a vampire went for your throat. But it's mortifying that you <i>can't stop yourself</i> from these confessions.<br/>
<br/>
You're glad the interview isn't longer than it is, and when Joe concludes with a shrug you almost faint with exhaustion. The two housemates give each other a very long and thoughtful stare before Frank turns to take a glass out of a cabinet. "You want him, you can babysit him," he tells Joe.<br/>
<br/>
Joe smiles faintly at you, and there's no missing the satire in his eye. "You still wanna help us?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
That feeling of compulsion is gone, but you're too weak to resist the pull of honesty. Still, it surprises you when you gasp out the same word that opened the interview: "Yes."<br/>
<br/>
Joe's eyes warm, and he slaps you on the shoulder. "Then come into the living room. You got some questions for <i>me</i> now, I'll bet."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
He perches at one end of a saggy, smelly sofa with his legs crossed under him while you slump at the other end. He doesn't wait for you to start asking questions, though, but plunges directly into a short biography.<br/>
<br/>
"So I'm Joe and he's Frank," he starts, nodding his chin at the wall on the other side of which is his housemate. "We're brothers. Adopted brothers. As in our dad adopted each of us. His name's 'Brennan', but we registered at Eastman as the 'Durras' brothers."<br/>
<br/>
"You go to Eastman?"<br/>
<br/>
"For the time being. We came out to Saratoga Falls a few weeks ago to look for that book we took off you, and went undercover by registering at Eastman. Tch. Missed it by that much. We might be pulling up stakes though. Dad has to get back to us about that."<br/>
<br/>
"How old are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eighteen. Frank'll be nineteen in a few months." His eyes crinkle. "Now you're wondering how we got all this experience at stuff like this."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?" you prompt him.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, don't turn shy on me all of a sudden, Prescott!" he howls. "Ask it! You wanna know how we know all about magic and magic books and magic spells. Also, vampires and ettins and ghosts and wogglybogs, about elves and kelpies and trolls, about the guys who write books like the one you picked up, or craft rings and wands and broaches and crap like that." He leans in on you. "You already told us you wanna know about all that, so don't get embarrassed now!"<br/>
<br/>
You redden under this onslaught. "Okay, so tell me how you know all about, uh, magic and elves and ghosts and—"<br/>
<br/>
"Vampires? Oh yeah. They're real, by the way," he says. "Real nasty, too. The whole sexy, twinkly thing?" He makes a face. "Total fantasy. They're rats is what they are. Two-legged rats, closer to zombies than anything else. They stink of mud and blood and garbage, and they're fish-belly white all over." He shudders. "That's one of the things that makes them so dangerous. You're so grossed by them that you almost forget to protect yourself when they lunge at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, but how do we know about this stuff?" He drums his knees.<br/>
<br/>
"'Cos we grew up learning about it and dealing with it. It's kind of a family business. Well, not literally 'family', even though our dad is the head of the company. Except, like I said, he's not our biological dad. And it's not a company, either. It's, uh, well it's a secret society." He cocks his head. "Goes back thousands of years. It's been our job— I don't mean mine and Frank's job," he interrupts himself. "Like I told you, we're only eighteen, not thousands of years old, so when I say it's 'our job'—"<br/>
<br/>
"He gets it, Joe!" Frank yells from the next room. "For fuck's sake!"<br/>
<br/>
Joe swings around and flings too rigid middle fingers at the wall separating him from his brother. "Anyway," he grumbles as he turns around again, "we've been training for it most of our lives, so this thing we did with you and that book?" He shrugs. "Just the latest job."<br/>
<br/>
"And, uh—?"<br/>
<br/>
"Spit it out."<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath. "That stuff like, uh, your brother was doing to me yesterday—?"<br/>
<br/>
"You mean like this?" Joe snaps his fingers. A little tongue of flame appears on the tip of his thumb.<br/>
<br/>
It takes you a moment to realize that there's no match, no piece of paper, no nothing there that would be supporting it. Your eyes widen.<br/>
<br/>
Joe turns his head and feigns an elaborate sneeze. The flame winks out. "Yeah," he drawls. "Frank got your attention with his stuff, didn't he?"<br/>
<br/>
"So you guys can do magic?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, sure! I can do sleight of hand!" Joe puts his fingers to your ear, then shows you the quarter he "pulled" from it. "But what Frank showed you yesterday, what I showed you now, that's not 'magic', not the way you mean it. That's just our prodigies."<br/>
<br/>
"Your  ... ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Prodigies. Like, you've heard of Mozart, right?" He frowns. "Please tell me you've heard of Wolfgang Amade Mozart."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought it was 'Amadeus'," you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
Joe laughs. "You <i>have</i> heard of him! But he called himself 'Amade' when he called himself by his middle name at all. The whole 'Amadeus' thing—" He breaks off to glare at the wall separating him from Frank. "But Mozart was a prodigy, right? Playing the clavier when he was three, composing music when he was five. But that's not magic, is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess not," you admit.<br/>
<br/>
"Same here." He flicks his fingers, and that flame appears. "There was nothing <i>magic</i> about Mozart. He only did what anyone else could do. Only he was <i>prodigiously</i> good at it where most people just aren't very good at all."<br/>
<br/>
You feel your eyebrows going up. "So you're saying that I could—?"<br/>
<br/>
Joe hoots. "Sure! Try it! Go on." He grins, and his voice softens. "Try it."<br/>
<br/>
Your mouth goes very dry. You look down at your fingers. They to feel very dry. Dry like sticks.<br/>
<br/>
Like sticks that could burst into flame if you rubbed them real hard?<br/>
<br/>
You look back up at Joe. His grin widens.<br/>
<br/>
You've never started a fire just by snapping your fingers before, so if something is going to happen, it's going to be because <i>he</i> does it, right? If he could set his own fingers on fire, he could probably set <i>you</i> on fire.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't tell me you're scared, Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
You give him a dirty look, and snap your fingers.<br/>
<br/>
Nothing happens. "Maybe you didn't want it badly enough," Joe says.<br/>
<br/>
You snap your fingers again. "Concentrate," Joe says.<br/>
<br/>
You snap them again. "Is that the best you can do?" Joe cries.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think I can do it!" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
Then you catch your breath. "Is that why I can't do it?" you ask. "Do I have to believe in it really hard?"<br/>
<br/>
"It sometimes helps." Joe stretches and gets to his feet. "But I wouldn't knock myself out if I were you. Wanna soda?" He pads to the kitchen, but stops in the doorway. "Don't tell yourself you can't do it, Prescott. Just accept that you're so bad at it you'll never pull it off. Anyone can write a fugue, but you think you could write one for me this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"What's a fugue?"<br/>
<br/>
"There you are." With a grin, he vanishes around the corner.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>So I'm Mozart,</i> is what he said when he was back with sodas for you and he both. <i>And you're not even Salieri.</i> But he told you not to feel bad. Frank couldn't do his little trick with the flame, or any of his other tricks which, he bragged, were much more impressive. And Frank could do a lot of things that he couldn't. <i>But that doesn't make us magic or mutants,</i> he insisted. <i>It just makes us like Mozart. Really rare.</i><br/>
<br/>
As for why he was showing you all this: It was because you had asked, and because you said you wanted to help out, and for that reason you had to know about the kind of people they were and what they could do. "And we don't mind getting help from good people, as long as they know how to keep quiet about it," he says. "Even Mozart needed help playing piano concertos, and we're not too proud to turn away volunteers." He hangs a friendly arm around your neck. "Of course," he adds, "we'll have to talk to our dad about you joining."<br/>
<br/>
"Except you can't leave town, can you, Prescott?" says Frank, who has joined you in the living room. </span></div></div>


path: 1133121221111
author_id: seuzz
title: Those Who Pass Without Notice
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>So that's where you are after you leave Joe and Frank. There is real magic in the world, and there real monsters, and those two guys belong to a secret society that uses their ... <i>prodigies,</i> which they insist are not like magic or mutant or supernatural powers, to fight them. And they're willing to accept help from a scrawny nobody like you.<br/>
<br/>
Except that you can't leave town on account of you've got a family and school year to complete, so you can't go with them when they pull up stakes, as they are almost bound to do now that this business with the "Libra Personae" has been taken care of.<br/>
<br/>
And that leaves you wearing a very sour expression when you go in to school on Monday.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Who shat in your cereal?" Caleb demands of you at the start of first period. You're slouching in your desk in the back of Mr. Walberg's class.<br/>
<br/>
"Bite me," you mutter back.<br/>
<br/>
"No thanks, I don't eat cock," says Keith in second period when, again in response to a query about your attitude, you reply with an obscene invitation. <br/>
<br/>
"Fine, it's not like I want anything to do with you anyway," says Vanessa Bailey in third period. You do a double-take at her, for you'd not realized she was talking to you. Instead she turns to the guy in the next row and borrows a pencil off him. She gives you a dirty glance when she turns back around, and slink lower in your seat.<br/>
<br/>
"Sorry I was giving you grief earlier," Caleb says in fourth-period English after you slumped into your regular desk next to his. "If it's something you want to talk about—"<br/>
<br/>
You squirm and say nothing and just stuff more of your sandwich into your mouth. You accepted Caleb's suggestion that you eat lunch out front with Carson and James and Jenny and Paul because you hoped they'd be distracted by each other and leave you alone. But it's like everyone's picked up on your mood and wants to know what the fuck your problem is.<br/>
<br/>
"Bad weekend?" Carson Ioeger conjectures in sixth period Calculus. You ignore him and go on staring off to the side. "You'll have a worse day if Seth catches you ogling Cindy like that."<br/>
<br/>
You sit up with a start. You were staring off at Cindy, you realize with a blush. And the blush is because you hadn't even noticed her, even though she's dressed in short-shorts and ankle socks (exposing miles and miles of smooth, supple leg) and a chest-hugging t-shirt that clings tightly to her torpedo-shaped boobs. <br/>
<br/>
You bend over your math book and try concentrating on the problem, but seventh period study hall is way too quiet in the library. You connect yourself to the music on your iPhone with some ear buds.<br/>
<br/>
But it's no use. All you can think about is eighth period. Astronomy. A class you share with Jamie Rennerhoff, Joshua Call, and Rich Austin. Three of the bullies who have been hassling you ever since you got the <i>Libra</i> back from them. Rennerhoff, who's a skinny mental case with a Joker-like smile but no appreciable upper body strength, shows up to class most days, but the other two typically skip. All last week, though, they showed up. Them and some of their other friends. It is in the Science wing, just before last period, that they have started to corner and humiliate you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So it is with a very heavy tread that you leave the library when the bell rings. You go to your locker first—lately you've decided to take only what you need for class—then take the long way around by ducking outside and approaching the Science wing from the outside doors.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shit.</i> You spot them as soon as you open the doors. Jamie and Joshua, Rich and Jeff Spencer. Standing in a cluster right in front of the door to Mr. Cash's room. At least they haven't seen you yet.<br/>
<br/>
You duck your head and sidle along the edge of the hallway, brushing the lockers with your shoulder. Joshua and the others are talking and laughing loudly, every other word an F-bomb or S-bomb. You don't dare look up as you approach, lest you accidentally make eye contact. With every step you take, you will them as hard as you can to not notice you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, fuck this," one of them says when you're still five yards off from them and the door. Jeff and Joshua break off from the other two and swagger directly at you. You jump to the side and barely miss getting knocked hard as they sweep past. Shivers run up your spine as you wait for them to wheel on you—or for Rich and Jamie to saunter over and corner you. Jamie you could handle. Rich, probably not.<br/>
<br/>
But nothing happens, and you resume your shuffle toward the door. You're right by the door frame when Rich says, "Fuck this," and like the other two almost careens into you as he follows Joshua and Jeff. Jamie swaggers into the classroom.<br/>
<br/>
You look around. The halls are empty. Well, of the usual run of bullies, anyway; there's plenty of other students milling about.<br/>
<br/>
You enter Mr. Cash's room and take your seat. You're flipping through the textbook when catch sight of Jamie. He does a double-take at you, and a puzzled frown appears on his face.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're just swinging up into your truck for the drive home when your phone chimes with an incoming text: <i>yo scotty confab our place 5 make it?</i> Joe Durras is the sender.<br/>
<br/>
Five o'clock would be cutting it close for suppertime, but you tell him you can make it. <i>so awesome,</i> he texts back. He says nothing about a meal being provided, but that's the excuse you give your mom when you get home. "It's, um, an Eastman-Westside joint study group," you tell her. "For Astronomy. Someone's got a telescope," you continue as you warm to the improvisation, "and we're talking about making a twenty, thirty mile drive out into the country this weekend or sometime to do some star watching." You figure a story like that will help her get your dinnertime absence past your dad, who generally doesn't like it when you miss a family meal.<br/>
<br/>
"That's so perfect!" Joe exclaims later, when you tell him about this improvisation. "It's better than you knew!"<br/>
<br/>
He's dressed in blue jeans and nothing else—his feet and chest are bare, and his skin glows and his muscles ripple with the kind glossy health that you could only dream about having. Water is running in another room—Frank taking a shower. They had to race home to meet you after basketball practice, Joe explained, and so they missed taking a shower at school.<br/>
<br/>
"So we talked to our dad about you last night," he says, then catches himself. "You said your dad is named Harris, and he works at Salopek Aerospace? Just checking," he adds after you nod. "Yeah, he liked the idea of maybe getting some help from you."<br/>
<br/>
You think back to your humiliation at school. "Don't know what help I'll be," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't run yourself down," he retorts, and he says it so sharply that you look up at him in surprise. His eyes are very keen. "If you tell yourself you can't do something, then you already can't. Anyway, everyone's full of surprises."<br/>
<br/>
"Like what?" you demand, and surprise yourself a little with the heat with which you say it.<br/>
<br/>
"You trying to argue with me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"Good." He grins. "No one wants to see you roll over and die. So convince me that you're not any good for this line of work, even though we're happy to have you try out."<br/>
<br/>
You shrug your shoulders. "I can't even stand up to some of the guys at school."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, right!" He snaps his fingers, but this time no flame appears. "You were telling us how they were hassling you after you got the <i>Libra</i> back from them." His eyes narrow over a devilish smile. "They still up to it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. They ignored me today."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, it's tough for assholes to sustain an interest in their victims."<br/>
<br/>
You cringe a little at his words. You wish you could have stood up for yourself. Well, it's true that you could've. It's just that you would have been inviting a world of hurt without doing yourself any good.<br/>
<br/>
"What's that?" Joe says. You find him looking at you with a bright but keen eye. "It sounds like you said, 'How can I stand up to a vampire if I can't stand up to a bully?'"<br/>
<br/>
"Did I?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe not. Maybe you just <i>thought it</i> really loud. But don't worry about it. Actually, a lot of times it's good in this business to be able to pass without notice." He looks you up and down. "So take it that I'm complimenting you on a fortuitous job skill when I observe that you are one <i>totally average-looking and unmemorable</i> dumbfuck. No one would ever think you're working with us!" he chortles as he claps you on the shoulder. "And they sure as fuck wouldn't think you know what you're doing! But you will," he adds. "We'll see to that!"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Like his brother, Frank is dressed only in blue jeans when he joins you in the living room, and he listens with politely when Joe brags to him about how good you could be at passing without notice. "Yeah," he drawls, "you don't want to be noisy while doing library work."<br/>
<br/>
"Library work?" Joe exclaims. "Scotty doesn't wanna do <i>library work!</i>" He wheels on you. "Tell Frank you wanna help us check out this guy up at the university! He's a real stinker and we need to scope him out while we're still in town. He's a black magician!" he adds in a hoarse stage whisper.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1133122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Distant Conclusion
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>There's no use trying to get the book back from those guys. What could you do? Ask them to return it? Best to let the whole thing quietly drop.<br/>
<br/>
So life, briefly deflected, continues. You deposit a cologne bottle in the time capsule, write a paper on it, get a B+. ("Good contribution, original, insightful thought," Walberg scrawls at the end. "Essay structure needs improvement.") You waste a fair amount of time—and rub away a good deal of your friends' patience—by reviewing the events that led up to a recent romantic failure.<br/>
<br/>
You studiously avoid the portables.<br/>
<br/>
Eventually, you forget that you'd ever found and lost that book. The fall semester passes; Christmas comes and goes; a new semester—the last school semester of your life—begins. Most of the senior-class assholes have dropped out; a few have been expelled. Life is actually pretty pleasant.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Then, one day in February, you are summoned to the office from class. "There's a man in the conference room that would like to talk to you," says the secretary, and points down a short hallway. "Second door on the left after you've turned the corner."<br/>
<br/>
It's a small room, very beige under the fluorescent lights, just big enough to hold a table, ten chairs, and the stink rising off the man sitting at the other end of the room. He has greasy, lanky hair hanging to the bottom of his jaw, and he's wearing a soiled sports jacket that appears not to have been washed in months. He watches you with dark, flinty eyes, and if he notices you recoiling slightly at his smell, he doesn't show it. "You Prescott?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
You nod.<br/>
<br/>
"My name's Bredon. Have a seat. I'm a private investigator, following up on a case of identity theft and fraud."<br/>
<br/>
"Fraud?" you stammer.<br/>
<br/>
"It has nothing to do with you, squirt, so just sit down. I'm tying up a few loose ends is all, and I've information you were a minor witness."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know anything about—"<br/>
<br/>
"You ever seen this before?" he asks. From an open briefcase he pulls out a book bound in crimson and gold leather.<br/>
<br/>
It does look familiar. You touch it. Of course! "Yeah. Uh—"<br/>
<br/>
"When did you last see it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Here, at school."<br/>
<br/>
"I asked when, not where."<br/>
<br/>
"I mean, here, last semester. Uh, September?" you add when he frowns deeply. "Yeah, it was close to the start of the semester. You can ask Mr. Walberg if you want, it was— I had an assignment to do for him, and it was right around—"<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you," he says, scribbling in a notepad. "How did you became acquainted with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I found it in a bookstore. Arnholm's Used Books, over by the college. Yeah, I bought it—"<br/>
<br/>
"For how much?"<br/>
<br/>
"Two dollars, I think."<br/>
<br/>
That gets his attention, and he does a double-take at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, two dollars," you continue, "because it was defective. The pages were all glued together or something. Here, I can show—"<br/>
<br/>
But as you reach for the book he throws it back in the briefcase, which he closes with a snap. "And how did you part with it? Did you sell it to another party?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." You feel your face turning red; you've not thought of that day in a long time, but the sudden memory makes it all fresh again. "Actually, it got stolen from me by some bullies."<br/>
<br/>
"They have names?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh— It's been a few months, and there were so many of them." The man doesn't give you a smile of sympathy. "Uh, I know that Joe Thomason was one of them. And James Rennerhoff. Jeff Spencer. Joshua Call. I don't remember who else."<br/>
<br/>
Bredon copies these names down. Then—moving quickly, as though afraid you might lunge inside it—he opens the briefcase just long enough to extract a legal pad. On this he writes for a very long time. "This is a release and bill of sale," he says without looking up. "Technically, you are still the owner of record of the <i>Libra,</i> and my clients require a clear title to it before they are able to settle certain litigation. How much do you want for it?" He raises his head when you don't reply.<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
"To sell it for. How much do you want for it? The book, it's still yours, and my clients would like to buy it from you."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Uh. Is it worth anything?"<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't answer. You've no idea how much to ask for. "A hundred dollars?" you stammer weakly, and your heart makes three wild thumps in your chest.<br/>
<br/>
He scribbles something on the pad, then turns it toward you. "Sign at the bottom, please." From his pocket he takes a wallet, and after you put your name on the pad he draws out a crisp new hundred dollar bill; you are disconsolate to see at least six more like it that don't make the same trip. Bredon takes the legal pad from you, and slides the Ben Franklin across the table.<br/>
<br/>
"That concludes our business, Prescott," he says. "Thank you for your time and help. Go buy yourself a new computer game. On your way out, tell the old lady with the bad dye job I'd like to see her. Thanks." He bends back over his notebook and begins writing.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So, five months later, you came out of it ninety-eight dollars richer. At the break between classes you tell Caleb about the strange meeting in the office. He frowns thoughtfully, then dashes off. When you see him at lunch he has an old paperback in his hand. "Oh, I just thought maybe this guy was an eccentric collector or something. I had this copy of Tolkien in the back of my locker," he says, dropping the book in your lap. "So I went to the office to see him."<br/>
<br/>
"Was he still there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. He told me to go soak my head."</span></div></div>


path: 11332
author_id: seuzz
title: A Drive with Dane
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You don't want to meet the kind of people who would be behind the portables, and suddenly you don't really want to meet Walberg either. Dane's company, though, promises some light silliness, so you jog off the way he went.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Dane!" you call when you glimpse him the parking lot. He turns, eyes wide. "So what are doing now?" you ask as you puff up to him.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I dunno," he shrugs. He blinks, but you've not been separated so long that he'll have forgotten talking to you, and he grins. "Change your mind? Cool!" He sounds genuinely enthusiastic. "Now if I could only remember where I--"<br/>
<br/>
There aren't many cars in the lot, but he has enough trouble that you're able to steer him away from his own ride. He hasn't been in a bad accident yet, but you don't want to be with him when he does. "How about I drive?" you offer. "You just tell me where to go."<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, you can pick. If it was me, we'd just probably wind up goin' in circles. You know?"<br/>
<br/>
"The river?" you say, and tug him over toward your truck.<br/>
<br/>
"Why, you wanna make out? We should find some girls then, 'cos--" He giggles inanely.<br/>
<br/>
You start to demur on the "girl" idea, but catch yourself in time. If Dane knows some girls, girls who are like him-- <br/>
<br/>
Girls who are casual and friendly and not stuck up or judgmental. Girls who like to dress in loose, sloppy, revealing clothes. Girls whose eyes twinkle merrily and who smile when they look at you. Girls who'd scoot up close to you and tuck themselves inside the crook of your arm and look up with a mischievous expression and ask you directly what your lips feel like and then jump in to find out for themselves without even waiting for a reply, and who might tell you afterward that it was pretty nice, and tell you that you feel good inside their arms, and who laugh and josh and banter and plainly don't give a fuck except when they're looking for a little light fun. Girls who might make a daisy chain and put it in your hair and then laughingly suggest it might look better woven into a patch of your hair lower down, and reach for your zipper and--<br/>
<br/>
"Dude, you're almost as bad as me!" Dane says. You look over with a glazed expression, and realize you've been staring goggle-eyed out the windshield with the motor running for-- Well, for enough time that even Dane has noticed that nothing is happening.<br/>
<br/>
"So, you know some girls?" you squeak.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I know lotsa girls. Hey, I know, let's go find Andrea!"<br/>
<br/>
"Andrea? You don't mean Varnsworth, do you?" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure! Her and me-- Oh, well, she <i>pretends</i> like she doesn't like me, but she thinks I'm cute." He turns and sits up on his knees, to gaze out the back window. "Okay, you're clear back there."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Of course you are. There's no cars in front or in back or within twenty yards.</i> You start the truck and gun it toward the exit. "But you <i>hang out</i> with Andrea Varnsworth?" You still can't quite believe it.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! I go over there, and she'll be all, like, What are you doing here, Dane? And I'm all, like, Sure, can I help you pick somethin' in your garden? And she's all, like, Just sit down and listen to some music or something. And then I'll chill and she'll do some work in the house and we'll chat and talk about people and things. An' we'll flirt. I'm always tellin' her she's sexy, and she tells me I'm cute--" He laughs and covers his face with his hands. <br/>
<br/>
"Have you ever--? I mean, if you're flirting, and she says you're cute, have you ever--?"<br/>
<br/>
He looks over at you blankly. "Huh?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well--" You feel your face turning very red. "Okay, never mind, I didn't mean to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oohhh!" he says, and slumps. "Nah. She always kicks me out before we can get anyplace like that. But she thinks I'm cute, and that's--" He stretches his legs and sucks hard on his lower lip. <br/>
<br/>
Honestly, it just sounds like puppy love on his part, and indulgence on hers. Andrea Varnsworth is the captain of the swim team: a tall, slim, sculpted girl who slips through the school without making waves. Her eyes have met yours on a few occasions in class. You probably had a hurt and pleading expression in yours--most guys go limp and helpless in her presence--but there had been no expression in hers. They are like still pools at the bottom of which dwells a satiated but still dangerous predator. To the best of your knowledge, no guy has ever made it out--even on a chaste date--with her.<br/>
<br/>
Andrea is definitely not the kind of girl you were fantasizing about earlier. But imagine being able to tell Caleb and Keith that you spent the afternoon at Andrea Varnsworth's house. <i>Oh yeah,</i> you could tell them in a slightly off-hand way. <i>She told me I was cute.</i><br/>
<br/>
Well, if she says that about Dane, why wouldn't say it about you?<br/>
<br/>
"So let's go see Andrea," you say. "Where does she live?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, thataway." Dane waves his hand. "I'll tell you when to turn. So, <i>you</i> know any girls, Prescott?" There's a note of sly mischief in his question.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I sometimes hang out with Jenny Ashton and her friends--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, Jenny's a <i>tomboy,</i> ain't she? I love Jenny!"<br/>
<br/>
"--so I sometimes also see Yumi Saito and Lin Pol, because they--"<br/>
<br/>
"You hang out with some of the cheerleaders? Oh, man, I'm so jealous! I love Yumi and Lin 'specially!"<br/>
<br/>
"And sometimes Eva and Jessica Garner," you can't help adding, since he's so impressed by the "cheerleader" connection.<br/>
<br/>
In fact, he's so impressed that he slaps his own head a couple of times. "I need to start hangin' out with <i>you</i> some more! I <i>love</i> twins!"<br/>
<br/>
"Are there any girls you <i>don't</i> love, Dane?"<br/>
<br/>
"Not many," he laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"And there's Lisa Yarborough." You leave the name hanging, feeling extra curious about his reaction there, but he keeps silent. "You love her, too?"<br/>
<br/>
"Eh," he shrugs. "It's all relative."<br/>
<br/>
And suddenly you're not feeling quite so kindly toward him. Because Lisa hasn't just been a crush of yours since the start of your junior year, she actually went out with you over the summer--<br/>
<br/>
Well, <i>you</i> thought you were going out with her, until that horrible day a few weeks ago when you put your arm around her shoulder at her locker and she threw it off and coolly told you that, actually, the two of you had never formally said anything about dating, and then suddenly it was Geoff Mansfield who was always near her.<br/>
<br/>
So you just grunt in answer to Dane's own grunt. "Anyway, that's all I really see around, like, seriously."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, shoot, man, that's more'n enough quality wise. You just need a few more numbers, and--" <br/>
<br/>
Suddenly, he swings his head toward the passenger-side window and jumps up in his seat. He beats his palms against pane. "Oh! Oh! Here! Turn around here, Prescott! <i>I</i> know who we can hang out with! Come on, man, turn around!"<br/>
<br/>
"What the--" you start, but he keeps badgering you, so you get over into the right-hand lane and manage to make it onto a side street without causing an accident. Dane looks in serious danger of wetting himself, he's so excited as he guides you back in a wide circle toward the strip center you'd passed. When you're back on the main thoroughfare, he steers you into its parking lot. "Here?" you ask incredulously.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah! You see the-- What kinda car is that? Anyway, I know these guys! They'll be fun!"<br/>
<br/>
Your eyebrow goes up skeptically. The kind of guys who hang out at King Kong Komics aren't your idea of "fun."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The bell on the door jingles and Dane's head swings wildly around; unkindly, you think it sounds like his brain rattling inside his skull. The shop itself is dark and smells musty, but the side café is more brightly lit, and it's in there that Dane leads you. Eric Kim, the fat, happy Korean owner of the store and café, is seated at a table, and returns Dane's cheery greeting with one of his own. The four high school students he's sitting with also smile warmly up at Dane, and smile more coolly at you. Your own smile is tight, and internally you sigh. <i>Roleplayers.</i><br/>
<br/>
Not that you have anything against roleplaying games, since you'd done your share of them in middle school. But guys who are still enthusiastic for them their senior year ... Well, you're not in a position to look down on these guys, but you're so low on the social scale that you need <i>someone</i> to condescend to. <br/>
<br/>
Dane pulls up a chair. "So, you guys kill that dragon?"<br/>
<br/>
"No dragons in this game, Dane," Christian Knouse says. "Well, not <i>yet,</i>" he adds more darkly as he glares at Howie Baylor. "Just orcs. I feel like a traitor to my class." He tips back a Pepsi.<br/>
<br/>
"It's called rising tension," Howie retorts. "You want a kapow climax at the start, go watch a Michael Bay movie."<br/>
<br/>
"If I want rising tension and a kapow climax, I'll get some porn," says Darrell Parson. "And your mage isn't helping either with all those fire spells," he adds more heatedly at Hugh Flake.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, they're clearing the room just fine," Hugh says.<br/>
<br/>
"You guys need a new magic manual, is what you need," says Eric, provoking a chorus of groans. "Hey, don't blame the man who's got merchandise to move."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Magic manual.</i> Of course: Guys into this kind of game would probably pay a pretty penny for an authentic grimoire, even if its pages were stuck together. </span></div></div>


path: 113321
author_id: seuzz
title: The Roleplayers
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"If you guys need a new magic manual, I got one I could sell you," you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"A private sale in <i>my</i> shop?" Eric says.<br/>
<br/>
"We could do it outside," Christian says. "Next to those junkies you got dealing--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just givin' shit," Eric laughs. "Anyone wanna buy some chips?" He jerks his chin at the counter where a bored-looking guy in tattoos is reading a graphic novel. "Give you a twenty percent discount 'cos they hit their expiration date a week ago."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know potato chips came with an expiration date," Darrell says.<br/>
<br/>
"This <i>campaign's</i> hit an expiration date," Christian grumbles. "When're we supposed to finally meet Count Douchebag?"<br/>
<br/>
"Count Dragu Descoigne," Howie says through gritted teeth. "You know, I went to the trouble of making some actual, memorable character names after-- Where the <i>hell</i> did you find some of those names on your last campaign?" he demands of Christian.<br/>
<br/>
"I made 'em with a randomizer. Ninety percent of the fun was watching <i>you</i> try to remember and pronounce them. What's this magic manual you speak of, Prescott," he continues, turning to you. He shuts one eye and glares hard at you with the other from under a sharply arched eyebrow. <br/>
<br/>
"I got it out in the truck," you say. "I found it at Arnholm's a few days ago."<br/>
<br/>
"Arnholm!" Eric laughs long and loud.<br/>
<br/>
"What's so funny?" Darrell asks as they all stare at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, nothing. Ted Arnholm!" Eric laughs again. "Now, there's an asshole who knows how to move shit. Price it high so people think it's actually worth something, and watch it <i>sail</i> off the shelves. Meanwhile, I'm stuck-- Someone want an Italian sandwich? Last week I noticed the salami was about to turn."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, Eric, I've never known a guy who could so <i>helplessly</i> talk customers out of a sale," Howie says.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll take it," Christian says, raising his hand. "If I should die before I wake, that's one less saving throw I have to make, and then maybe we can start up a new game."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you <i>serious?</i>" Eric asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," Howie echoes in a wounded tone. "Because we're not even halfway through the--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, now I <i>am</i> serious," Christian exclaims. "So far, Lady Moonpussy's been the only--"<br/>
<br/>
"Lady <i>Montpelier!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Christian. Dude," Eric says. "If <i>I</i> thought the meat was turning a week ago, can you imagine how bad it is now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can't be as bad as this campaign. We're heading into a bog."<br/>
<br/>
Howie snatches up his notes. "No <i>peeking</i>, Christian. The Marshes of Melancholy were supposed to be--"<br/>
<br/>
"What system does this magic manual use?" Darrell asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"It's not part of any system," you have to admit. "I found it in the special collections case. It's like an authentic grimoire. A real old book."<br/>
<br/>
Eyes widen: Howie's and Hugh's and Darrell's and Eric's in surprise; Christian's in skepticism. "If you got it out of that case," Eric says, "how much did you--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it was priced at two hundred and something," you say. "But, uh, it turned out there was something wrong with it, so Arnholm discounted it. Discounted it a lot."<br/>
<br/>
"Dude don't discount," Eric says. "What's wrong with it?" He laughs again. "Is it cursed or something?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's pretty freaky," you admit. "Wanna see it?" The chorus of "Sure!" sends you back out to the truck.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The tome elicits a wide range of reactions. After a brief glance at it, Darrell turns bored ("Shit, I didn't flunk Latin so I could buy a book in it"). Hugh stares at the shifting images on the title page. Howie grumbles over the pages that seem to be glued shut. Eric chortles and bubbles at the 99% discount Arnholm gave you. Dane chills silently, as he's been doing all this time. Only Christian keeps quiet, and his eyes dart sharply over each page as he examines them. "If you're looking for new material, you're not going to find it in there," Howie tells him.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll still buy it," Christian says. He again he peers at you hard with a single clear eye. "You take two bucks for it?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate just a fraction, but it's enough to bring in another bidder. "I'll pay five," Eric says.<br/>
<br/>
"Seven," Christian snaps.<br/>
<br/>
"Ten," counters Eric with a grin.<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve."<br/>
<br/>
"You bought yourself a book," Eric laughs. "If your friend here will take it. Did my best for you, dude," he adds, turning to you.<br/>
<br/>
"You were just trying to screw more money out of me?" Christian demands of Eric. "Fuck that, now I won't buy that sandwich."<br/>
<br/>
"Two good deeds done with one blow," Eric retorts. "I didn't want <i>that</i> on my conscience either."<br/>
<br/>
Christian snorts, and pulls a dirty five-dollar bill from his pocket and scribbles you out an IOU for the balance. "Come find me next week," he says. "I get paid Saturday."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Done and done.</i> You slap Dane on the back. "You're quiet. Ready to go?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh, I'm havin' fun listenin' to these guys." Certainly he's been too slow to get a word in edgewise.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if one of 'em will give you a ride--" You start. But then the bell on the door rings again, and you turn to look. And you stop.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Ah, there's the kind of girl you were hoping to run into.</i><br/>
<br/>
Gillian Kiefer, in torn jeans and a sleeveless, tie-dyed top that she's sewn tassels all over. Leather bracelets. Her eyes twinkle mischievously in her chipmunk face, and her thick, dark hair is unkempt in a way that just begs to be combed out with loving fingers.<br/>
<br/>
Too bad there's another guy with her. Braydon Delp, in jeans and a thin, v-neck t-shirt. His thick, dark hair is also unkempt and sticks up in odd angles, but you've no desire to sort <i>it</i> out. His arms, like Gillian's, are decked out with leather wristbands, and the sense of slightly Goth androgyny is only enhanced by the mascara on his lashes. His eyebrows peak with weary skepticism as his gaze lights briefly on you, but he and Gillian turn their attention to their friends. "Guys," he says in the soft tones of someone who doesn't give a shit and doesn't give a shit whether you give a shit over his not giving a shit. "Sorry we're late. You get tired of carrying my carcass around?" He slouches into a chair.<br/>
<br/>
Puzzled glances from around the table, except Christian, who is utterly absorbed in the book. "Don't tell me we're still at that campsite," Braydon says.<br/>
<br/>
"No, we've been marching for--" Hugh starts.<br/>
<br/>
"So, last thing I said was that I was going to sleep. I even made a roll for it," Braydon says, giving Howie a sidelong glance.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut. Up," Darrell growls at him.<br/>
<br/>
But Howie is now pulling at his lip. "That's right. And house rule is no one else plays for an absent--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, <i>come on!</i>" Darrell shouts. "So he woke up and has been walking along all quiet like. Nothing's been happening except--"<br/>
<br/>
"Except that fight we've been in for the past twenty minutes," Christian says without raising his eyes from the book.<br/>
<br/>
"Whose side are you on?"<br/>
<br/>
"And Tiny's a deep sleeper," Braydon says laconically. "Half giant, too, so you guys woulda had a hard time carrying him."<br/>
<br/>
Groans from Darrell and Hugh, and a hissed laugh from Eric, as Howie keeps pulling at his lip. "Yeah," he says slowly. "I forgot about--" He pushes some dice at Braydon. "Lessee, twelve hour march-- I'm gonna need you to make a dozen saving throws against--"<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, lookit that," Braydon says as he carelessly lets the dice fall. "You guys dropped me."<br/>
<br/>
"So you woke up?" Darrell asks hopefully.<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, it means you gotta do a throw against being able to pick me up again."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, then we should've done that first when we tried picking you up in the morning!"<br/>
<br/>
"You guys fight about it," Gillian laughs. "I'm gonna see if there's anything worth buying." She sways off into the main shop.<br/>
<br/>
Well, she's a lot more interesting than listening to these guys arguing about who gets to roll for picking up a deep-sleeping half-giant, and you follow her. But without making it <i>look</i> like you're following her, so while she heads over to the newest releases, you sidle over to the graphic novels while still keeping her in sight. <br/>
<br/>
You don't really know her, and can't even remember having had a class with her. If you had, it would have been your freshman or sophomore year, and you wouldn't have been sitting close to each other. In fact, it's entirely possible that she only moved to town recently. It sucks that she hangs around with Braydon and Christian and them. But given the way she dresses, she wouldn't be hanging around with you and <i>your</i> friends anyway.<br/>
<br/>
So you watch her out of the corner of your eye, wondering how to approach her in a way that won't make you look like a freak or a stalker or some pathetic creep. She has a lovely profile, which she keeps turned to you as she picks up a series of titles and glances through them. She smiles over them--a deep dimple flashing in her cheek--and a couple of times fights to suppress a laugh. Which is odd, because she's not picking up "funny" comics. Girl must have a bizarre sense of humor.<br/>
<br/>
You keep in motion, picking up a succession of graphic novels and putting them back. When you reach the end of the bookcase you have to go around to the other side, losing sight of her. You aren't there long, and when you reemerge you find her directly opposite you, walking her fingers through the boxes of used comics. You step out and glance around for a new vantage point, but Gillian speaks first. "You disappeared on me," she says, and looks up at you from under her bangs with an impish smile. <br/>
<br/>
"Huh?" Your brain freezes. "What do you mean I--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do you have trouble talking to girls?"<br/>
<br/>
Your cock springs almost straight up.</span></div></div>


path: 1133211
author_id: seuzz
title: Enter the Dame
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Do you have trouble talking to girls?" Gillian asks.<br/>
<br/>
Your throat freezes even as you jaw hangs open. "I-- I don't know how to answer that," you say, and instantly wish the ground would open up beneath your feet.<br/>
<br/>
"I think you just did," she says with a twinkly smile. "I'm Gillian, though you should have told me your name first."<br/>
<br/>
"I know. I mean, I know you're Gillian. I'm Will Prescott."<br/>
<br/>
"I know. Where's Caleb and Keith?"<br/>
<br/>
"They're-- Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's who I always see you with."<br/>
<br/>
"You've seen me? I mean, they're not-- I was hanging out with Dane this afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. Yeah, I've seen you around. What do you like?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do I--?" <i>You've got to stop repeating her statements and questions.</i> You look around dumbly. <i>What in this place </i>do<i> you like? Besides her?</i> You shrug. "Oh, different things."<br/>
<br/>
"Mm. You know, if you liked role-playing with those guys in there, I'd see you a lot more often."<br/>
<br/>
"Would you like to see more often?" you gulp.<br/>
<br/>
"That's the kind of question I like," she says. She looks you up and down once, and then walks around the table while keeping you in her sight. You fight the urge to back off, which isn't hard, since your feet seem frozen to the ground. Once she's on your side of the table she gives you another long look up and down. "You'd fit in with those guys," she says. "Don't you like them? You look disappointed."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, well, I'm not really into role-playing games. I mean, not anymore. I played back when I was in middle school, but it's been a long time, and I don't--"<br/>
<br/>
"What about video games? Christian and Darrell are really into videogames."<br/>
<br/>
"I like videogames. I play them lots."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, <i>there's</i> something you like. What else?"<br/>
<br/>
"What do <i>you</i> like?"<br/>
<br/>
She says nothing, and just bites on her grin. She comes up closer, and you stiffen all over as she pulls the brim of your cap up and plucks lightly at your stiff bangs. "I like your hair, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"I need a haircut," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"No you don't. Maybe a shave," she muses, and plucks at your chin whiskers.<br/>
<br/>
This is so close to the fantasy you'd been having earlier that you can't stop yourself from following up. "Me and Dane were talking about going down to the river, hanging out--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, is <i>he</i> the kind of thing you like?"<br/>
<br/>
You probably turn the color of a very ripe tomato. "We were talking about finding some girls and-- So, if you'd like to go with us--" You don't dare move, for fear she'll glance down and notice the tent-like shape at the front of your pants.<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon and me just got back from there," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." And that instantly causes things to sag. "Is <i>he</i> something you like?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm hmm. But we're not serious or anything. I like his hair too."<br/>
<br/>
"And his, um--" You rub an eye with your finger.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," she laughs. "But it suits him. Wouldn't suit you." She cocks her head. "I wouldn't mind getting my hands on you, see what I could do with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, any time you want to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Would Lisa have a problem with it?"<br/>
<br/>
Your heart sinks hard and fast. <i>So she's seen you with Lisa.</i> "No," you say quietly. "She says we're not dating."<br/>
<br/>
"And what do <i>you</i> say?"<br/>
<br/>
You sigh. "I guess we're not dating."<br/>
<br/>
"That's too bad," she says, the light seems to die in her eye. She looks back over her shoulder. "I should go rescue those guys from my hubby."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean?"<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon likes making trouble. Likes using other people to make trouble."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you--? Hubby? I thought you said you weren't serious."<br/>
<br/>
"We're not. But I guess we're together." She allows you a brief backwards glance as she goes. "See you around, Will."<br/>
<br/>
You have to clutch the edge of the table as your knees weaken. <i>She was just fucking around with you?</i> A flash of anger--wounded humiliation, you have to recognize--ripples through you. This is why you have trouble talking to girls. Because you can never figure out what the <i>fuck</i> it is with them.<br/>
<br/>
You give yourself a minute to recover before going back into the café. "I'm taking off, Dane," you tell him brusquely. He just looks back glassily at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Sell you something before you go?" Eric asks hopefully. <br/>
<br/>
"I didn't see anything I want," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Except you did. And she's totally ignoring you now.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your disappointment in yourself, in Gillian, in Lisa, in a <i>universe</i> that contains such people, is deep and bitter. You have to talk about it, and the only person who might conceivably give a rat's ass is your best friend, Caleb Johansson. <br/>
<br/>
"What the <i>fuck</i> is it with girls?" you say as you throw yourself backwards onto his bed.<br/>
<br/>
He puts his hand back on the door handle and opens it. "Out," he says. "I'm not listening to another death metal solo about you and Lisa."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not Lisa this time," you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Second verse, worse than the first," he sighs.<br/>
<br/>
"Get this," you press. "I go back up to the school this afternoon, and I run into Dane Matthias. I'm back up there, you know, because I'm taking in this thing for Walberg--"<br/>
<br/>
You don't spare him any of the tedious and pointless backstory. "And you know Gillian? Gillian Kiefer?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" he sighs. "Goth girl?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't call her 'Goth'," you say. "More like, you know, leather wristbands and--  Well, she comes in with Braydon Herp-a-Derp-- Are you even listening to me?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, pay attention, because this is where it gets interesting."<br/>
<br/>
"No it isn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up. So, they come in, and he sits down with Christian and them and starts making trouble about whether they were playing his character or not while he wasn't around--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm having a hard time playing a character who gives a fuck, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, <i>she</i> goes out into the main shop, and I go out there with her, 'cos I'm all scoping her out."<br/>
<br/>
"And she slaps you."<br/>
<br/>
"She <i>doesn't</i> slap me! She starts flirting with me!"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, and who's fantasy role-playing now? You're full of shit."<br/>
<br/>
You leap off the bed and put your hand on your hip and grin flirtatiously at him. "Do you have a hard time talking to girls, Will?" you pipe in a croaking falsetto.  "What do you like, Will? I like your hair. You should let me give you a makeover." You swing your hips hard as you walk up to Caleb; he blanches. "I'm not serious about Braydon, Will. Are you serious about <i>Lisa?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God, I <i>knew</i> you were--"<br/>
<br/>
"So I say I'm not, and then she gets all cold. 'Well, I'm serious about Braydon. He's my hubby, and we were just out at the river.' You know, man, <i>the river!</i> And then she just walks off and totally ignores me!" You fall back onto the bed. "What the <i>fuck</i> is it with girls?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know, man, none of what you said makes a lick of sense."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe you had to be there."<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't have been there if you'd paid me."<br/>
<br/>
"At least I got some money out of Christian for that book."<br/>
<br/>
He sighs. "Maybe you should go talk to Tilley about it."<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft. Dumbass. Who do <i>you</i> think I should be interested in?"<br/>
<br/>
"Anyone who'd have you."<br/>
<br/>
"Gimme a name."<br/>
<br/>
He blinks. "You want me to set you a <i>challenge?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. I'm pissed."<br/>
<br/>
"You're high. Okay, how about Jenny?"<br/>
<br/>
"Jenny Ashton? Her and Lamont--"<br/>
<br/>
"No they're not, which is how come he's always--" But you just wave your hand dismissively. "Lisa. That's where your heart's been--"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. After talking with Gillian I think--"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, thank heavens for <i>that</i>. If she's cured you of--" He frowns as you flip him off. "<i>Chelsea Cooper.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
That at least gets a laugh out of you, which turns into a grunt as you fall back onto the bed. "Chelsea Cooper. Did you <i>see</i> what she was wearing today? Or <i>not</i> wearing?"<br/>
<br/>
"I know." He sinks onto the bed next to you. "Can you imagine being the captain of the basketball team and having <i>that</i> wrapped around your cock?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just imagine <i>her.</i> Forget Gordon." You shudder.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," he says dully. "Except that <i>has</i> to be part of the fantasy, doesn't it?" He blinks hard. "Me with <i>my</i> cock up Chelsea? Does not compute."<br/>
<br/>
"No it doesn't," you agree, and he shoots you a dirty look. "But me with <i>my</i> cock?"<br/>
<br/>
"Computes even less. Now, Tilley with <i>his</i> cock--"<br/>
<br/>
You gag, and he joins you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Still, it doesn't prevent the two of you from getting together with Keith on Saturday. "Movie?" Caleb suggests. <br/>
<br/>
"I wanna hit the comic shops," Keith says. "There's a new title I wanna check out."<br/>
<br/>
"You had all week for that," Caleb protests. Keith just shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
You're still carrying the bruise from your encounter with Gillian. Mostly you just want to put it behind you, but part of you would like to see her again, to see what (if any) more mischief she has in store for you.</span></div></div>


path: 11332111
author_id: seuzz
title: Some Talk About Messing Around
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You're not a masochist, and cast your vote with Caleb. The movie, as it happens, totally sucks.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And so life resumes. Monday comes, and you give Walberg an old hairdryer to put in the time capsule. On Friday the capsule goes into the ground, and the Friday after that you turn in a paper describing why you chose to send a hairdryer into the future. Then Monday comes again, and with it a new assignment from Walberg: Research the history of the item you put in, and describe its equivalent from a hundred years ago.<br/>
<br/>
"What the fuck do I know about hairdryers?" you complain to Caleb as you're leaving class.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing, obviously," he snickers. "You just stick your head out the car window and let the wind do it on your way to school, right?"<br/>
<br/>
You flip him off. "But what am I going to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, are you so allergic to research? That's what the internet is for. Research and porn. When they're not the same thing," he grins smugly.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fucker's got it so made.</i> He gave Walberg a thumb drive full of porn, and to your surprise (and Caleb's as well), not only did the teacher accept it, he even gave Caleb an A on the paper. You, on the other hand, got a D, along with extensive commentary on the obvious lack of thought that went into your choice, your inability to cogently explain your choice after the fact, and the overall incoherence of your prose.<br/>
<br/>
So you're not in the mood when someone jostles you hard behind, and you turn to find Geoff Mansfield behind you. "Watch where you're going, you--" But you stop yourself, for Lisa is with him.<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, whatsamatter, Prescott?" he asks in a lazy jeer. "Walberg piss all over your paper?" You just glare.<br/>
<br/>
"How'd you do, Will?" Lisa asks, and her eyes show something like genuine interest.<br/>
<br/>
"About as well as you'd expect," you reply, and carefully watch her reaction. Will she look pleased, implying she thinks highly of your academic efforts? Or disappointed on your behalf. But just nods vacantly.<br/>
<br/>
"Better luck on the sequel," Geoff says with fake sympathy, and pats your shoulder. You seethe at the smug condescension in his dark eyes, and the way he tilts his head back to peer down his nose at you, accenting the inch of height he has on you. He puts his arm around Lisa's shoulder and draws her off.<br/>
<br/>
"Better luck to you too," you shout after him. "Asshole," you add <i>sotto voce.</i> You look around for Caleb, but he's already seized on your distraction as an excuse to ditch you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Why a hair dryer?" Jenny Ashton asks you at lunch. You and she and a bunch of other friends are sitting out on the grass near A wing.<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?" Carson Ioeger answers on your behalf. "Why anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno," you grumble, and take another bite from your sandwich. <br/>
<br/>
"Well, what did you say on your paper?" Jenny presses you.<br/>
<br/>
"<i>I</i> said it was a cultural artifact reflecting contemporary standards of beauty," Caleb says with a grin, "and the obsolescence of storage technology."<br/>
<br/>
"You put in a hair dyer too?" James Lamont asks.<br/>
<br/>
"No, I put in some porn on a thumb drive," Caleb replies. "Got an A, too."<br/>
<br/>
"Walberg let you--?"<br/>
<br/>
"What would <i>you</i> put into a time capsule," Paul Davis asks Yumi Saito. He hunches forward with a puppyish interest in the pert little cheerleader.<br/>
<br/>
"Chelsea Cooper," Yumi says, and continues to stare at the nearby blank wall. She takes a hard bite from her apple and chews carefully. "A representative of the contemporary standards of cunthood. I'd cut her into little pieces if she didn't fit in the box. Hell, I'd cut her into little pieces if--"<br/>
<br/>
"Now, <i>there's</i> your standard for contemporary beauty," Carson says, and leans back from Yumi's murderous glare. "If you could get a picture of Chelsea naked, Johansson, you could put <i>it</i> onto your thumb drive. After saving a copy to pass around to the rest of us."<br/>
<br/>
"Would there be room for Geoff Mansfield in that box with Chelsea?" you ask Yumi.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, <i>Mansfield,</i>" Carson chortles. "Put <i>him</i> in a box with a naked Chelsea Cooper, snap a picture, and send it to Gordon. Wouldn't <i>that</i> be awesome?"<br/>
<br/>
"You got a problem with Mansfield too?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"Nah. But it'd be fun." He grins slyly at you. "Would <i>you</i> get in a box with a naked Chelsea Cooper, Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure what's the diplomatic thing to say in front of Yumi, so you hold your tongue. Caleb, though, raises his hand. "<i>I</i> would. Definitely."<br/>
<br/>
"Me too!" Keith Tilley chirps.<br/>
<br/>
"Even if I was going to take a picture and send it to Gordon?" Carson grins.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb sucks on his cheek. "How long do I get to be with Chelsea, and how affectionate is she being with me?"<br/>
<br/>
"She's <i>dead,</i> Ioeger," says Yumi. "Because that's the only way--"<br/>
<br/>
"No, she's very much alive, and she's <i>very</i> affectionate," says Carson. "And I'm taking <i>lots</i> of pictures of you."<br/>
<br/>
"I'd still do it," says Keith with a shit-eating grin.<br/>
<br/>
"What if was you and Cindy Vredenburg?" Carson asks him. "And I was gonna send the pictures to-- Oh, hey, Seth!" He raises his head and nods a cheerful greeting.<br/>
<br/>
Keith whips his head around, and you bite on your grin at the great fart he blasts out as his sphincter loosens. "Not funny!" Keith yells as he turns back to Carson. "I'm overdue for a beating as it is."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure are," Jenny says. "All of you, Carson especially. This is the most disgusting--"<br/>
<br/>
"So let's turn it around," the unfazed Carson says. "Yumi, you in a box with a naked Gordon Black, and I send the picture to Chel--"<br/>
<br/>
"Bleagh!" Yumi says. "I'm not taking any more of this." She gathers up her stuff and stalks away. After a moment's pause, Paul hurries after her.<br/>
<br/>
Carson watches them thoughtfully. "Me in a box with a naked Yumi Saito, and someone sends the picture to Paul." Jenny slaps him hard on the side of the head. "No fun there," Carson continues, as though nothing has happened. "There has to be an element of danger, and Paul--" He shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
"What's it with you liking to fuck around with people?" you ask him. He shrugs. "No, explain it to me. Because I ran into Gillian Kiefer a week or so back--" Caleb nudges you, but you ignore him. "I ran into her at King Kong, and she was all flirting with me hard, right up until the moment I said I wasn't seeing anyone, and then she just dropped me."<br/>
<br/>
"She had to <i>ask</i> whether you were seeing anyone?" James asks dryly.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck you! So I'm not the fucking captain of the fucking basketball team--"<br/>
<br/>
"I meant, isn't it pretty common knowledge by now that you and Lisa are, you know, pfft?"<br/>
<br/>
You lean forward to smack him, but he easily brushes your blow away.<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't take anything Gillian says too seriously," Jenny says. "She just likes getting in people's heads." She shoots Ioeger a dark look. "She and Carson would make a good fit."<br/>
<br/>
"Really?" Carson says brightly. "Me and Gillian naked in a box? 'Cos Gillian's a <i>hottie.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"James has better taste in--" Jenny starts, then stops herself, and shifts uncomfortably. There's a moment of suspense as everyone looks at Lamont. White and pink fight for mastery of his cheeks, and then he just looks away, as though he's suddenly found the traffic on the nearby street very interesting. At least Carson has the tact to use the silence to change the subject.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's been almost ten days since your encounter with Gillian, and the bruise is still a little tender. But you're damned if you're going to let it eat you up. So when Keith asks you Tuesday after class if you want to go with him to hit the comic shops, you agree, and steer him toward King Kong. Dumbass that he is, he clearly makes absolutely no connection between the lunchtime conversation and your choice of destination.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart thumps a little as you walk in. Eric Kim smiles at you from behind the counter, then goes back to his own reading. Your heart beats a little as you crane your neck to look into the caf', but those guys aren't there.<br/>
<br/>
And then your eye is <i>definitely</i> caught by who else is in the shop, over by the new releases shelf.<br/>
<br/>
It's Geoff Mansfield, along with Martin Gardinhire and Brent Pruitt. They are thumbing through a couple of comics, and by their expressions are making dismissive comments. Well, Mansfield and Gardinhire are; Pruitt seems utterly absorbed in his reading.<br/>
<br/>
You wonder that you didn't spot them immediately on entering, for they're not far from the door, and are facing you directly. Then you realize it's their dress. You don't think you've ever seen Geoff out of slacks and button down shirts, but here he is in ratty jeans and a too-small t-shirt. You blink, and then feel a shudder of loathing. <i>He's slumming, and has intentionally dressed down for it.</i><br/>
<br/>
Keith has already moved up to the shelf where they are, and they look up vaguely at his approach. Geoff's eye falls on you, and he smiles thinly. "Hey, look who it is," he says. "Catching up on some advanced reading, Prescott?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, are you?" you retort. "Your lips were moving. Words too big?"<br/>
<br/>
"Funny. Almost as funny as-- How'd you do on Walberg's paper?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you remember?"<br/>
<br/>
He freezes fractionally. Then: "I wasn't paying attention." He puts his reading back and nudges Gardinhire. "Come on, let's go."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I'm done here," Gardinhire says. "Put it back, Pruitt. That laser blast isn't going to vaporize her clothes." Brent reluctantly accedes. <br/>
<br/>
They jostle you as they pass, but Gardinhire turns in the doorway. "Wanna go with, Prescott? We could use a good laugh."</span></div></div>


path: 113321112
author_id: seuzz
title: Distractions
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You flush and turn your back on them. The bell jingles and the door closes, and even then you don't look back. <br/>
<br/>
But it still chews on you, and you bump hard against the table with the used comics as you slouch over to a shelf. They've always been such a lot of supercilious jerks, ever since you first met them at Westside your freshman year. Good little students taking AP classes and getting good grades and going out for all the intellectual extra-curricular activities that'll get them into good schools; collecting fat allowances from rich parents and driving nice cars; and all hanging around with each other and sneering at anyone who doesn't measure up their excruciating and totally opaque standards. It's bad enough that you have to share the halls with the bully-jocks like Lester "The Molester" Pozniak and Gordon Black and Seth Javits, and the bully-losers like Gary Chen and David Kirkham; but to have to sit in the classrooms with bully-brainiacs like Geoff Mansfield and Martin Gardinhire and Anthony Kirk and Kelsey Blankenship and Amanda Ferguson and--<br/>
<br/>
You have to stop yourself before you hit Lisa's name.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Too late.</i> She hangs out with them too, and if you thought she was different just because she hung out with you over the summer and let you put your arm around her and nestle with her and talk carelessly about things that were sweet but unimportant, like how nice of a day it was, and why that rom-com was totally awesome (when it wasn't)--<br/>
<br/>
Well, you bet Gillian Kiefer would have been a lot more fun, and she wouldn't have stomped all over your heart in a brutal way by telling you that <i>you hadn't even been "dating"</i> all those times you went over to her house and found her smiling so happily to see you.<br/>
<br/>
No, she'd just tease you hard and flirt with you hard for about five minutes, until--<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, Jesus, didn't you come here to </i>forget<i> about things?</i><br/>
<br/>
You look around. <i>No, you came here because you </i>couldn't<i> forget about that afternoon two Fridays ago, and why are you so stupid, stupid, STUPID?</i><br/>
<br/>
The room swims a little, and when it clears you find Keith staring slack-jawed at you as he clutches an issue of <i>Deathclock</i>--<br/>
<br/>
<i>Where does he find these bizarre titles?</i><br/>
<br/>
--in a nerveless hand. "Dude, are you having an episode or something?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, of-- Oh, <i>pflbght!</i>" You snatch up a glossy rag that shows two balloon-sized breasts and two balloon-sized buttocks sheathed in a yellow fabric that's sketched and inked and colored in a febrile manner suggesting garments in imminent danger of bursting asunder.<br/>
<br/>
The interior doesn't make for relaxing reading, exactly, but it does distract you, and under Keith's prodding and guidance you find a half-dozen titles that, collectively, are two parts strong adventure, five parts pretentious story-telling, and fifty-nine parts illustrations that leave just enough to the imagination that they won't pall as quickly as straight porn. "Yeah," Tilley drawls when you mention it. "That stuff Johansson found for Walberg? Kills your retinas." He clenches his eyes shut and lets a small smile play on his lips. "I like undressing them up here." He taps his temple. "That way they're different <i>every</i> time."<br/>
<br/>
"You're a pervert."<br/>
<br/>
He jerks his chin at you and saunters over to the counter with the strut of a rooster on his way from his third satisfying assignation of the day and on his way to a fourth. But you hold back, for you've just realized you're going to be short on cash.<br/>
<br/>
You dig through your front pocket, and are only able to come up with a five. It's been through the wash, too, by the looks of it. You dig a little deeper, but only come up with loose paper. You're about to put back most of your purchases with a sigh when you recognize one of the scraps. It's that IOU from Christian Knouse.<br/>
<br/>
On an impulse you pull out your phone and call him. If he's coming over here anyway--for which there might be a chance--maybe he could bring you that seven bucks the IOU is for. You still wouldn't have enough for what you're holding, so as the phone rings you put back enough to bring you under your twelve-dollar budget. But he doesn't answer.<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, and I was hopin' I could make this month's rent off you," Eric chuckles as you set your diminished purchases in front of him. "Those were some nice titles you put back."<br/>
<br/>
"I'll probably have to put these back too," you sigh. "Unless--" You show him the IOU. "Will you take this? That's Christian's signature at the bottom."<br/>
<br/>
Eric makes a face. "What is he, secretary of the Treasury all of a sudden?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's that or--"<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, but let's make it legal. Sign the back while I--" He picks up his own phone.<br/>
<br/>
"I just tried calling, and--"<br/>
<br/>
"Hey Christian, this is Eric, over at King Kong," he's now saying, and you blink. "I got this IOU for seven bucks from--" He asks you your name. "From Will Prescott. You remember giving it to him? Uh huh. So if I give it to you, will you give <i>me</i> seven dollars American? Dude, I threw it out yesterday," he says after a pause. "It had so much green fuzz it looked like a lotta little round billiard tables." He laughs and hangs up. "Well, the IOU will get you-- Excellent," he says as you slap the five down on the counter. "This the money from that book you sold Christian? Shit, I shoulda bid higher and taken it myself. Then you could've afforded those books you put <i>back!</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You just smile wanly and collect your purchases. "I don't know how that guy stays in business," you say to Keith on your way out. "He has absolutely no head for money."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
So, you're mostly happy, at least until suppertime, when your dad asks how things are going at school. You mumble something noncommittal, but apparently he's in the mood for details, for he asks about "that time capsule project." "That's all done with," you mutter. He asks what you put in, and has to ask you again when you swallow the words along with a generous helping of potatoes.<br/>
<br/>
"A <i>hair dryer?</i>" he explodes. "What were you <i>thinking?</i>" He just stares incredulously as you stammer out a totally non-responsive reply.<br/>
<br/>
"Harris, honey," your mom says quietly. "Maybe it was a good choice. Why don't you ask him what grade he got?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I had to write a paper about it," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"What grade did you get?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think we're getting them back tomorrow," you lie.<br/>
<br/>
"I wanna see it," says your dad, and there's a fell light in his eye. Even if Walberg had given you a passing grade, you're sure, your dad would flunk your effort.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Next day, just before third period starts: Christian isn't in that class, but he plops down in front of you anyway. "So I hear you gave that IOU to Eric. Cool. He'll forget all about it, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna try stiffing him?"<br/>
<br/>
He cocks that well-exercised eyebrow in a shrug. "We'll see, won't we? We're going over there after school, you know, me and the-- Why don't you meet us over there? We're starting a new campaign." He rolls his eyes and pumps a lightly clenched fist in the universal "jack off" gesture. "Sent Howie and his epic tedium packing. Hugh's running the new one, and we're already in a nice fight in a haunted forest. You can roll up a new character, come charging in to help."<br/>
<br/>
The distraction sounds nice, but it still isn't your thing, so you just say you'll think about it. Again, he stares at you hard from under a lifted brow, then shrugs and scuttles away before Jeff Spencer--one of those bullies who <i>thank God!</i> never pays any attention to you--can come in to claim his usual spot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you run into someone else first after school: Dane Matthias, in the parking lot, looking around like he's never seen an automobile before, let alone his own. "Hey! Prescott!" he gasps as you come up to him.<br/>
<br/>
"Aren't you supposed to be in detention?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah!" he drawls, and his eyes pop. "How about that! I'm out here instead!"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe you should be in there instead, you know, before--" You jerk your head back at the building. You like Dane, and don't want to see him get in any more trouble, though you doubt the Danester would himself mind, or even notice.<br/>
<br/>
He draws a sharp breath, as though you've just suggested a brilliant and obvious solution to an age-old paradox. "Whoa! Yeah!" He blinks and stares, but then sighs. "Oh, fuck me, Will. Ol' walrus butt'd probably rather do it without me. I'd get just in his way."<br/>
<br/>
"Do what without you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever I'm supposed to be in there for."<br/>
<br/>
"Detention?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah." He looks extremely vexed, and dips his hand into his jacket pocket to pull out a joint. He's on the point of putting it in his mouth when he drops his arm and looks furtively around. "Hey, come on," he says, and grasps you by the arm.<br/>
<br/>
Well, this is another delay and distraction, but you want those before heading home toward a paternal explosion and a grounding, so you let him guide you back across the parking lot and past the tennis courts all the way over to the portables. He hunts around for a bit until he pulls a loose board at the foundations of one. From the dark depths he pulls out a dirty fabric satchel. "What's that?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"I ain't so dumb," he giggles. "Well, sometimes I forget where it is. But after four years hiding it here--" He jogs his temple with the heel of his hand. "It wears a groove." He grins slyly. "This is the good stuff. Want some?"</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121
author_id: seuzz
title: Not High Enough
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You would suffer untold pain if you went home smelling of the stuff that Dane is offering you.<br/>
<br/>
On the other hand, you're pretty sure you're going to suffer untold pain anyway. You shrug.<br/>
<br/>
"Excellent!" he says, his eyes lighting up excitedly. He roots inside the bag. You have to wonder how much stuff is in there, because the bag seems heavy, and something bulky shifts inside it. But he only comes out with a single joint, which he proffers you.<br/>
<br/>
You've only had one before in your life, up at the same summer camp where you got what you like to tell yourself was a blow job (but which you shamefacedly must admit was more of a fumbling embarrassment), and Caleb--not you--is the one who is experienced with cigarettes. So you put it gingerly between your lips. "Better sit down," Dane says, and pushes you gently first to your haunches and then to your butt. He flicks a lighter at the end of your joint, and the acrid smoke instantly stings your eyes. You draw a tentative breath--<br/>
<br/>
--and break out in a hacking cough.<br/>
<br/>
"Better take it easy," he says with a laugh that isn't the least bit mean. "Put your head back and close your eyes, and just take a little draw."<br/>
<br/>
<i>It's a funny thing about Dane,</i> you reflect, <i>that he becomes a lot more coherent when he's getting high or trying to get other people high.</i><br/>
<br/>
But you do as he says, and put your head back against the rough wall of the portable. Wisps of smoke trickle down your windpipe, and though you cough a little, it's not unpleasant. You close your eyes and let the warm afternoon sun play on your face. <i>This could be nice and relaxing,</i> you think to yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, take a bigger one," Dane's voice says close to your ear. "Big breath, suck it in deep, keep your eyes closed, and hold it."<br/>
<br/>
It's strong, very strong. Or so you guess, and your face curdles up in a wince. You part your lips and pull the joint out before it can fall out on its own. You hold your breath until you think you can't hold it anymore, and then--<br/>
<br/>
Your face turns very cold, as though a cloud has passed over the sun. And then you feel very warm and golden and relaxed, and know nothing more.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
There's a throbbing at your temple when you open your eyes, as though a crack is trying to open in your skull. You gasp and groan and press gentle fingertips against the tender spot. You feel nothing, though, and after shaking your head and blinking a few times, the sensation vanishes. But dizziness and grogginess remain, and you puff and blow while trying to clear your head.<br/>
<br/>
You look over to find Dane sitting next to you, his back against the wall, smiling up beatifically around a joint, his eyes closed. He opens a single eye as you stir. "Hey, sunshine," he murmurs. "Kinda knocked you out, huh? If you want another go--" He picks up the joint he has balanced on his knee. The tip looks barely singed.<br/>
<br/>
Your heart knocks at the front of your throat. <i>No, that shit isn't for you. If one serious drag could put you on your ass, a whole cylinder of the stuff could--</i> "I gotta go," you say, and rise uncertainly to your feet.<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, c'mon man," he says. "Stay awhile. Even if you don't--" He shrugs. "Keep me company."<br/>
<br/>
"No, I told some guys I'd meet them someplace."<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Christian Knouse and his friends," you say, so desperate for an escape are you.<br/>
<br/>
"Really?" he exclaims. "Those guys are cool! Hang on!" He frowns and jams the joint back between his lips as he fishes around both pockets in those ridiculous pajama bottoms. "I got-- Yeah, here!" He holds out some crumpled bills. "Christian carried me a couple days ago when we-- Just give that to him, will ya? And get the IOU offa him."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't wanna be responsible--" <br/>
<br/>
"You're gonna see 'im, right?" he asks. "So just do that for me, okay? Promise you're gonna see him now?" You nod unhappily. "Awesome blossom. See ya 'round, Prescott." He smiles, and there's an odd little gleam in his eye.<br/>
<br/>
You're jumpy as you hurry around the corner of the portables toward the parking lot, so jumpy that you give a little yelp when Gillian Kiefer materializes suddenly in front of you. She gives a little gasp herself, but recovers quickly. "Where are <i>you</i> off to in such a hurry," she asks with a curious smile.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, going off to meet-- Are you going to be at King Kong Komics later?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Why, you want to see me there?"<br/>
<br/>
"I--" You actually don't know the answer to that question. "I'm just supposed to go out there to give something to Christian, and if you were going there, maybe you could, you know." You shrug desperately.<br/>
<br/>
"I might be there later," she says, "but I don't know for sure. Right now I'm looking for my hubby."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Fucking Braydon.</i> "Oh, is he around here?" you say, trying not to give the sentence the sound of the silent thought.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," she says. "That's why I'm looking for him."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, Dane Matthias is the only one back there." You jerk your head the direction you came.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe I'll ask Dane if he's seen him," Gillian says with a cool smile. "See you around, Will."<br/>
<br/>
<i>All these people, promising to see me around,</i> you think to yourself in a flustered way as you hurry toward the parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Even if you hadn't more or less promised Dane you'd take his money out to Christian, you probably would have headed over there anyway. You sniff gingerly at your shirt, to see how much of an odor is on it. If your dad notices, you can tell him you went by the comics shop and got caught up next to some people smoking weed. You'll buy a comic while you're there, to give the story added veracity.<br/>
<br/>
You're not much surprised to find the guys arguing when you walk into the cafe. "Prescott," Christian says as he looks up with a frown. "Settle an argument. If you knew there were doppelgangers around, would you insist on checking your teammates out every time they came back to camp?"<br/>
<br/>
"The question answers itself," Howie exclaims, throwing out his hands. "Of course you would! Or I would, because <i>you're</i> an idiot. I'm not gonna take a chance on having my throat slit by a guy who only <i>looks</i> like my quest mate!"<br/>
<br/>
Christian pushes down his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You'd get <i>tired</i> of checking them out every time someone went out for a shit," he insists.<br/>
<br/>
"So eventually you'd die," Howie retorts. "Because eventually a guy would go out and a fake would come back!"<br/>
<br/>
"So no one leaves camp," Darrell says, irritation writ large on his face.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, we're gonna take a dump in front of each other, right next to the camp fire?" Christian asks, seemingly unaware of the damage he's doing to his own argument.<br/>
<br/>
"You can <i>hold</i> it," Hugh sighs. "If I'm running the campaign, and I am, then if I say you can hold it--"<br/>
<br/>
"There's an incredible lack of <i>realism</i> in this campaign already," Howie says grumpily.<br/>
<br/>
Christian thrusts out a long arm ending in a long finger. "See!" he exclaims, looking around the group with bug-eyed incredulity. "The guy's gonna insist on doing his business with the bears, and make <i>us</i> roll a saving throw against his being <i>replaced</i> by a doppelganger each time he comes back!"<br/>
<br/>
"Are there doppelgangers in this campaign?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
Silence, and they all look at each other. "I dunno," Christian shrugs, and cocks a querying eyebrow at Hugh. "It's a hypothetical situation we're talking about. Are there doppelgangers in this forest?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not saying there are and I'm not saying there aren't," says Hugh, and suddenly acquires a shifty look. "That's the whole point of doppelgangers, isn't it, that you don't know--"<br/>
<br/>
"There could be <i>rumors</i> at least," says Christian. "C'mon, give us--"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm <i>definitely</i> making saving throws, then," Howie says.<br/>
<br/>
And <i>this,</i> you realize, is how come you never play these games anymore. Not because of the games, but because of the guys.<br/>
<br/>
There's Howie, for instance, with his dopey mouth and protuberant eyes, and looking like his mother dressed him until he was fifteen and then he carried on out of habit, but without even her woefully outdated fashion sense. The guy who insists on having a photograph of each room in the dungeon and on choreographing each step they take in line with the most arcane rules.<br/>
<br/>
There's Hugh, with his round belly and round face and shock of frizzy, curly hair over thick eyebrows. <i>A hobbit with a pituitary condition.</i> The fuzzy-headed guy who'd love to cosplay but is too embarrassed to carry it out, and so throws himself into fantasy settings with a gusto that violates every possible law of physics and psychology.<br/>
<br/>
Christian, of course, skinny and blonde and pale, with thin, sharp features and a dagger-like stare. If Hugh is a hobbit, he's half-orc, half-elf. The guy who sees all the traps from miles away, and pushes his fellow players into them just to see how far their guts will splatter.<br/>
<br/>
And Darrell, the only one who looks normal, probably because he looks a lot like you. The one who can't quite believe he's wasting his time with these guys, but does so because he has nothing else to do, no place else to be, and no one else to hang out with.<br/>
<br/>
So why are you here?<br/>
<br/>
Oh yeah, Dane's money. You pass it along to Christian, who takes it without comment and gives you an IOU in exchange. "You wanna join us, roll up a character?" he asks.</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211
author_id: seuzz
title: Mysterious Sequels
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Well, you're here and in no mood to be anyplace else. But you demur on joining as a character, and content yourself with watching. They drop the "doppelganger" discussion and return to their adventure. Hugh keeps things moving briskly, despite occasional interruptions by Howie, and it's more entertaining than you remember that kind of thing being when you played in middle school, for Christian and Darrell give it some authentic, actorly "role playing" by inhabiting the story line as a pair of rather irreverent adventurers.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But whatever pleasure the afternoon gave your mood evaporates before you get home, where you fully expect a terrible doom. Your dad's car is already in the drive, but there's no way you're going to go looking for him. Let him find you and remind you that he wants to see that paper for Walberg.<br/>
<br/>
So you try to get in good with your mom by helping her in the kitchen. You've only been in there five minutes, though, when your dad comes in. But instead of speaking to you, he goes directly to one of the cabinets, which he roots around in fruitlessly. He turns back toward you with a frown. "Where'd you put them?" he asks you.<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd I put what?"<br/>
<br/>
"The groceries I asked you to pick up for tomorrow night."<br/>
<br/>
"What groceries?" you ask again. "When did you ask me to pick anything up?"<br/>
<br/>
He stares at you; behind him, your mom sags a little at the sink.<br/>
<br/>
"Come with me," he says. Utterly bewildered--and a little angry, even--you follow him into his office. He beckons you over to the desk, where he writes a list on a yellow pad. "Stand still, hands at your side," he says, and sticks the paper to your forehead with a bit of tape; it flutters against your nose. "Go to the store and pick up those things <i>like I asked you to earlier.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You don't remove the sheet, for you don't want him to see the flush of anger building across your face. You just turn around and feel your way from his office and up the stairs to your bedroom. You'll have to pay for the things out of your own stash, for you're bound to just make things worse if you ask him for money. You grab your last twenty--<i>when did you spend the other two?</i>--from your dresser and a jacket from the closet; and with the grocery list still flapping in your face, feel your way back downstairs and out to your truck.<br/>
<br/>
At least he doesn't ask about that homework when you get back.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The next day at school everyone seems to be in a bad mood, at least as far as you're concerned. Maybe it's your own mood, though. You couldn't find your favorite shirt to wear, even though you'd specifically asked your mom to wash it; and though she is usually very placid and patient with you, she'd snapped at you about the state of your room when you'd whined to her about not being able to find it. So maybe Caleb and Keith are just returning your own surliness when they are brusque and untalkative with you. "Do that," Caleb snorts when you say you're going to eat with James and Carson and them. So you stomp off.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, so not <i>everyone</i> is in a bad mood: the other guys greet you with casual cheer when you plop down next to them. "Someone forgot to eat their Cheerios this morning," Yumi says as she sucks some yogurt off a carrot stick.<br/>
<br/>
She means well, so you let it pass. "Off taking a flying fuck," you reply when Carson asks where Caleb and Keith are.<br/>
<br/>
"You have a fight with them or something?" Jenny asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. They're being weird, not talking to me. I didn't do anything."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, they were being kind of standoffish last night," James says.<br/>
<br/>
"Where did you see them last night?"<br/>
<br/>
"Up at the college library. I went to pick up my mom, saw them heading out. I honked and waved at them, but they just looked at me and kept going."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh," says Carson. "I wonder what Johansson was doing up the library."<br/>
<br/>
"What were Johansson and <i>Tilley</i> doing up there," James corrects him.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, clearly Tilley was just tagging along. Him and books, you know what kind of disaster that is."<br/>
<br/>
"Still haven't forgiven him for setting fire to your eighth grade math book, have you?" James laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"It cost me sixty bucks to replace, and he never paid me back!"<br/>
<br/>
"What's this about Tilley setting fire to a book?" you ask. "What's the story?"<br/>
<br/>
"Last week of middle school, and he was in a mood to celebrate," Carson says sourly. "So he decides to set fire to his math book. He's with-- I forget who, but I was there and I see what they're doing, and I tell him he has to return it to the school or pay to replace it. He panics, but it's burning by this point, and get this! He tries peeing on it to put it out. <i>Fortunately</i> for <i>him</i>, he discovers afterwards that it was <i>my</i> math book he'd accidentally picked up, and his was still intact."<br/>
<br/>
"How big of a dumbass do you have to be to <i>not know</i> you have to return your books?" you exclaim.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know, Prescott. He's <i>your</i> friend."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Whatever their problem is, you put Caleb's and Keith's chilliness to profitable use, and instead of hanging out with them after school you stay in the library to do research for your next paper for Walberg. Surely your dad hasn't completely forgotten that he wants to see that other paper, and you're hoping that if you show him a strong draft for the follow up, it might mitigate the damage.<br/>
<br/>
It's no fun, but you do get a lot of notes together, and that night you even get the first paragraph written. It feels good enough, in fact, that the next day--a Friday, even--you also stay after school so as to finish it up, even though your friends seem to have come out of their funk. You're not so absorbed in your work, though, you're startled when at around four-thirty Dane Matthias drops down next to you. He scrunches up his eyes and grins. "End of detention on Friday. Best part of the week."<br/>
<br/>
"Did he make you stay extra yesterday?" you ask. Dane just stares blankly at you. "You know, for missing on Wednesday?"<br/>
<br/>
"What'd I miss on Wednesday?" His eyes widen.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothing." <i>No point in reminding him.</i><br/>
<br/>
He seems to brush it off too. "Oh, I'm in a mood to celebrate, I tell you what," he says, and leans back. "How about you, Will, you in a mood to celebrate?" He grins again. "I got some special stuff we could celebrate with."<br/>
<br/>
"That stuff's doing bad things to your brain, Dane. Don't you remember sharing it with me on Wednesday?"<br/>
<br/>
"I did? Did you like it?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"That's too bad. Well, more for me." Behind him, the library door opens and Erik Carstairs comes in. He does a double take at the back of Dane's head, then stalks over and whaps him hard. "Ow!" Dane exclaims. "What was that for?" Erik just glowers at him before going over to the librarian's desk. "I been getting that a <i>lot</i> lately," Dane says, and for about ten seconds manages to look moody. But then the sunshine breaks out again.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a good thing you thought to work on that paper, for tonight is the night your dad remembers to follow up on his earlier request. As you'd anticipated, he explodes over the D. But you show him the new paper, and tell him you've learned your lesson, and you get away with nothing worse than a tongue-lashing.<br/>
<br/>
So you're actually feeling good when you call up Caleb to make plans for the weekend. He's in a chipper mood too. Or he is until you mention that you're glad he's "over" Thursday. "What happened Thursday?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. You were in a pissy mood. You and Keith both. What was that about?"<br/>
<br/>
He's silent a moment. "You know," he says in a tight voice, "if you're going to pretend you don't know what that was about, then fuck you." Flabbergasted, you ask him to explain. "No," he says. "You can be a real piece of shit sometimes, Will. So go fuck yourself all weekend long." He hangs up.<br/>
<br/>
You get much the same treatment--initial friendliness followed by anger when you ask about Thursday--when you call Keith. From him, between curse words, you manage to extract the information that it all has to do with Wednesday after school and something you did then. But you didn't see either of them Wednesday after school, and so you're left feeling altogether bewildered.<br/>
<br/>
Carson and James say they're busy too, so you while away Saturday morning in a bored and restless way. For lack of anything better to do, you run a silly errand late in the morning by stopping at King Kong. It's about that IOU Christian passed on to you: Though Dane Matthias asked for it back—and paid it off—it's actually in Braydon Delp's name, so you're not sure who to pass it on to. If Christian is there, maybe he can tell you.<br/>
<br/>
The place is empty, but you've no place else to be, and maybe they'll be along later, so you camp out the cafe. Eric comes in and chats, leaving only long enough to bring back a stack of comics for you to peruse. He enthusiastically launches into the backstory for each of them, and you listen along with interest, interrupting with questions and comments of your own here and there. It's not hard to be caught up in his happy mood. Maybe he makes no money, but he does have fun.<br/>
<br/>
And then about thirty minutes later the door opens, and Gillian comes in. You smile thinly at her, but she puts on a foxy grin as she comes over. To your immense surprise, she pulls your cap off, drapes her arms loosely around your neck, and kisses the top of your head. "How about we go find some friends, hang out with them?" she suggests.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111
author_id: seuzz
title: Keeping Odd Company
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Like who?" you ask. It's a natural question, and it keeps you from sounding totally freaked out. "Whose friends? Your friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"My friends. Your friends. Like it makes a difference," Gillian says lightly. "It's all fun, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure," you say. You look across the table at Eric, who has been staring in surprise at all this. He chuckles at what must be the look on your face. You're not sure if you feel aghast or immensely pleased.<br/>
<br/>
You let Gillian tug you to your feet, and, feeling brave, press your hip against hers as she puts an arm lightly around your torso. You're so dazed, in fact, that you let her lead you over to her car instead of guiding her to your own. <i>Well, she's in charge of the afternoon's entertainment anyway.</i><br/>
<br/>
"So, whose friends do you want to hang out with?" you ask her again when you're in the car. "Because mine are kind of ticked at me."<br/>
<br/>
She gives you a slightly quizzical double take, then laughs. "Oh, I don't think that'll be a problem." She taps a number into her phone and hums softly while waiting for the other party to pick up. "Hey, it's me. So where are you guys? Uh huh. Can we come find you?" She laughs. "Well, maybe I'll just get us lost, then. That'll be fun. Who knows what'll happen." She gives you a mischievous glance, then hangs up and starts the car.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your head is spinning lightly, and you can't think of anything to talk about, so the drive is silent for a few minutes. And then Gillian reaches over to run her fingers lightly up and down your thigh. You gasp and flinch slightly. "You're so jumpy!" she laughs.<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't figured you out!" you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not hard to figure out," she says. "Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one."<br/>
<br/>
"What, you're just a shameless flirt?" She laughs. "What about your 'hubby'?"<br/>
<br/>
She smiles again, but more tightly. "What about him? What's he got to do with it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Wouldn't <i>he</i> have an opinion about this?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't asked him and I'm not going to. It wouldn't be fun. Drop the subject, Will."<br/>
<br/>
You'd still like to know how thick the quicksand you're standing on is, but if she's going to be like that-- "Where are we going?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, to find your friends. Suffolk Wilderness."<br/>
<br/>
"What, you think I'm friends with Bambi and Smokey the Bear?"<br/>
<br/>
Her laugh is clear. "You're so funny, Will. I like that." Her smile turns foxy again. "You know, that's the kind of thing Braydon would say, but I won't hold it against you, because it's funnier when <i>you</i> say it."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, thanks. I guess." <i>She doesn't want to talk about Braydon, except when she does.</i> "So who are we going to find out there?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. Someone. Maybe no one. It's a big place, you know. Maybe we'll get lost and have to spend the night and rub some sticks together to make a fire."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I'll leave it to you to decide when we should start rubbing anything together."<br/>
<br/>
She laughs again. "You're so <i>funny.</i> I <i>love</i> being with you."<br/>
<br/>
So encouraged, you try to keep up a comedy routine, and she continues to laugh appreciatively.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Well, I know they're up here someplace," Gillian says. She puts her hands on her hips and looks around. You do too.<br/>
<br/>
You're out in the open, for the trees don't start in earnest until farther up the trail. The trails, actually, for you're standing at a fork. One goes up a hill, seemingly straight for the thick brush that looms at its top. The other trail skirts the hill's base, and in the distance you can see one corner of Fort Suffolk, the small military installation wedged between the forest preserve and Saratoga Falls. If you concentrate, you can hear the traffic from the old highway, but mostly it's just the sound of the wind in the tall grasses, and the buzz from the occasional passing insect.<br/>
<br/>
Gillian <i>still</i> hasn't said who she expects to meet up here. You doubt it will be Christian and his friends, for they seem like the opposite of outdoorsy types. And though you and Caleb and Keith come out here maybe once a year, you don't expect to know anyone you might run into. In fact, you've only seen one other person: a tall, dark-haired kid in an Eastman letterman jacket, kneeling next to a bush by the trail and absorbed in studying its leaves and branches. Gillian had stared at him openly as you'd passed, and given you a playful nudge when you were out of sight. <i>Yeah, jocks on nature hikes. Not a typical sight.</i><br/>
<br/>
"You have any ideas," she asks when the silence has gone on too long.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "If we're gonna get lost, let's get lost on an easy trail," you say, and point to the right-hand branch. She titters, and puts her arm in yours, and together you set off along it.<br/>
<br/>
And maybe you've chosen correctly. Or maybe not. You've gone about ten minutes when you hear voices, and to your immense surprise-- "Hey, I know those guys," Gillian says as they come around a bend.<br/>
<br/>
So do you, and you have to blink hard before you can believe your eyes. It's Caleb and Keith. "Oh, God, it's <i>Prescott,</i>" Caleb groans.<br/>
<br/>
"And what are you doing with--? Dude!" Keith grins as his eyes light on Gillian, and they gleam as they shift back to you.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," you drawl, and the urge to showboat in Gillian's company completely overwhelms your surprise at seeing them, and your own shyness with her. You put your arm around her and pull her close. "We're out on a nature hike. Lookin' for the birds and the bees."<br/>
<br/>
"He's so <i>funny,</i>" Gillian says for about the tenth time, and puts both her arms around you. "I can't get <i>over</i> it! Are you guys as funny as him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, he's a riot," Caleb snorts. "Birds and the bees." He looks quizzically between you and Gillian, and then some kind of recognition breaks over his features. "Oh, right. You were trying to tell me about--" He points between your chest and hers. "And making a total hash of it, as usual."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, this doesn't make <i>any</i> sense," Tilley agrees. He twists his cap around backward and peers down his nose at you. "Well, no more sense than you and <i>Lisa.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You smile back sourly and pull Gillian closer, against the depressing expectation that she'll just evaporate like an illusion, leaving you alone with these two to chortle at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, come on," says Caleb. "There's nothin' goin' on up here. We should all go back to town, hang out down there."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe Will and I want to hang out up here," Gillian says.<br/>
<br/>
"Doing what?" Caleb snickers. "If you think <i>Prescott</i> has any feel for nature in the nude, you're in for a long wait."<br/>
<br/>
You start to retort, but feel Gillian shift, and you look down to find her peering up at you with smile. "Well, what do <i>you</i> wanna do?" you ask her.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be an idiot," Caleb says. "Remember who you are." As he saunters past, he knocks you hard against your shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
You flush, but Gillian gives you a squeeze. "It'll be nice back in town," she says. "No stickers or flies or--"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yeah, nature can suck,</i> so you let her lead you back the way you came. You go slow, though, and let the other two disappear out of sight. Their vehicles--which you hadn't noticed in the parking lot earlier--are gone by the time you're back at Gillian's car.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You <i>don't</i> give her directions to either Caleb's or Keith's houses, and are happy enough when she winds up at a house you don't know in one of the older subdivisions. The yard is large and the trees big, and she leads you inside after only briefly rapping at the screen door; a cat scuttles out as you go in. "Hi, it's me!" she calls into an empty living room. <br/>
<br/>
From around the corner a middle-aged woman peeps out. "Boys are upstairs," she says cheerfully. She gives you a vague but friendly smile.<br/>
<br/>
Must be Gillian's house; you've not asked. "Is that your mom?" you ask, lacking anything else to say.<br/>
<br/>
"You're so <i>funny.</i>" By now it's beginning to grate.<br/>
<br/>
She leads you upstairs and again opens a door after a brief knock.<br/>
<br/>
And now you <i>do</i> step back with surprise. Keith and Caleb are here again, the former relaxing on a bed while the other taps away at a laptop. Gillian pulls you inside--a difficult trick, since your feet feel rooted to the floor--and closes the door. "What are <i>you</i> guys doing here?" you blurt out.<br/>
<br/>
Keith just makes a face, but Caleb leans back to pop him lightly on the leg. "Sounds like a hint, Tilley. Appearances need keeping up."<br/>
<br/>
"Then <i>you</i>--"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm busy. And you're up here all the time anyway."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fine." Keith puts his hand to his forehead and grimaces. His lips work, and then he tears at his own brow. <br/>
<br/>
Maybe you catch the change, and maybe you only think you do. But for an instant you're not sure who is sitting on the bed: you can't make them out clearly at all. And then you can make him out again.<br/>
<br/>
It's Darrell Parson.<br/>
<br/>
His eyes are shut and mouth hangs open, and he holds his cross-legged pose for just a moment before falling softly over onto his side. A bluish object about the size of a dinner plate rolls out of his hands.<br/>
<br/>
Every fiber in your body freezes. But Caleb, after a brief glance back, returns to the laptop. Gillian sits at the foot of the bed, right next to Darrell's feet. She pats the bed invitingly, and smiles.</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111
author_id: seuzz
title: Masks Off
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"What. The. <i>Fuck?</i>" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb just gives you a quick, bored glance; Gillian continues to smile. You edge closer and peer over her shoulder at Darrell.<br/>
<br/>
You blink to make sure you're not seeing things. He's sprawled on his side, and in the silence of the room you can hear a slight snore coming from his open mouth. But that was <i>Keith Tilley</i> there just a moment ago. You're sure of it, because you recognize that shirt he's wearing. "What--" You point at him. "He-- He just--" You can't even frame a question, because you have no idea what you've just seen.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb leans back and whaps at Darrell's shins, but other doesn't stir.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, somebody tell me what's going on," you say more firmly.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a quick, sour frown. "Cute, but you can cut it out. It's not funny."<br/>
<br/>
"If I thought it was funny, I'd be laughing."<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>are</i> funny," Gillian says. "But Christian's right." She turns to him. "That <i>is</i> you, isn't it?" she asks. He gives a quick nod, and plugs some headphones into the laptop. She turns back to you. "Just play it like you were before."<br/>
<br/>
"Play <i>what?</i> Gillian, I--" You fumble at the knob behind your back. "Caleb, if this is some kind of revenge prank for Wednesday--"<br/>
<br/>
For some reason that gets his attention, and his eyebrow arches as he stares at you hard. "Okay," he says after a minute. "If you wanna say you got me, then you got me. But I don't wanna--" He looks over sharply at Gillian. "You sure that's Braydon over there? You didn't pick up <i>Howie</i>, did you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't check," she says. "I just found him at--"<br/>
<br/>
"You <i>found</i> him?" Caleb punches Darrell again. This time he grunts and sits up, blinking hard. "Dude, looks like we gotta do a saving throw on this one."<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? What?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh what?" Caleb echoes peevishly. "We gotta check this guy." He looks back at you. "Does that count as the password, Howie? You making a point about checking people out?"<br/>
<br/>
You yank at the doorknob, but the door only bumps uselessly into your heel. Before you can turn and make a real escape attempt, Caleb rushes you. You bat at him, but he gets his arms around you and wrestles you over to the bed. You hear Gillian and Darrell yelling, and then you're on the bed, staring up bug-eyed at Caleb, who has clambered onto your chest. He pins you at the shoulders. "Say uncle, Howie," he says. "Or Braydon, or whoever. Joke's over."<br/>
<br/>
You howl, and he slams a palm over your mouth.<br/>
<br/>
"Check him for a mask," Caleb snarls, and you feel fingers at your temples. It feels like they're trying to peel your forehead off.<br/>
<br/>
"Nothin' there," you hear Darrell say.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb stares down stonily at you. "Fuck," he says. "Shit. God damn it."<br/>
<br/>
"Christian, I swear," you hear Gillian say in a shaking voice. "I thought it--"<br/>
<br/>
"Aw, fuck it. We were thinking about telling him anyway," Caleb says. "Okay, Prescott, can you keep a secret?"<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're sitting on the bed, huddled in the corner. You're holding a mask.<br/>
<br/>
It's made of a thin, ceramic material, and it glows with a faint, bluish light. It looks something like an old-fashioned tragedian's mask, and has lips and a nose and a chin and a brow and cheekbones, but there are no eyeholes. Light plays within it, and it's not a reflection from the window, for you've looked at it carefully, and seen that it's the ghostly image of Caleb Johansson. You turn it over again: Caleb's name seems to float over its inner surface.<br/>
<br/>
You look up at Christian Knouse, who is sitting back at the desk but still wearing Caleb's clothes. Darrell Parson, still in Keith's, is leaning against the window sill. You pick up the other mask, the one that has Keith's image in it. You balance them in your hands and then let them drop.<br/>
<br/>
"I knew it was a funky book," you say quietly.<br/>
<br/>
"It" is the book that you'd sold Christian two weeks ago. He and his friends have been studying it and working through it and experimenting with it, and--<br/>
<br/>
"Who else have you copied?" you ask. "Besides these guys. And <i>me.</i>" You can't help the acid that drips off the last word.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't take it personally, man," Christian says. "Or, I dunno, <i>do</i> take it personally. Gillian thought you were cute."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Gillian.</i> She'd left almost as soon as Christian had gotten off your chest and said he was going to explain it all. "Who <i>else</i> have you got," you repeat.<br/>
<br/>
"Dane Matthias," says Darrell after a pause. "That's who we used to get to you. It was Braydon who did it, by the way."<br/>
<br/>
"And he used the mask of you to get to Johansson and Tilley," Christian adds.<br/>
<br/>
"And got them all pissed off at me," you mutter.<br/>
<br/>
"Are they seriously mad?" Christian asks.<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "They always get over it, eventually. But why them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Matched set, to go with you," says Christian. "We'll add Carson Ioeger and James Lamont when we get a chance. Paul Davis, maybe."<br/>
<br/>
"Jenny? Yumi?" you ask, hating yourself for even thinking of it.<br/>
<br/>
"Gillian's not really into wearing these things," Christian says.<br/>
<br/>
"You can only wear masks of guys?" you ask. "Girls can only wear girl masks?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. I mean, you can. But we haven't--" Darrell shifts on his feet. "We haven't tried. There's the whole clothes thing, for one thing. We don't really have the budget to--"<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd you get <i>those</i> things?" You point to the clothes they're wearing.<br/>
<br/>
"Braydon picked them up while he was at their houses. He went by your place too and grabbed some of your stuff."<br/>
<br/>
"Fucking robbery," you grumble.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, you can have 'em back, I guess," Christian says. "If you're joining. Uh, you are joining us, aren't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"What are you <i>doing</i> with these things?"<br/>
<br/>
"Role playing," he says. "Larping, I guess. But, you know, as other people."<br/>
<br/>
"You go out in <i>public?</i>" you gasp.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, yeah. That's where you found <i>us,</i> right? But we're careful," Christian continues as you just stare at him. "We got their brains and stuff inside those masks, so we can act like them if we get caught. And we know where they're going to be. Or <i>not</i> be. Not <i>likely</i> to be, because it's not like there's telepathy involved. But we only go places where the real people probably aren't going to be. Like when you saw us at King Kong. Oh yeah, we also have Geoff Mansfield and Martin Gardinhire and--"<br/>
<br/>
"You have <i>Mansfield?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. And Martin Gardinhire and Ricky Golia and-- They were the first ones. Well, after Dane."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"They were convenient. I found them up at the school last weekend. I went up there as Dane and got Martin. After that, I went around and collected copies of the others. I was actually looking for-- Oh, we also got Erik Carstairs the other day. Another catch by Dane." He puts air quotes around the name. "Gonna start working on the football team next."<br/>
<br/>
This still doesn't seem to make a lot of sense. "But <i>why?</i>"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know," Christian groans. "Because it's neat?" He opens his top drawer and starts pulling out miniatures. "It's like a collection, you know. And after we get a couple of full sets, we can start mixing and matching. Wouldn't that be fun? Like going out as Erik and Martin and Caleb and Dane and-- Oh, I dunno. Whoever comes next. Who were <i>you</i> talking about?" He turns to Darrell.<br/>
<br/>
"But you're not doing anything else with them?" you ask. "Nothing like--" You don't want to finish that sentence.<br/>
<br/>
The other two exchange a glance, and look uneasy. "Like what, Will?" Darrell asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Like getting them in trouble?"<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be dangerous," Christian says. "And we're not assholes. I mean, I guess we've gotten <i>some</i> people in trouble, just by grabbing copies. I'm sorry you and Caleb and--"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, if it's just <i>fun,</i>" you say. "Who all knows about this?"<br/>
<br/>
"The guys," says Christian. "Us two. Howie and Braydon and Gillian. Hugh. His brother. People we think would think it's kind of neat."<br/>
<br/>
It strikes you as being a lot more dangerous than "neat," with lots of opportunities for grave mischief.<br/>
<br/>
"So, you're joining up, aren't you?" Christian asks again. His expression is very serious, and very watchful. Apparently he's not sure if you think it's "neat" or not.<br/>
<br/>
But this isn't a question you can say "no" to, not safely, you're sure. "Of course," you say, trying to sound irritated that he might think you'd have any other answer. "It's pretty freaking cool." <i>Geoff Mansfield,</i> huh? Him and Lisa-- You try putting the thought away.<br/>
<br/>
But you'd like to know what kind of people you're dealing with, and what they're capable of. So: "Yeah, I'm in," you say with what you hope is a casual and laconic tone, like he's asked if you'd like a soda. "I wouldn't mind role playing Caleb here," you add, to make it sound more convincing. "But, uh, if someone found out and <i>didn't</i> want to join, what would you do?"<br/>
<br/>
Christian grimaces. "That's the thing. We couldn't do anything, right? Except tell them that, uh--"<br/>
<br/>
He seems to be reading your mind, for he slides the chair over close. <br/>
<br/>
"Except tell them that it's a bad idea to talk about this stuff, to tell anyone," he says in a low voice. "Because, you know, there's bad guys out there, who I think we can all imagine would be <i>very</i> interested in this shit. And we don't want <i>that</i> kind of person hearing about this stuff. Right?"</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Kinds of Things That You Do
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It's a fair warning Christian has given you, and you have the strong impression that he's sincere: There's nothing he could or would <i>do</i> to you if you said you didn't want to join this "role-playing group," except point out that you <i>don't</i> want to tell anyone else about it for fear of what they'll do to <i>you.</i><br/>
<br/>
But aside from the freaky coolness of it--and now you kind of wish you'd hung onto the book instead of selling it to Christian--you think it would be wiser anyway to stay inside this group. It's bound to be safer there. And if they ever <i>did</i> get any ideas about using it for more than "larping," then you could--<br/>
<br/>
Stop it? Go along with it?<br/>
<br/>
"Is there a secret handshake or oath I have to take," you say. "Because I'm in. I'm most definitely in."<br/>
<br/>
They don't smile. Instead, they exchange a startled glance. "A secret oath would be kind of cool," Darrell says.<br/>
<br/>
"Pfft," Christian says after a moment's thought. "It's the kind of thing <i>Howie</i> would try to invent." Instead, he just sticks this hand out. "Welcome to the--" He struggles to continue the thought. "Aw, fuck it."<br/>
<br/>
"So, can you tell me some more about this stuff and how it--" you start.<br/>
<br/>
But then the door opens and Gillian comes in. She looks very serious. "Here's <i>Will's</i> face," she says, and hands Darrell another mask without looking at you. "I got it from Braydon and now I'm taking off again," she says. Without pausing, she goes back out again, shutting the door behind her.<br/>
<br/>
For five seconds you haven't the nerve to do anything. Then, before you can stop yourself, you spring off the bed and run after her. You think you hear Christian calling after you, but his voice is swallowed by the slam of the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Gillian!" you call, but she doesn't stop, and you only catch up to her at the bottom of the stairs. You touch her arm, but she pulls away. "Gillian, come on, I wanna--"<br/>
<br/>
"Outside, if we're going to do this," she says in a low, unhappy voice.<br/>
<br/>
She only turns toward you when you're in the front yard, but she doesn't look you in the face, only in the chest, with a stony expression.<br/>
<br/>
"Gillian, all that stuff we were doing this afternoon. What-- What was that?"<br/>
<br/>
"It was role-playing, Will. I thought you were Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Well, obviously.</i> But you can't give up so easily. "And we can't keep role-playing if you know it's really me?" Wrong question, but it's the only one you can think to ask.<br/>
<br/>
"You're cute, Will," she says, still staring anywhere except your face. "But me and Braydon--"<br/>
<br/>
"You're saying you'll make out with me, but only as long as it's <i>not</i> me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I guess that's exactly what I'm saying," she says. "It's just role-playing, and no one gets hurt. Not me, not Braydon, not-- Not anyone else."<br/>
<br/>
"Then what was all that back at the comics shop a few weeks ago? All that 'You have a hard time talking to girls, don't you' stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
She blinks a couple of times, and her eyes dart about. "I guess that was me hurting you. I'm sorry, Will, I shouldn't have done that. I won't do it again."<br/>
<br/>
A tight spot forms in your chest. "Well, what if I <i>want</i> you hurting me? Like that?"<br/>
<br/>
Now she does look up at you. "If I do that kind of thing with you, Will, it won't be with <i>you.</i> It'll be me doing it with Braydon, like it was supposed to be this afternoon. Like it wasn't Christian, it was Braydon. Like it wasn't Darrell or Hugh or Howie or-- It was Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
"Is <i>that</i> what you guys do with these things?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. And if you want to do that kind of thing too, talk to Christian about it." She walks away.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I tried telling you," Christian says as soon as you're back up in the bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
"I had to hear it from her," you say, and throw yourself onto his bed. "So. Fuck. You guys have masks of yourselves?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. We can't <i>wear</i> them, because you can only disguise yourself as other people, apparently."<br/>
<br/>
"What happens if you put a mask of yourself on?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's like it downloads all the mask memories into your own brain. Puts your most recent memories into the mask, too. It's convenient, but not really useful with what we've been doing, since we usually go out larping as <i>other</i> people."<br/>
<br/>
"But you <i>do</i> sometimes put each other's masks on? Because Gillian said--"<br/>
<br/>
"She did, did she? Yeah." Christian sighs. "You can get things second hand that way." He rolls his eyes and makes the "jack off" gesture.<br/>
<br/>
"So I could put on Braydon's mask and--"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't torture yourself, man. This stuff is for having fun with, not for--" He pauses as you groan. "Look, Prescott, this stuff is for <i>role playing,</i> okay? For getting out of your own boring life for a little while and pretending to have someone else's boring life for a little while. You can get into it, and when you're with us and we're with you, we bitch and talk like the people we're pretending to be. Like Golia and Amanda Ferguson."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you said you didn't have any copies of girls."<br/>
<br/>
"We don't," says Darrell. "But when we went out as Golia and his friends-- Who was it playing Ricky?" he asks Christian.<br/>
<br/>
"Hugh, I think," Christian says. "Him and his bad luck with die rolls."<br/>
<br/>
"Right. That's all he could talk about, about what a ball buster she was, and when the <i>fuck</i> was she finally going to put out, and--"<br/>
<br/>
"The other day at the comics shop," you interrupt. "When I saw-- When I <i>thought</i> it was Geoff and those guys," you say. "Who was being Geoff?"<br/>
<br/>
Christian's eyebrows twist. "I was larping as Gardinhire. Darrell, you were being Pruitt, right?" Darrell nods. "So that was Howie as Geoff, wasn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can't you guys remember?" you ask peevishly. <br/>
<br/>
"We hop around. But why were you asking about Geoff?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, who does <i>he</i> bitch about? Who isn't <i>he</i> getting any from?" Your heart beats expectantly.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't remember," Christian confesses. "That's another thing about these masks. You can remember everything while you're inside them, but after they're off, the memories fade really fast. Don't ask me where Gardinhire lives, because I sure as fuck don't remember." He rolls the chair over to the dresser. "You wanna try Mansfield on? I keep everything here."<br/>
<br/>
You suck hard on your lip, torn between the desire to <i>know</i> how far he's gotten with Lisa, and the desire not to have any of your dreadful suspicions confirmed. "Just tell me more about these things and how they work," you temporize.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't take long for him to explain. "It's a big book, but we're only about four spells in. It's a funny thing, but you have to finish one spell before the book will let you turn the page and go on to another." You nod, remembering the way the pages wouldn't turn. "We've got a new project going, up in the Wilderness. We were checking on it when you found us."<br/>
<br/>
"What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"We don't know. All we know is that it took a couple of hundred pounds of dirt--"<br/>
<br/>
"Dirt from a <i>cemetery,</i>" Darrell interjects with a shudder.<br/>
<br/>
"And we've got it hidden up there. Apparently it takes a couple of days to cook. We won't know what it is or what it does until it's finished."<br/>
<br/>
But the rest of the spells: One makes a mask, but it only copies physical bodies. Another spell makes a kind of band that can copy minds. "You don't need a mask in order to wear one," says Darrell. "It's like a, um--" He snaps his fingers at Christian. "We ran into one a few campaigns ago. Howie put it in because--"<br/>
<br/>
"Because he's an anal dipshit," Christian says. "Helm of Memory, I think it was called. Gave us the whole fucking backstory of the guy inside the it, even though we just wanted the password to--"<br/>
<br/>
And it turns into a ten-minute digression before you're able to wrench them back on topic. So, you can make a mask, and you can make one of these mind bands, and you can fuse them together, so that, as with the masks of Caleb and Keith, you can have a complete copy of someone else. <br/>
<br/>
There's also a sealant. "Yeah, lemme show you this," says Christian, and pulls out a mask from the lowest drawer. "Before you seal up a mask, you can put multiple images into it, and they merge, so that you get someone new. This is one of me and Darrell." You peer at it, but really can't make out the features too well.<br/>
<br/>
And so that's all the masks seem useful for: Role-playing people in situations where you won't cause confusion by appearing as someone's double. "Where do you go when you're wearing these?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Like I said, where we're not likely to run into the real people. Like, it was pretty bizarre that you saw 'Caleb and Keith'--" He makes those dumb air quotes again. "--out in the Wilderness, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"But we could go out as each other?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. We were doing that the other day at King Kong when you showed up." Christian grins. "Howie was playing me and I was playing him. Perfectly too, I think."<br/>
<br/>
They let you mull this. "You sound like you're really shy about trying it out," Darrell says.<br/>
<br/>
"I just want some idea of what I'm getting into," you say. You weigh Caleb's mask thoughtfully.<br/>
<br/>
"You ready to pop your cherry?" Christian asks. He cocks that eyebrow.<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." But not as Geoff, you decide. "Let's make it a campaign. Whole afternoon and evening."<br/>
<br/>
"Excellent! That's what weekends are for," Christian says. "We could go out as each other. We could go anywhere that way. Or you might give one of your friends a spin." He nods at the masks you've still got by your side.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112
author_id: seuzz
title: Friends Like These
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"We might run into Caleb and Keith," you point out.<br/>
<br/>
"That's easy to take care of, now that you're a player," Christian says. "One of us can pretend to be you and go keep an eye on them, call and warn you if they start to move." He shrugs. "And you can also just stay away from anyplace you might-- Where do you guys typically go?"<br/>
<br/>
"Anyplace. No place." You shrug. If it wasn't for the prospect of <i>pretending</i> to be one of your friends, you'd probably find the idea extremely boring. "Yeah, let's do that. I'll go as--"<br/>
<br/>
"Nope, we roll for our characters," says Christian. "High roll gets-- Who are you holding there? Okay, high roll gets Johansson. Low roll gets to be you. Unless <i>you</i> roll low, obviously, and then--"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I get it. Where's--?"<br/>
<br/>
But Christian has already snatched up a die from his desk: one of several. He gives it a quick, expert toss. "Fuck. Howie's been using up my twenties. If you bitches can't beat a three," he grumbles as he hands the die to Darrell.<br/>
<br/>
"How come he gets to--"<br/>
<br/>
"House rule," says Christian. "Guy who owns the die rolls first, and picks who rolls second."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm a guest, so should I--?"<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve," Darrell says, rolling without waiting for your objection.<br/>
<br/>
And his number beats your eleven, so it's Tilley for you. "Come on, gimme your clothes," Christian tells you as Darrell starts to struggle out of Keith's things. "I'll wait till we're out of the house before changing, so my mom won't think anything funny's going on."<br/>
<br/>
"You know, as long as Parson's already dressed like--" you start to say.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't be a troll," Darrell snaps. "And my name is <i>Darrell.</i> At least until I'm in <i>that</i> thing."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake in the hallway bathroom, into which you'd snuck while in a state of the altogether. You're in the tub, and it's cold, and you sit up with a groan. <i>Ugh.</i> Skinny, hairy legs and bony feet. A big old hairy patch with--<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. <i>Look at the size of that schlong.</i> Tilley is always bragging, but until now you've successfully avoided ever getting an eyeful of it.<br/>
<br/>
And it stirs. You look around wildly, for you've had a sudden sense that Keith himself is in the tub with you. Right behind you. Inside you--<br/>
<br/>
Oh, but of course. Dizziness sweeps over you, and you rub your face. Keith Michael Tilley. That's <i>you.</i> And you're horny. Faces and forms, half-dressed, flit through your head. Kendra Saunders Lin Pol Jamie Bornholm Danielle Davis--<i>damn, but the black girls are hot</i>--Jamie Lockerbie Mindy McAdams ... So many girls that you furtively stare at in class, all so fine and inviting if only they'd-- You fondle your balls and stroke the side of you cock with a thoughtful thumb.<br/>
<br/>
Then you quickly drop it. You did <i>not</i> turn yourself into Tilley just so you could jerk off with his cock.<br/>
<br/>
You struggle from the tub and twitch up his clothing. Tidy whitey underwear, which is gross until you have it on and then it feels natural. Socks and saggy jeans. Black t-shirt. You slip your feet into ratty tennis shoes that Keith hasn't worn in a couple of months; Braydon must have dug way back in the closet to find them.<br/>
<br/>
You study yourself in the mirror and pluck the shirt thoughtfully. The face seems familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, until you realize you're looking at a <i>reflection</i> of what you--Will Prescott--usually see, and that it's the face Keith Tilley himself looks at, and then it becomes totally normal. Flat, acne-scarred and beetle-browed, with big, chapped lips and dark hair trimmed in an amateurish buzz cut because his dad, who is too cheap to pay for even a cut-price barbershop, is bad with the shears. Far from handsome, but it feels comfortable as you lean back and stare at it with that stupidly insolent look he puts on when he's trying to look "cool." You put on the black ballcap -- one of several he's got -- and slowly turn it bill-backward.<br/>
<br/>
"'Sup, bitches," you drawl when you're back at the bedroom. You lean against the doorway. "Where we goin', who we doin'?"<br/>
<br/>
Darrell and Christian—not yet changed—exchange a look. "Is that you being yourself being Tilley," the latter asks. "Think before you answer, because you sound stupid."<br/>
<br/>
You just jerk your chin at him, and suddenly realize that spasm of Keith's is supposed to mean "Back at you." Christian ignores it, not knowing what it means any more than you do.<br/>
<br/>
Well, any more than you <i>did.</i> You could know all kinds of things about Keith if you only searched for them.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"You sure you don't wanna hang around with <i>us</i> instead?" you ask the kid sitting behind the wheel of Christian Knouse's car. "You could suck my cock, except, you know, it's too big for--"<br/>
<br/>
"Will you stop trying to talk like some kind of gangbanger?" the kid says in Will Prescott's irritable whine. "It's embarrassing."<br/>
<br/>
You jerk your chin at him.<br/>
<br/>
"Anyway, it sounds like I'm gonna have to suck the real guys' cocks if I'm gonna get back in good with them," the guy wearing your face continues. "You want that, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"By sucking them off with <i>my</i> pretty mouth?" you retort.<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up and come on," says the guy who looks like Caleb, and he pulls you over to an old green Buick as Christian's car pulls into the street. "I'd ask who's driving, but it's my car."<br/>
<br/>
"Your car's a piece of shit," you say as you slide in. "And so's this one."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you trying to be funny instead of pathetic? Because it's coming out like you've got your wires crossed."<br/>
<br/>
You jerk your chin at him. <i>Tilley is so clueless,</i> you think sadly to yourself. "Hey, you got satellite radio in this thing,?" You fiddle with the player, and Caleb bats your hand away. "So where are we going?" You glance out your window. "You're clear over this way."<br/>
<br/>
"Thank you, air traffic control. Wanna go frighten some girls with your face?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. I guess we could go find Lisa, fuck up things for Prescott with her some more."<br/>
<br/>
Caleb gives you a sidelong glance. "What are you talking about?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno." You've surprised yourself with the black feeling inside your head. <br/>
<br/>
It's not hard to identify the emotion: Jealousy on Tilley's part on what you briefly had with Lisa, and a guilty satisfaction over its not lasting. You try to shove it away.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess it really doesn't matter where we go," you say, "as long as we don't fuck things up for the real, uh, Johansson and Tilley."<br/>
<br/>
"So we just sit here? 'Cos I got a feeling you're gonna get in trouble wherever you go."<br/>
<br/>
You pound your knee with your fist. "GameStop? Meh, I haven't got any money."<br/>
<br/>
"None of us do. This campaign's sucked up all our cash."<br/>
<br/>
That reminds you: "Hey, did Braydon lift some cash from my place when he was there?"<br/>
<br/>
"Whose place?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, all our places, I guess" you say, now that he's broadened the question. "Back at my place--Prescott's, I mean--I was missing, like, forty bucks."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe. This stuff is expensive."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, let's go find <i>him,</i> get it back."<br/>
<br/>
"Any money he took is now your contribution to the fund. Maybe we should go find Dane Matthias. He's safe to be around."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, why'd you guys copy him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because he could get us in close to lots of people. No one pays any attention to him, and he doesn't notice when people talk about seeing him where he wasn't."<br/>
<br/>
"Ah. But fuck, man, we need like a quest hook or something, right? We didn't find anything at the library, did we?" <i>It was, you now see, a research trip connected to the book.</i><br/>
<br/>
"We're just going to role play. You're doing fine, being totally useless."<br/>
<br/>
"Then let's go find some girls."<br/>
<br/>
"How about Cassie Harper?"<br/>
<br/>
"Cassie? If we wanted to listen to an empty-headed chatterbox, we could-- Ooohh!"<br/>
<br/>
"What?"<br/>
<br/>
But you're not listening. You're thinking of Cassie, who is pert and talkative and bright-eyed and full of giggles, especially when she's around--<br/>
<br/>
You grab the dashboard. "Holy fuck! Cassie Harper! She's-- She's--!"<br/>
<br/>
"She's what?" Caleb asks as your throat closes up.<br/>
<br/>
"Have you ever noticed the way she is when she's around--? Erk. When she's around-- Prescott?" Your tongue turns very thick as you struggle for the correct name or pronoun to use.<br/>
<br/>
"What do you care what she's like when she's around Prescott?" Caleb asks dryly. "I assume you're talking about the way she flirts <i>hard</i> with him without him ever noticing."<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Caleb</i> has noticed?"<br/>
<br/>
"Naturally. So if you wanna fuck around with someone, <i>there's</i> a way to--"<br/>
<br/>
"How? You mean go over and tell Cassie that--" You pound your knee. You could go see Cassie, and tell her that all she has to do is grab Will Prescott by the shoulders and tell him that she really likes him, and then—<br/>
<br/>
"Let's go find Lamont and Ioeger," you say, trying to push the thought of Cassie from your head. "Or Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought you'd be pissed at him."<br/>
<br/>
"Prescott's pissed at him," you reply. "I'm not." But down inside you're thinking, <i>Let's prank him.</i></span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122
author_id: seuzz
title: A Prank Over Pizza
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"Yeah, let's go prank Braydon," you say as your companion pulls out onto 20th Street.<br/>
<br/>
"Prank? What kind of prank?" Darrell Parson asks. Maybe it's just that he's talking with Caleb Johansson's honking voice, but he sounds alarmed.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Just something," you say. "Get him back for what he did to me."<br/>
<br/>
The other guy rolls his eyes. "He's gonna know it's us. At least he's gonna know we're not really Caleb and Keith." He frowns. "I can tell you straight from the horse's mouth that Caleb doesn't even remember the last time he talked to Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
"But he's not gonna know it's me. He'll think I'm Christian or Hugh or—"<br/>
<br/>
"He's gonna know it's you." And with that ultra-confident declaration, now he really does sound like Caleb. "Gillian told him all about you finding us when she picked up your mask."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you know that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I know Gillian."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, fuck." You pound your knee with your fist.<br/>
<br/>
Then your eye falls on a piece of paper in the front seat next to Darrell. "Hey, what's this?" You thoughtlessly grab it up, the way Keith is always grabbing up things that don't concern him.<br/>
<br/>
"What's what? Oh, crap. I meant to give that to Christian. It fell out of your pocket when you were changing clothes. Does he need it? What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
You've already got it open, and find it's the IOU you were trying to return to Christian—the one that Braydon gave you the day he copied your body. As you eye the amount—twelve dollars—an idea comes to you. "Hey, <i>this</i> is how we can prank Braydon, and he won't know it's us. It's an IOU, and we'll go around to collect it."<br/>
<br/>
"How will that work?" Darrell protests. "So he'll just think it's you and me come around to collect an IOU."<br/>
<br/>
"No, we'll pretend we're Caleb and Keith, and he gave us—Caleb and Keith, I mean—the IOU yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
"What? He'll know that's bullshit! He'll know he didn't give them an IOU."<br/>
<br/>
"That's the genius part! He'll think it was one of you guys wearing the Braydon mask—you guys have a mask of him, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, but—"<br/>
<br/>
"So he'll think you or Hugh or somebody put on his mask and went around to see Caleb and Keith, and that he's the one that gave them the IOU. And now we'll be the real Caleb and Keith come around to collect."<br/>
<br/>
"That doesn't make any sense!"<br/>
<br/>
"Why not?"<br/>
<br/>
"It's so confusing I can't even figure out where it goes wrong!"<br/>
<br/>
"That's why it'll work," you exclaim triumphantly. "He'll be so confused he won't know whether to think we're fakes or the real guys! Because maybe it <i>was</i> one of you guys in his mask who—"<br/>
<br/>
"Alright! But you carry the ball on this play. I'm not even gonna try helping out, because this is dumb."<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, it's great, you'll see."<br/>
<br/>
"Christ." He turns a pained, curdled expression on you. "Is that you or is that Tilley who's talking and thinking this way?"<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Should I be able to tell the difference?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well ... yeah," he says, sounding worried.<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Maybe Keith and me are just naturally simpatico?"<br/>
<br/>
Darrell lapses into silence for the rest of the drive.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You don't talk much either, being preoccupied with Darrell's question: Can you tell where your mind and will stops and Keith Tilley's starts?<br/>
<br/>
In some cases it is very easy. You've never been in the back of Don's Donuts, where Tilley works part-time, but now you've only to think of the shop and you can visualize the ovens and prep areas. Similarly, you can remember things that you've done and places you've been that Keith has no knowledge of. But at the other end are things you both know or feel. Right now, for instance, you can look out on 20th Street through your eyes and Keith's eyes simultaneously. Neither of you would like the view. Are these two different but identical opinions you're having? One opinion you're both sharing? And if it's one opinion, whose is it?<br/>
<br/>
As for the sensation of having Keith Tilley's mind and personality inside yours: It feels kind of like a glove. Tilley's mind is limp, but it covers yours and responds to your own will. Whatever touches it touches you, and you can grip the world the way he would. But where does the glove leave off the hand start? There must be a place where that happens, but inside this mask, it feels like a fuzzy boundary.<br/>
<br/>
So you stare at the passing store fronts. When your jaw is shut, it feels like it's you. When you let your jaw go slack, it feels like it's Tilley.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Braydon lives in the southern part of the city. It's a quiet and respectable neighborhood, but the houses are small and tightly packed together. But the lots are softened by the old, big trees. After discussing tactics, Darrell drops you off, and you lope up the walk to the front door.<br/>
<br/>
The bell is answered by a forty-something woman whose graying hair is pulled back in an unflattering bun. She calls into the house when you ask for Braydon. His brows lift when he sees you, and skepticism shows in his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"'Sup, yo?" you say. "Ready to go?"<br/>
<br/>
His brow crinkles. "Go where?"<br/>
<br/>
"Balducci's. Get there now, miss the lunchtime crowd."<br/>
<br/>
He looks very confused, as he should.<br/>
<br/>
So you help him along: "What, you thought we were on for next Saturday, not today?" <br/>
<br/>
Braydon's mental machinery has either jumped into high gear, or it's seized up: "Uh. Yeah. Next Saturday," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, it's today. Come on, I don't wanna walk around with that IOU when I can be collecting the debt in pizza. Get your keys."<br/>
<br/>
"Why? Am I driving?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Johansson dropped me off to get you, then took off for Balducci's to score us a table." That was so Braydon wouldn't recognize Darrell's car. "So you're driving us there as well as paying for it."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon stares at you hard, then gives in. "Mom, I'm going out," he bawls back into the house, then leads you around to where his car is parked. He doesn't ask about this "IOU" business—he doesn't speak at all, and let's you prattle stupidly about school—until you're a block down the road. Then he figures out an angle so he can ask about the IOU without sounding like an ignorant ass. "Uh, how much is that IOU for, again?"<br/>
<br/>
"Twelve bucks straight up." You fish it from your shirt pocket and hand it to him. "Normally I don't take these things, but you were pretty goddamn persuasive at the store yesterday. Say, how's that new <i>Deathclock</i> look to you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, it's okay," he says. It sounds like he hasn't got much mental power to spare for the reply, since he's trying to balance his attention between the road, the IOU, and the furious deductions he's trying to make. <br/>
<br/>
"Fuck yeah. I like Henrique, the way he draws the girls, but the story just crawls, you know? Like last month, there's these two dudes out on a snow slope, and it's twenty fucking pages of them talking shit at each other, then a couple of panels of fighting—" You mime some punches. "Fuck, man, I think I'll just wait for the graphic novel to come out, jack off over the babes then."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." Braydon returns the IOU. If he recognizes it as the one he gave to Christian, he doesn't show it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Balducci's Pizza is a local legend. A hole-in-the-wall place a few blocks from the college campus in the heart of the old downtown, it has a reputation for the best pizza for a hundred miles in any direction. It's not cheap, either, but Braydon will be footing most of the bill. You find "Caleb" inside, nestled in a dark corner with a good view of a TV screen, and you and Braydon slide in to the booth. "So how much of a budget we got for this pie?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"A third each, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, I mean with this." You slap the IOU onto the table. "So Delp's good for a third, plus he's covering twelve of our share. Is paying the whole thing, or are you and me gonna kick in some extra, get us a fuckin' <i>royale.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon audibly gasps. "What do you mean I'm paying for the whole pizza?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure, that's the deal," you tell him. "Your third, plus you pay off the IOU to cover our part."<br/>
<br/>
"I've only got a five on me," Caleb says in a clipped tone as Braydon's eyes bulge.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't even have that," you confess.<br/>
<br/>
"Then I'm not kicking him my five," says Caleb. "Unless you want to owe me two-fifty."<br/>
<br/>
"Why would I owe you two-fifty?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I'd be paying for your half—"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm only paying for a third!"<br/>
<br/>
"So am I," Caleb says, turning red. "We're getting two thirds between us, so your third is half of what we'd be getting."<br/>
<br/>
"But why do I have to—?"<br/>
<br/>
A very tedious argument breaks out, and it's several minutes before you notice that Braydon is quietly texting someone. You're still arguing with Caleb when he throws his cell onto the table with an exasperated snort. "I'll put it all on my credit card," he says, and his eyes glow feverishly. "But the limit is eighteen bucks. Six for my share and twelve to pay off—" He struggles for a moment. "Twelve to pay off that IOU. And after that," he adds in a furious mutter, "I'm gonna find someone and kick his ass."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Score!</i> You take that as proof you've pulled the gag off successfully, that he's not spotted you and Caleb as fakes. Your partner kicks you under the table. You kick him back. Then you see the hard gleam in his eye: He wants you to call it off before Braydon gets too pissed.</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111222
author_id: seuzz
title: Payback
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You break out one of Keith's donkey-like guffaws. "How's it feel to be the asshole?"<br/>
<br/>
"It feels like fucking -- " Braydon snarls, then catches himself. His head swivels between you and Darrell. "Is there some gag here I don't know about?"<br/>
<br/>
"Didn't Gillian tell you when she picked up that mask from you earlier?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon blinks hard once, and color begins to creep up his cheeks. His eyes narrow. But even now he can't quite bring himself to risk an accusation. So you lean in toward him. "Give you three guesses who we really are under these faces."<br/>
<br/>
"You fucks," he hisses, but his eyed dance. "You <i>fucks.</i> Who are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's Darrell Parsons," you say, pointing to Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
"And that's Will Prescott," he returns.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon hits you. "I thought there was something gamey about the way you showed up," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Bullshit, we had you totally fooled."<br/>
<br/>
"Where'd you get the IOU?" He snatches it up. "That looks like my handwriting. Did one of motherfuckers use my mask -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Nah, that's the IOU you told me to get from Christian. Remember, last week? You were playing Matthias, you cocksucker, and when I told you I was heading over to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, fuck. That's right." He cusses some more while you chortle at him. "You fucking happy, Prescott? I'm not paying for the fucking pizza, not more than a third. You should have fucking held back until the bill came."<br/>
<br/>
"Take an IOU?" Tilley always keeps a pencil stub in his pocket, and you pull it out now. <i>IOU $6</i> you write on the back of the old IOU, and Tilley's signature with a flourish. "There, give that to Tilley next time you see him. Then I can eat for free and you can get your -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Tilley's not going to pay off an IOU he didn't sign!" Braydon exclaims.<br/>
<br/>
"You almost did."<br/>
<br/>
"That's different! I thought it was one of you guys, you got in my mask and ran up a debt to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Toldja!" You grin at Darrell. "Toldja that's what he'd think!"<br/>
<br/>
"The point is," Braydon says through gritted teeth, "that Tilley's not going to think that. He'll know he didn't give out an IOU."<br/>
<br/>
"I bet he will if Johansson over there vouches for it." You tilt your chin at Darrell. "So hey, that's what we'll do after we're done gorging here. You two go find Tilley, and I'll distract Johansson. You can pick up Prescott -- Christian, I mean. He's pretending to be me. Pick him up too, and the three of you put the high-pressure thing on Tilley. He'll buckle."<br/>
<br/>
The other two exchange a weary look. "That's stealing, you know, and -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Damn straight it is." You chuck your chin at Delp. "Yo, what happened to those Andy Jacksons I had in my dresser the day you went to my place and lifted summa my threads?"<br/>
<br/>
Darrell sighs. "You know, when you try talking like a thug -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Moment of weakness," Delp says. "You were such a whiney bitch back behind the portables -- Okay, I'll pay your share of lunch today to make up for -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Where's my other thirty-five?"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't pay shit, Braydon," Darrell says. "Christian and I already settled it, that's Prescott's contribution to the game fund."<br/>
<br/>
The argument continues a very long time, because you've got Tilley's stubborn streak to draw on, and Tilley can be stubborn beyond all reason, and he can be stubborn beyond unreason where money is concerned. Tempers are frayed all around when Braydon finally agrees to reimburse you for the theft by paying your third of the pizza. Too late do you catch on to the wording, so that when Braydon and Darrell conspire to order a twelve-dollar pie -- "Hey, I need more than four bucks from you, jackhole!" -- they are unsympathetic. <br/>
<br/>
"Fine," you grumble at their dirty looks. "But don't take out on a player. It's you guys wanted to do the whole 'roleplaying' thing, and I promise you this is Keith Tilley down to the last crease in his asshole." You resettle the ball cap on your head. "Like, watch me go score with that babe over there." You start to get up, but they pull you back down.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Cordiality is mostly re-established by the end of lunch, though Braydon looks relieved when you part. "Let's end this campaign if you don't mind," Darrell says when you're in his car. "Go back to Christian's. How do you stand spending so much time with Tilley?"<br/>
<br/>
"You were playing him up at the Wilderness."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think I was being so aggravating."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, maybe I kinda turned it up. But hey, before we go back to Christian's, let's go by Tilley's so I can get summa his cash stash. I know just where to -- "<br/>
<br/>
"We're not stealing from anyone, Will. Get that out of your head."<br/>
<br/>
"It'd be fucking easy! Like, you guys were all slumming it up as Mansfield and them. I bet if you went into their houses -- " <br/>
<br/>
Darrell glares at you, but you continue unfazed.<br/>
<br/>
" -- you could get enough to rent warehouse space for all the masks and shit."<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't know you had this larcenous streak in you, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"I dunno. Maybe it's still Tilley talking." You look out the window and drum your hands restlessly on your legs. "Doesn't Johansson get kinda tempted to take stuff?"<br/>
<br/>
You turn to stare at Darrell when he doesn't immediately answer. "Yeah, I guess," he stammers.<br/>
<br/>
"So we should totally roleplay -- "<br/>
<br/>
"No we're not," he says firmly. "We're going back to Christian's." He says he's tired out by the stress of the afternoon, but you're pretty sure he's just sick of fake-Tilley's company.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"How you feeling there, Prescott?" Christian asks. You raise your head long enough to aim the bird at him, then fall back. "Yeah, it's kind of exhausting, coming out of a mask, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Indeed it is. You feel like you had a hard sleep that was too short and too quickly interrupted. You close your eyes and would let yourself drift off again if it was really sleep you had felt.<br/>
<br/>
You had no trouble getting back into Christian's: Darrell text him that you were on your way over, so he broke away from the real Caleb and Keith and got back in time to be waiting. Nor was there any trouble with his mom or dad, since they were both out running errands when you arrived. Up in Christian's bedroom, they showed you how to put your hand to your brow and pull hard while chanting a string of nonsense syllables three times. The world had gone dark.<br/>
<br/>
You rub your eyes. "So what did I this afternoon?" you ask Christian. Darrell is still unconscious -- his mouth hanging open -- beside you on Christian's bed.<br/>
<br/>
"Went to Tilley's, played on his console, ate hot dogs. Want your clothes back?"<br/>
<br/>
"In a minute." You take a couple of deep breaths, trying to revive yourself. There's something you meant to ask Christian, but you don't remember what it was. Something to do with Keith and Caleb.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh yeah.</i> "They say anything about missing any clothes?" You sit up and pluck at Keith's shirt, which you're still wearing.<br/>
<br/>
"No. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because that shirt Braydon took is one my favorites, and I was wondering if he took some of Keith's or Caleb's favorites."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. You want that shirt back?"<br/>
<br/>
"If you don't mind."<br/>
<br/>
"Bring us a new one for the collection?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure." You sit up and strip off Tilley's shirt. You frown at it. <i>Is this one of his favorites?</i> you wonder. You ought to know, right? You were just inside his head.<br/>
<br/>
Christian catches your expression and asks what's wrong. "Ah. Right, the memories don't stick around," he says when you tell him. "You'll remember the stuff you said and did while you were wearing the mask, but everything else just goes away real fast. Which is good, I guess. It'd get damn crowded if you were cramming all these memories into your head permanently."<br/>
<br/>
You nod, but you're also thinking that there are some memories it might be useful to have. Like where exactly Tilley keeps his pocket money.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You get changed, but after hanging out a little longer with Christian and Darrell -- and talking about the prank you pulled on Braydon, which Christian thinks was pretty awesome -- you go home: the others are getting together to continue an RPG campaign, and that doesn't appeal to you especially, even after they suggest you join in under someone's mask.<br/>
<br/>
On Sunday you get together with Keith and Caleb, and are able to fake your way through what little conversation there is about Saturday's events. Early that evening you begin to get the itch to try on a mask again, so you call Christian. "Any chance we could do, like, a swap at school tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
"I played you on Saturday," he says. "If you can talk someone else into it, you can come by to pick up your mask."<br/>
<br/>
You don't make any additional calls, though, not immediately, because your talk with Christian brought it out more vividly what you'd be doing: wearing the face and body and personality of one of the guys in his group. That might be fun in a "roleplaying" way, but you find yourself shying away from each one as you think of them. Howie and Hugh are kind of goofy looking. Darrell looks too much like you for it to be a thrill. Christian turned you down.<br/>
<br/>
That leaves Braydon, and it would be very awkward to propose a school-day swap to him. For one thing, there's the fact that the two of you have been a little crossways with each other since he copied your face.<br/>
<br/>
Oh, but then there's the Gillian thing, and that makes a swap with Braydon sound very attractive indeed.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112221
author_id: seuzz
title: What Most Becomes Braydon
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth you go, trying to decide what to do. You pace. You throw yourself on the bed and fidget uselessly. You pick up your phone half a dozen times, and put it back down half a dozen times.<br/>
<br/>
The seventh time you pick it up, though, you tap in a number before you can change your mind.<br/>
<br/>
Christian answers. For a moment you are confused, for in thinking about Delp you'd momentarily forgotten you intended to call Knouse. "Can I come by and pick up my mask?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"You found someone for a school swap?"<br/>
<br/>
"No. And I haven't decided I'm going to. But why do you get to keep all the masks at your place?"<br/>
<br/>
Silence. "Well, it's my book for a start, but you're right. All the other guys keep their own masks at their own houses. I should've given you yours to take home yesterday. Sorry, I guess I'm not quite used to you -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So can I come by and pick it up or not?" It probably comes out more impatient than you mean it to be, but if Christian notices, he doesn't say anything about it.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You have to pass the street to Braydon's house on the way to Christian's house, and you have to pass it on the way back. You almost do pass it. But at the last minute you jerk the wheel of the truck hard and make the turn. Once at the curb, you jump out and stride to his door before you can change your mind. Braydon answers the bell, but says nothing when he sees you. He just gives a kind of half-smile, and waits.<br/>
<br/>
You've got your mask, and you show it to him. "Wanna do some larping?" you say in a low voice. "Tomorrow, at school?"<br/>
<br/>
A mischievous twinkle comes into his eye. "Yeah, I'd be up for that," he says, and steps aside. "Come on in, let's take care of it."<br/>
<br/>
"What? Now?"<br/>
<br/>
"You're here now, right, so why not?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate fractionally, then realize it's stupid to delay, and follow him in. The woman with the unflattering bun -- his mother, presumably -- is in the kitchen as you pass, and Braydon briefly introduces you before leading you back to his bedroom.<br/>
<br/>
"So how long do we want to do this for?" he asks. "Just till school's out, or do you want to sub for me with Christian and them at King Kong?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can we decide tomorrow?"<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a half smile. "Why, you worried it won't be fun once you're me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, maybe <i>you</i> won't have fun."<br/>
<br/>
"I played you one afternoon, remember? I had fun." He holds your eye, then shrugs. "Okay, we'll talk after last period." He drops onto the bed and pulls off his shoes.<br/>
<br/>
You've always been shy about undressing in front of others, and it takes you a moment to realize it's a dumb thing to feel under these circumstances. Inside ten minutes, Braydon will have your nude body on under your clothes, and you'll have his under his clothes. But you strip slowly anyway -- so slowly that Braydon, though he's wearing more things, is out of his clothes before you are.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to tell anyone we're doing this," you say just as he's picking up a mask. "Let's be totally each other with everyone tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
He smiles at that, but just for a moment before it fades. "Except with Gillian," he says. "I always tell her where I am."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh. Well, I guess that's fair." You hate that you stammer when you say that, because it makes it sound like you have a guilty conscience. It makes it sound like you wanted to do this swap with Braydon so you could secretly get close to Gillian. And because you know what it sounds like -- and because you know that that's not so far from the truth -- you feel yourself blushing deeply.<br/>
<br/>
And that makes you feel even guiltier, so you blush even more deeply. You have to hang your head and look away when Braydon stares at you directly. "Put your mask on," he tells you.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Didn't Christian explain it to you? When you put your own mask on, it basically downloads all your memories into it. That way, when I put it on, I'll remember everything up until, well, right now." He holds up his mask. "I'm gonna do the same thing with mine. That way there won't be any memory slips for either of us."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Makes sense.</i> Braydon has taken the bed, and since you don't especially want to put your naked body next to his, you drop onto the floor and lay on your back, settling the mask of yourself onto your face.<br/>
<br/>
A drowsy, golden oblivion overwhelms you ...<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You take a deep breath and turn over, resting your cheek on the carpet. The prickly fibers give you a light itch all over.<br/>
<br/>
The carpet. Why are you on the carpet? You should be on your --<br/>
<br/>
You raise your head, and a blood rush almost overwhelms you. You drop your forehead back onto the floor and push into it until the intense wave of dizziness passes. With a long, sighing grunt you get up on all fours, then push yourself onto your feet long enough to fall back onto the bed.<br/>
<br/>
Your bed. Braydon Delp is gone and this bedroom is now yours. For tonight, at least.<br/>
<br/>
After recharging the memories in the masks, you and Braydon had switched masks around. He had dropped your mask onto his face first, but you'd held back by a few minutes -- studying your form as it sprawled on his bed -- before making your own transformation. He had revived, dressed, and hustled out while you were still unconscious.<br/>
<br/>
And now you look like Braydon Delp. You pull on his boxers, gather up the rest of his clothes, and walk across the hall to lock yourself in the bathroom.<br/>
<br/>
There's his face in the mirror now. His face, which is now your face. Thin, a little paler than he's used to seeing it. Pale enough that the very faint freckles on his nose stand out a little more clearly. Large, hazel-colored eyes under heavy lids and down-sloping eyebrows that give him a slightly worried look even when his features are relaxed. A thick mop of coarse, dark hair shot through with black dye. Skinny chest and shoulders and arms; a little patch of hair in the middle of the flat expanse of chest. Cock? Proportional, you'd judge. Gillian has certainly never --<br/>
<br/>
You reel and grab the edge of the vanity. <i>Gillian.</i><br/>
<br/>
There is not a day goes by that you -- you, Braydon Delp, for the memories overwhelm so hard that they leave you thinking and looking at the world with a completely Delp-like conviction -- that you and Gillian don't nibble at each other, and "nibble" is putting it very coyly. It might start with teeth and lips against teeth and lips, with a little tongue play in between. If it's at school, in public, it rarely goes further than that. But alone? Fingers slip between the skin and clothes of the other. Fingertips press and probe. Shirts and blouses and jeans and skirts peel back one petal at a time, and you scrape and slide down each other, nipping at each bit of newly exposed flesh. If it's night and you're alone in a car the clothes eventually come off completely, so that breasts and thighs and all the places between them get nicked and tasted. Gillian is soft and round, with a yielding plumpness under her skin, and when there's time for long, slow, biting pleasure, you will start at the top of her breasts, inch down to suckle at her teats, then make a progress down the middle of her belly to the nest between her legs. She will return the favor with a reciprocal journey up your inner thigh to your cock.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Cock.</i><br/>
<br/>
It's red and rigid now, throbbing. With only a little coaxing you relieve yourself into a tissue. Shame and embarrassment only come afterward, when Braydon Delp's fevered memories recede.<br/>
<br/>
"You were in the bathroom awhile," Braydon's mother nonchalantly observes when you pass her in the small dining room.<br/>
<br/>
"We had a big supper last night," you retort as you put your head in the refrigerator. There's still half of a rotisserie chicken from supper, and you take a wing as a late-evening snack.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Monday morning. Seven-thirty.</i> You regard your alter ego in the mirror.<br/>
<br/>
Dark green t-shirt with a v-neck. Levis. Black hiking boots. A dozen leather and plastic wristbands around one wrist, and half-a-dozen around the other. Hair lightly gelled into a sloppy fauxhawk. Mascara.<br/>
<br/>
Off the dresser you pluck the finishing touch: the silver ring carved all about with intertwined pentagrams, which Braydon charged a few months ago during the summer solstice. You slip it onto your right index finger -- the one, according to <i>The Book of Balaam,</i> associated with Jupiter.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It's all pretty fucking obvious,</i> you reflect as you rub a freshly darkened eyebrow. <i>Braydon's exactly the type who'd be into the occult.</i></span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122211
author_id: seuzz
title: What Most Becomes Braydon, Part 2
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>On most school days Braydon picks Gillian up, but this morning you woke to find a text from her saying she'd be driving herself. There were none of the little endearments she usually adds to her messages, so it's pretty obvious that Braydon has already told her about the day's swap. So you drive yourself directly to Westside.<br/>
<br/>
But since you're playing the role of Braydon -- and because you intend to take it seriously, and because a solid night's sleep has put you solidly inside his head -- you act as he would under the circumstances. You lean against the gym wall next to the breezeway that opens onto the student parking lot and with folded arms await Gillian's arrival. Most of the students who stream past ignore you. Perry Small jeers you, though: "Hey Delp, you slaughtered any good goats lately?"<br/>
<br/>
"Good ones? No, just the one you've been fucking the last couple of weekends," you blithely retort. "So you're gonna have to find yourself a new Saturday night thing." Perry stops briefly to glare at you, then continues into the school.<br/>
<br/>
Gillian shows up about ten minutes after you take station, and she doesn't look happy as she approaches: her expression is taut, and she's biting her upper lip. For a moment it looks like she's going to pass right on by you, but she stops when step in her way. "Morning, m'love," you say, and lean in to give her a kiss.<br/>
<br/>
"Don't," she says, and the snap in her voice is so hard you recoil without willing it. She fixes you with a cold eye. "Why do you think I drove myself this morning?"<br/>
<br/>
You hesitate, torn between staying in character or doing the smart thing. But intelligence wins out over instinct. "Sorry. Just trying to stay in character," you murmur.<br/>
<br/>
"Then maybe we should come up with a plot twist that will keep me from cutting your character's balls off."<br/>
<br/>
You grimace. "If we're going to plan things out, can we talk about it out of the crowd?" You lead her to a patch of ground where students aren't passing within earshot. "You know that your, uh, 'hubby' and I are trying to pass without anyone knowing we switched, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and it's not hard to fool people with those things."<br/>
<br/>
For the briefest of moments you wonder if Gillian is also a fake -- a roleplayer in a mask. But Braydon's memories tell you that although his girlfriend enjoys it when Braydon is under a mask, she herself isn't interested and hasn't let herself be copied.<br/>
<br/>
She's still talking: "And I assume he told <i>you</i> there'd be limits when it's you and me together?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>Limits.</i> He didn't have to, for the mask has vivid memories of him cautioning his friends against getting handsy with Gillian. "He didn't have to. I know what he tells people."<br/>
<br/>
"Then why did you make a pass at me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Instinct." You sigh. "Are we going to pretend we had a fight?"<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes kindle. "I don't think there's going to be any 'pretend' about it," she says, and brushes past you.<br/>
<br/>
You jump half a step after her, but stop yourself before throwing your arms around her. That really would infuriate her.<br/>
<br/>
You try to console yourself philosophically: <i>The only thing worse than having a fight with your girlfriend is not having a girlfriend to have a fight with.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You let Gillian get ahead and into the library before joining her at a table with Sienna Goldman, Tim Gerard, and Darrell Parsons. She ignores you, talking to the others about the school band music scene, while you hunch with your chin on your forearms and stare at her with wounded, puppy dog eyes. Sienna and Tim pick up on the tension -- you can see it in their eyes -- but say nothing. Darrell doesn't either, until after the bell has rung and Gillian has left the two of you alone. "Is she mad at you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes."<br/>
<br/>
"What about?"<br/>
<br/>
"She thinks I'm spending too much time larping."<br/>
<br/>
"I thought she was into that."<br/>
<br/>
"It was that mess with Will Prescott on Saturday," you improvise. "It wouldn't have happened except she thought it was me she ran into at King Kong. It embarrassed her."<br/>
<br/>
You didn't mean to raise yourself as a topic of conversation, but Darrell seizes on it anyway. "Pff. Will."<br/>
<br/>
"What's wrong?" you ask before you can check yourself.<br/>
<br/>
"That whole Saturday thing with him. Are you still pissed at him for that IOU prank?"<br/>
<br/>
If you knew where your brain ended and Delp's brain began, maybe you could answer that question. "I dunno. It wasn't serious, he was just getting back at me because of the way I snagged a mask of him," you add.<br/>
<br/>
"He was <i>weird,</i> and I don't think it was just the -- " Darrell glances furtively around, and lowers his voice. "I don't think it was just Tilley's mask. He was into it a lot harder and faster than any of the rest of us were."<br/>
<br/>
"What do you mean? That's what makes it fun, right? Being into it?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, this was more than that." A look of distaste passes over Darrell's face, and he leans in for a very close confidence. "I can always tell when it's one of us in a mask. Don't look at me like that. I can," he protests at your skeptical glance. "There's just something you can always pick up on if you know where to look. But with Will, I actually got creeped out, because it was really starting to feel like Keith Tilley with us."<br/>
<br/>
"Do you even know Keith that well?"<br/>
<br/>
He gives you a dirty look, and since a cluster of people is moving past, doesn't reply. You fight down a little smile of pride, and let the subject drop.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You share first period with Gillian -- an art class -- and you try being nice to her by playing Braydon at his most attentive and considerate. You help her with her things, and you speak only when she speaks to you -- which means you don't talk to her at all -- and you try to anticipate what she will need and when she will need it. After thirty minutes of this, as she grows frostier and angrier, you decide this is the wrong tack and just back off to let her alone.<br/>
<br/>
Second period is a study hall, and you do as Braydon does and hang out in the theater with Charles Hartlein, Andrew Harding, and Lee Reynolds. Darrell is there too. You tease him indirectly by subtly steering the conversation to matter magical, talking confidently and knowingly about the <i>Book of Balaam</i> and some of the other tomes Braydon has picked up. Darrell tenses, and he falls completely silent when you pass around that index-finger ring to be admired (in the case of Andrew and Lee) and sneered at (by Charles). "It has to be charged, you know," you tell them in a louche, knowing way. "Summer solstice, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"How do you 'charge' a thing like that?" Charles asks in a very condescending way. "Do they even <i>call</i> it 'charging'? Doesn't sound very mystical to me."<br/>
<br/>
"You burn a blackbird in a bed of charcoal under a brazier," you reply, "and you put the ring in the brazier. 'Charging' is like the modern translation. 'Empowering' would probably be better."<br/>
<br/>
Lee's jaw drops. "You actually killed and burned a bird?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. It's no big deal."<br/>
<br/>
They get very quiet, and Charles looks disgusted.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to rub their faces in it," Darrell tells you afterward, as you're on your way to History class.<br/>
<br/>
"Rub their faces in what?"<br/>
<br/>
"The whole magic thing."<br/>
<br/>
You let yourself look very amused. "Isn't that what we're doing with the masks. Rubbing our faces in it? Literally?"<br/>
<br/>
At the start of third -- which again you share with Gillian -- you rile your temporary girlfriend by kissing her shoulder before sitting down beside her. That's the only real attention you pay to her, though, and neither she nor anyone else pays much attention to you. You ought to worry about trying to get Gillian to like you afterward, but Braydon's head gets in the way, and you find yourself relaxing and not caring so much. <i>She'll come around, like she always does.</i><br/>
<br/>
Fourth period: English. Will Prescott and Caleb Johansson are in there, but they are buzzing with each other, and you only catch your substitute's eye a couple of times. His expression is inscrutable.<br/>
<br/>
Delp doesn't share lunch with any of Christian's group, so you eat with Hartlein and Harding. The conversation returns to the subject of magic. "It's not about potions or wands or dumb Latin words," you explain them with a lazy air of superiority. "It's about making the elements do what you want them to do."<br/>
<br/>
"Like how?" Andrew asks.<br/>
<br/>
"That's where the magic comes in. But it takes a special kind of soul."<br/>
<br/>
"You have that special kind of soul?" Dean Stratton asks with scathing skepticism.<br/>
<br/>
"You develop it with practice. It's like with music. The more you practice, the better you get, and the better you get, the more you can practice."<br/>
<br/>
"Can you levitate things yet?" Charles sneers.<br/>
<br/>
Casually, you reach over and flip his lunch tray over into his lap. "Yeah, hey, looks like I can."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Start of sixth period. You're on your way to Latin, and you spot Gillian pushing through the hall to her Spanish class. You struggle to catch up to her, so you can say "Hi" or "I'm sorry" or "Come on, can we please be friends." Before you can catch up, though, she reaches the door to her classroom, where she bumps into Tanner Evans.<br/>
<br/>
That's Tanner Evans, lowlife thug and bully. An ugly, squalid little gorilla with a sideline selling marijuana.<br/>
<br/>
She tries to slide past him, but he catches her, grabs her, holds her.<br/>
<br/>
He leers into her face while she tries to pull away.</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111222111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Fight of Someone Else's Life
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Tanner Evans lays a strong hand on the door frame next to Gillian's head, blocking her from entering the room. You can't see her face, but you can see his, and the unpleasant leer on his beetle-browed face.<br/>
<br/>
You waver between two reactions. The first, boosted by the natural reaction you feel flowing from Braydon's mask, is to creep shamefully away and hide in the Latin classroom you're heading toward. Tanner is meaty and strong and mean, and he runs with a crowd that includes some of the worst lowlife bullies in the school: David Kirkham and Gary Chen and Joshua Call and Joe Thomason, and half a dozen others. Tanner alone could mess you up. The others could ruin the week, the month, the year for you.<br/>
<br/>
But they wouldn't be ruining your life. They'd be ruining Braydon's life, because you'd be intervening under Braydon's face. And how happy would Delp be with you if he finds you set him up for all that trouble?<br/>
<br/>
And is there really any harm going on over there? Yes, Tanner is hassling Gillian, but this too will pass. Maybe he hassles her every day, and she handles him confidently every day. If the harm to Gillian is so small, should you be jumping in when the harm to Braydon could be so great?<br/>
<br/>
Probably you <i>ought</i> to creep away and pretend you didn't see anything.<br/>
<br/>
But you go with the other instinct, the one that's mostly your own. You are not actually very brave, and you go out of your way to avoid the notice of the Evans and Kirkhams -- and the Pozniaks and Lynches and the Pattersons and Blacks -- of Westside. But when you're stung -- and the sight of Gillian in trouble does sting you -- there's a bantam-weight kickboxer inside you that springs to the surface. <br/>
<br/>
He springs to the surface now, and carries you over to the door to the Spanish classroom. "Hey Tanner, you know you're blocking the door -- "<br/>
<br/>
You barely get the words out before Evans shoves you in the shoulder, bouncing you off the hard corner of a locker. "Braydon!" Gillian shouts, but the name is lost as a hissing roar fills your skull. The world goes blurry, and your right hand bunches itself into a fist. You pop Evans in the side of the skull with a sloppy swing that jolts your arm from knuckles to shoulder, but which sends him crumpling with a grunt to the ground. The hallway fills with sudden shouts. You grasp Gillian by the arm and pull her into the classroom, pushing her roughly into a desk before you turn around to face Evans. You are shaking all over, and cold prickles of sweat crawl all over your body.<br/>
<br/>
Evans gets to his feet unsteadily, glaring at you as he rises, but it's a glare that shows fear behind it. His lip curls, and you brace yourself for his charge, but instead he dodges back into the crowd, crouching almost like an ape as he runs away. The crowd around the door watches him go, then turns back to you, their faces showing amazement and delight.<br/>
<br/>
But you turn to Gillian. "You okay?" You pick up her hands -- which are soft and limp -- and cradle them.<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes and face are perfect circles. "What the hell got into you? Oh!" Her eyes widen some more.<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. You should back off, but it takes a moment before the embarrassment and humiliation overwhelm your desire to hold her. "Yeah, sorry," you mumble. "I'll get to class." You drop her hands, and feeling a lot more scared and horrified now than when you attacked Evans, you pick up your dropped backpack and shuffle to the door.<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, Braydon?"<br/>
<br/>
You look over your shoulder. Gillian is still looking shocked. She's also looking like she's going to faint. Her mouth works soundlessly. "Yeah. Uh. Get to class." She is very pale as she looks away.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Well, that fucks things up totally, doesn't it?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You keep a wary eye out for trouble the rest of the day. You don't have the scumbags for any classes, and no one finds you in the hallways. But by the end of the day fear has turned rancidly to guilt. Tomorrow at the latest the goons will be after Braydon Delp.<br/>
<br/>
And how are you going to explain it to him? It would be one thing if they had come after you, and in the heat of the moment you'd fought back. But you started it. Worse, you started it in a way that made it look like you were putting the moves on Gillian. Would Braydon be happy that you went to her defense? Or will he be pissed off and made jealous by it?<br/>
<br/>
You've got his head inside your own, and during last period of the day you try to figure out how he would react. But you can't find the answer. It's not that there is no answer; the trouble is that you can imagine <i>any and every</i> possible answer. You can imagine Braydon being grateful that you defended Gillian. You can also imagine him being pissed off with envy. After brooding helplessly, you realize it's because it's actually <i>you</i> who are in charge of his emotions -- or, at least, of the emotions inside this mask. You can imagine him reacting in almost any possible way, and all those reactions feel totally genuine.<br/>
<br/>
Will Prescott and Braydon Delp both have science classes the last period of the day -- Astronomy and Forensic Science Studies -- so you're both in the same wing, and you often see each other anyway as you exit.<br/>
<br/>
So it goes today, though you're experiencing it from the other side. Andrew Harding and Lee Reynolds come sauntering out the door to Mr. Cash's classroom, and you start to follow them. But then Will Prescott appears. "Hey Delp!" he calls. "Got a minute?"<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? Oh, sure. Catch up to you guys later," you tell Lee and Andrew, and they push off without reply. "'Sup with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Same old. How was your day?" He grins in a way that leaves you feeling wary.<br/>
<br/>
"Kind of exciting. Um, can we talk outside a minute?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. Kind of what I wanted to do anyway."<br/>
<br/>
That makes you even more jumpy. You lead the way out the doors and lean against a corner of the building. "So what are your plans for after school?" Prescott asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know. Uh, Gillian's kind of pissed at me." You rub your eye.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, I figured." You look up at sharply at his grin, and for a moment you think he's gloating at your discomfiture. Then you realize he's probably grinning because you're rubbing your eye in that very Braydon-specific way he does when he's embarrassed.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you talk to her today?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't hang out with your girlfriend." His grin widens.<br/>
<br/>
"Well, something happened at the start of sixth period that I need to tell you about. You know, she has Spanish and, uh, I have Latin. Tanner Evans was hassling her, and when I went over to see what was up, he pushed me and then I popped him in the face."<br/>
<br/>
Prescott's grin doesn't go away, but the warmth drains from it, and it looks like a rictus by the time you finish describing the day. "So, uh, I got a really bad feeling that Braydon Delp has moved to the top of a couple of shit lists," you wind it up lamely.<br/>
<br/>
Prescott stares at you, then shifts awkwardly from one foot to another and looks around.<br/>
<br/>
The awkward pause that follows is filled by the sound of muffled voices from inside the school. "Maybe you could go punch Tanner in the eye," you say. "Then tomorrow <i>Will Prescott</i> would get what he has coming to him."<br/>
<br/>
"We can worry about it tomorrow," he replies. "But for the rest of the afternoon, do you have any plans?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm supposed to catch up with Christian and them at King Kong, and I guess I should do that if Gillian's going to be mad at me."<br/>
<br/>
"I talked to them at lunch," Prescott says. "Slight change of plans. You know the old Acheson elementary school? We're going to meet there, look at maybe turning it into a kind of headquarters."<br/>
<br/>
You start to ask what he means, but then the mathematics of it clicks into place.<br/>
<br/>
He's talking about an old elementary school that's a few blocks from your house. It was closed up a many years ago, except for the cafeteria, which was turned into a community center.  Opposite the cafeteria is an outside door leading down into a basement. Last year you had broken into the basement while snooping around, and after rearranging the junk inside it you'd put your own lock on the door. A few weeks later, you'd found your lock undisturbed, and had turned it into an unofficial clubhouse and hangout for you and Caleb and Keith. It's been many months since you've been back, but if the lock is still there, it's the kind of place where you and Christian's group could meet. "Yeah, I can meet you guys out there," you tell him. "And, uh, sorry again about today."<br/>
<br/>
He shrugs, and you part.<br/>
<br/>
But on your way to Braydon's locker, your phone buzzes. It's a message from Gillian.<br/>
<br/>
She wants to meet.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112221112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Campaign at the Clubhouse
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You can't tell from the message who Gillian means the message for -- you or Braydon. That troubles you, and you also wonder why she just doesn't meet you at the locker she shares with Braydon. As you make the long trip around to the wing where it is, you grope through the possibilities, and finally decide that she thinks you and Braydon are swapping back and that the message will land in the box of her real boyfriend.<br/>
<br/>
Disappointment clutches at your throat. Fear too, over what she might say to him about the way you treated her. It seems best to keep a diplomatic distance, then. You text back on his behalf: <i>meeting w/guys. tonite instead?</i> You're changing out books when the reply comes: <i>ok.</i><br/>
<br/>
Heavy heart and heavy feet weigh you down as you trudge to the student lot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's a dump," says Darrell, and makes a face.<br/>
<br/>
"I think it's lit," says Christian. His eyes gleam.<br/>
<br/>
They're talking about the Acheson Community Center basement, where seven of you are standing. You're inclined to agree with both Darrell <i>and</i> Christian.<br/>
<br/>
It's a dusty, dirty jumble, and it's making your nose itch and your throat sweat. A set of rickety stairs lead from the outside door down to a concrete floor which is packed with old desks and chairs and conference tables and bookshelves. A row of credenzas line the wall underneath some half-circle windows through whose dirty panes streams dim sunlight. A few very narrow passages wind between piles of old junk in a kind of impromptu maze, but to reach the furthest corners of the basement you would have to climb over furniture that looks at least fifty years old, and in some cases looks eighty years old.<br/>
<br/>
Will Prescott is standing halfway up the stairs with an expression of pride, as though he had done anything more than open the lock that was hanging on the door. Christian and Darrell -- and you -- had plunged into the basement, looking over and under and around everything. Christian had even clambered up and over some of the tables in order to see what was behind some bookcases that stand like monoliths in the middle of the room. Hugh Flake and his little brother, Harrison, hung back, craning their necks as they looked around. Howie hung back with them, and lifted the hem of his t-shirt to cover his nose and mouth. "It's kicking up my allergies," he says, and his eyes water.<br/>
<br/>
"Of course it does," you retort. "It's why we can't ever take you into the bookstore part of King Kong. Those paper mites will be the death of you."<br/>
<br/>
"I can go into bookstores," he hotly retorts. "It's all the dust in here."<br/>
<br/>
"I bet there are rats in here, too," says Hugh. Harrison backs up a couple of steps.<br/>
<br/>
"I like it," you say. "It's a great place, Will." Your alter ego grins.<br/>
<br/>
"And that's what matters," Howie grumbles. "That <i>Braydon</i> likes it."<br/>
<br/>
"It's definitely lit," Christian says again. He leaps onto a table and crouches, his eyes darting about. "If we were nine years old still, we could build some awesome table forts." He turns a barbed eye onto Prescott. "And there's no traffic down here?"<br/>
<br/>
"I put my own lock on it a year ago, and it was still there this afternoon," he says with a shrug.<br/>
<br/>
"People are going to notice if we start coming down here," says Darrell. "There's too many of us."<br/>
<br/>
"And it's definitely illegal," says Howie through his shirt.<br/>
<br/>
"Cops can bite me," Christian says. "And I'd be all over moving our games down here if your allergies kept you shut up. But you wouldn't like that." He sighs. "I'd love to have a key to this place -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Why can't we use it for the mask and book shit?" you blurt out. All eyes turn on you. "It's perfect, right? Instead of hiding that thing out in the wilderness, we could have put it together down here. We could also keep the masks and wardrobes here instead of at your place -- " You chuck your chin at Christian " -- so we don't have to bug you if we want to go out."<br/>
<br/>
"I want to keep -- " Christian starts to say, then shuts his mouth with a snap. His eye turns very piercing, and it shifts between you and Prescott. "Who'd keep the key to this place, if we did that?"<br/>
<br/>
No one answers, not right away. "We all get keys?" Prescott finally suggests.<br/>
<br/>
"We got a rule," Christian snaps, and again his eye darts between you and Will. "Unless it's a straight swap between two campaign members, it's always three that go out at a time. Never singly, never just two. If we all have keys -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So set it up so that you need three keys," says Darrell. "Yeah, put the masks in a box with a lock, put the box in a desk with a lock, and the desk is in here, where there's a lock on the door. Then each of us has one key, to one of these things. If you want to get into the masks, you have to find two other people who have the other two keys."<br/>
<br/>
Silence.<br/>
<br/>
"I like it," says Howie, and Hugh also nods. Darrell says, "I have an old foot locker we can use."<br/>
<br/>
Christian looks trapped. "I keep the book at my place, though," he says. People exchange glances, but no one argues. "So it's settled. How much you want for that locker," he asks Darrell.<br/>
<br/>
"I can just contribute it."<br/>
<br/>
"No, we go all in on expenses," Christian snaps. "That includes two more locks and copies of keys."<br/>
<br/>
You turn away, bored after seeing that everything has been settled. Prescott catches your eye, and the two of you exchange a very long and bemused stare before the party breaks up and everyone moves outside to leave, to rendezvous at King Kong to recommence the campaign. You've just gotten in the car when your cell buzzes again. This time the message is from Prescott: <i>talk?</i> it says. He's looking at you from the cab of the truck, and you give him a thumb's up.<br/>
<br/>
So though you follow the others into the street, you hang back, and after they've driven around a corner, you park on the side of the street and wait for Prescott to pull up and park behind you. You get out and saunter around to the passenger side of his truck and get in. "This is a sweet ride," you say, patting the console. "You like it?"<br/>
<br/>
"I shit myself every time I get in, it's so cool," he says. "Are you okay with sharing the basement with people?"<br/>
<br/>
"You know what I think," you say, tapping your temple with a fingertip.<br/>
<br/>
"I want to be sure."<br/>
<br/>
"It's all cool, and really nice of you to ask after the way I fucked you up this afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, about that," he says, and looks around. "If you really want to make it up to me, you'll larp as me tomorrow too."<br/>
<br/>
Actually, that idea had briefly crossed your mind, but you'd held back on suggesting it. "I can do that. But do you want to go back to the basement, swap around so you have tonight as yourself?"<br/>
<br/>
"It doesn't matter -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Because Gillian texted me a little while ago, wants to get together with you."<br/>
<br/>
That causes him to pause, but he shrugs again. "I can see her like this, and it saves you and I having to meet later. Did anything else important happen today?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just the thing with Tanner. I took notes in all your classes."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay. Because if you get smacked around hard tomorrow, I probably won't want to remember it, and that means I won't be putting that mask on after we switch back to get the memories."<br/>
<br/>
"Makes sense." You start to get out of the truck. "Anything else?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just keep things fucked up on Howie's campaign."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You do a pretty good job keeping things stirred up, if you do say so yourself. You invoke a near-forgotten house rule against the killing of red-heads to save an orc with blood-stained armpit hair. You force a saving throw that leaves Hugh's character locked in a closet after he foolishly improvises a line about the latch being tricky. And when Darrell tries shitting off a castle wall, you plead night-blindness as the excuse for your half-giant character pushing him off and into a clutch of bushes that Howie hurriedly invents to break his fall.<br/>
<br/>
Christian watches you closely during the game, and he pokes you in the shoulder blade when he gets up to use Eric Kim's restroom in the back. You meet him in the bookstore proper. "You and Will Prescott switched places at school today, didn't you?" he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"What makes you think that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because you switched back after we left that basement, right? That's why you were late."<br/>
<br/>
You don't want to lie to him, but you don't want to confess either. So you shrug. "Was that when you spotted the switch?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. He was larping you pretty good today, you know. The whole 'I'm too cool to give a crap' thing. Is he okay with you giving up that basement to us? 'Cos that's what tipped me off that it was really you playing him."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, he's fine with it. Makes him feel like he's really part of the campaign."<br/>
<br/>
"Good. But be careful about him and Gillian. Don't lose your shit if he macks on her. He's kind of a donkey around girls."<br/>
<br/>
You almost slip out of character at the insult, but hide your spike of anger under the veneer of a contemptuous smile. "I don't worry about Gillian. She can take care of herself, and she's all for me anyway."<br/>
<br/>
The words, though true, hurt to say.<br/>
<br/>
So imagine your surprise twenty minutes later when, just as the game is wrapping up, Gillian comes into the shop with a gleam in her eye. She brushes right past your greeting to put her tongue in your mouth.</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122211121
author_id: seuzz
title: So Many Nested Missed Opportunities
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Three distinct thoughts gallop through your head as Gillian tries to suck your mouth inside out. <br/>
<br/>
The first is: <i>She knows it's me, right? She knows I'm not Braydon because she was just with him, right? So why is she doing this?</i><br/>
<br/>
The second is: <i>Oh God, she's doing this right in front of the other guys, this is really embarrassing and they're going to hate me for this and she knows it, is she pissed at me and that's why she's doing it?</i><br/>
<br/>
The third -- and by far the strongest -- is: <i>Don't let this stop, please don't stop, Gillian, this is giving me a raging boner and it's by far the most awesome thing that has ever happened to me, even if you're just trying to get back at me for something, KEEP DOING IT!!!</i><br/>
<br/>
She pulls away, and you draw a deep, ragged breath. The rest of the table is absolutely silent, until Eric Kim with a gentle laugh says, "Dude!"<br/>
<br/>
"Are you ready to go?" you ask Gillian. You don't know if your expression shows rapt adoration or dopey lust. All you know is that the grin -- which you can't fight down -- is hurting your cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
"Whenever you are," she says, and shows you her own chipmunk smile. "I'll be waiting in the car."<br/>
<br/>
You watch her leave with watering eyes. After the door closes, you turn back to the rest of the table. Hugh is looking at you with dull hatred. Darrell is staring off in a corner. Howie has slouched and is studying his notes intently while pulling on his lower lip. Christian --<br/>
<br/>
Christian pushes his glasses up and squeezes the bridge of his nose. "Just get the fuck out of here," he says.<br/>
<br/>
Eric grabs your arm as you get up, and squeezes it. "Have one for me, little bro," he laughs. He claps you in the small of your back, almost knocking you off your seemingly numb feet.<br/>
<br/>
Gillian is using her iPhone as a mirror and touching up her makeup with a fingertip as you open the passenger side of her car and get in. She puts it away and turns the dimples back on. "I didn't mean to take you away," she says and draws a fingertip up your thigh. "I was just missing you and wanted to -- "<br/>
<br/>
Your ribcage almost cracks from the depth of the sigh you draw. You would like nothing more than to let her think that you're Braydon, and to let her give you the affection that she gives him. When you think of the pinching and the nibbling and the gentle sucking you are giving a pass to, it almost makes you faint with regret. But you'd rather pass on it than face her rage when she finds  out about the deception.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, she was supposed to see Braydon this afternoon. Probably she's trying to tempt you into being a dick so she can <i>really</i> tear into you later. It's just been one mind-screw after another with her since you first talked to her that day here at the comic book store.<br/>
<br/>
"Gillian, you know I'm not your 'hubby', right?" You grind a resentful finger into the side of your face. "You know this isn't my face? Because Braydon was supposed to come find you this afternoon, so I know you know. And if you don't, if Braydon didn't talk to you, it's still me under here. You know. Will."<br/>
<br/>
Her smile faded almost at the instant you started talking, and so did the twinkle in her eye. But neither one disappears completely. When you're done, she makes a little shrug and lowers her eyes.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, I know it's you, Will," she says softly. "I just wanted to give you a chance to -- " She sighs, shortly and sharply. "I was kind of a cunt this morning, and I'm sorry for that. I wanted to give you a chance to -- " She sighs again, shrugs again, keeps her eyes on her lap.<br/>
<br/>
"Thanks, and it's okay," you say. "But you know, you could have just said 'Sorry for this morning and I want us to be friends'. That would have made me feel good enough."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I wanted more than -- " She cuts herself off, then brightly says, "I'm sorry for this morning and I want us to be friends. And, um -- " She folds up her hands awkwardly. "Thank you for what you tried to do this afternoon."<br/>
<br/>
Her choice of words surprises you. "Tried to do? You mean I didn't?"<br/>
<br/>
She looks up, her eyes showing hurt and concern and a little surprise of her own. "Braydon really doesn't know, does he?"<br/>
<br/>
"Know what?" Your chest begins to turn numb.<br/>
<br/>
"I was a little late getting to class today. All that stuff with Tanner? It usually happens <i>before</i> Braydon comes along."<br/>
<br/>
"You mean Tanner does that every day?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, not every day."<br/>
<br/>
Your voice rises: "How often does he -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Stop it, Will. You're not Braydon and you're not even acting like him now. Anyway,  it happens every couple of days, and I don't think Tanner even really means anything by it. He's just an asshole, and I know how to take care of him. I just call him a lot of filthy names, and I think he actually gets off on it."<br/>
<br/>
You grab your head and bend double. You're in danger of hyperventilating. You don't know what upsets you more: that she says she doesn't need you or anyone to take care of Tanner; that you inserted yourself where no one was needed; or that this crap has been going on when it should have been stopped a long time ago.<br/>
<br/>
You don't raise up even when Gillian begins stroking your back. "So why are you thanking me," you mumble.<br/>
<br/>
"Because it was really sweet of you, even if you did totally fuck things up for Braydon."<br/>
<br/>
That causes you to raise your head. "So you did see him? You did talk to him this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm-hmm. He told me you were going to keep playing him through tomorrow. I'm sorry, Will. I hope it doesn't hurt too much when those guys come after you."<br/>
<br/>
With a groan you put your face to your knees again. Now you're going to be sick.<br/>
<br/>
Gillian continues to stroke your back. "Um, that's another reason I wanted to, um -- " She sucks in a deep breath. "I wanted to make it feel better for you ahead of time? And, um -- "<br/>
<br/>
"And, um, what?" She's been saying "And, um" a lot.<br/>
<br/>
There's a long silence before she answers. Her words come in a rush. "Braydon told me he probably wasn't going to put that mask on again because he didn't want to feel or remember what was going to happen to you so I thought maybe we could fuck each other senseless and he wouldn't find out?"<br/>
<br/>
You turn to stone. Her hand slides up and down your back four, five, at least six times while you try to assemble a coherent response to what she just said. The most brilliant thing you can come up with is the line you finally utter: "What?"<br/>
<br/>
"I told you, it was really sweet what you did. And also I spent the afternoon with Braydon, and he was half being you and half being himself and I really liked the combination and I kind of wanted to see what the combination felt like from the other direction."<br/>
<br/>
You sit up -- bones and muscles creak. "Are you saying you kind of like me, Gillian?"<br/>
<br/>
Her tone turns careful. "I kind of like you, Will, and I want to be friends with you. But Braydon's my hubby." She strokes your thigh. "I guess I was leading you on again. I'm sorry. It was a dumb idea. But I thought that if I pretended I didn't know it was you, I could have some more fun with half-Braydon/half-Will, and give you something that would make you feel good for what you did, and then we could pretend it didn't happen." She takes her hand off your leg. "But you really are a nice guy, it turns out."<br/>
<br/>
And then you have to put your face back on your knees. "We can't do it anyway?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'll be nice to you tomorrow. I won't pretend we had a fight."<br/>
<br/>
At least she lets you sit in the car for another ten minutes, until you've recovered enough strength that you can exit her car and drive to Braydon's house on your own.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're distracted by feelings of disappointment and dread after you leave Gillian, and after a cold supper you throw yourself into homework in order to try to get rid of them. That doesn't take you as long as you would like, so you pull out some of the stuff that Braydon has been working on in his spare time.<br/>
<br/>
That would be his occult studies, which he has tackled with renewed vigor since Christian got ahold of that grimoire. Right after Christian bought if off you, Braydon immediately went down there to see if he could score anything equivalent. He didn't, but he found something intriguing anyhow: a set of castoff classics containing a mass of cryptic marginalia. There were six of them he bought, all with the same spidery handwriting, looking as though they came out of the library of a serious-minded scholar of the occult.<br/>
<br/>
Here, for instance, where Braydon left off his reading, is a chapter on the stars and their "peculiar natures, properties and conditions," beside which is scrawled the notation "cf. Stellae Errantes." A Google search turns up nothing interesting on that phrase except its translation as "the wandering stars," meaning the planets. But a few pages later you find something Braydon hadn't spotted yet: a set of symbols associated with each of the seven classical planets and said to be their "Divine Letters."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon's got a special journal where he collects such things, and to keep up the pretense you copy them into it. They all go into it --<br/>
<br/>
Except the script associated with the Moon. When you lift the pen from making the last stroke, its letters blaze with a silvery fire, then vanish.</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111222111212
author_id: seuzz
title: A Debt Repaid
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Your pulse explodes in the back of your throat. <i>The fuck just happened?</i><br/>
<br/>
There on the page are thirteen lines of script, a mix of English and whatever-the-fuck-alphabet-you've-been-copying. You've written down the "Divine Letters" for six of the planets, but the letters of the Moon --<br/>
<br/>
Did you just imagine that you wrote them down? You peer closely at the paper. There's a line of indentations below the notation <i>The Divine Letters of the Moon</i> that you scrawled in Braydon's handwriting. You hesitate, then slowly draw them in again. The fancy X. The slightly lopsided diamond. The one that looks like the abstract design for a crouching, winged lion, and the one that looks like a snake grasping a stapler with its tail. The W that's stabbing a crescent moon with a knife.<br/>
<br/>
You lift the pen.<br/>
<br/>
The symbols run and flash like silver fire, and are gone.<br/>
<br/>
You've never seen anything like this. Braydon has never seen anything like this, not until just two weeks ago, when Christian's grimoire turned out to be real. Is the book you're copying the script out of also real?<br/>
<br/>
You peer at it closely. It sure doesn't look like the grimoire. It's just an old paperback, published in 1992, by some old guy named Agrippa. Braydon had a PDF of it on his computer, but picked up this copy the other day on account of the marginalia. There is no name on the inside cover. But if the former owner was as smart and skilled as his margin notes suggest, could he have imbued it with real magic? Or maybe he found a paperback copy that's got real magic inside it?<br/>
<br/>
You feel Braydon's native excitement rising, but you tamp it down, and with trembling hands close the book and put everything away. The evening is still relatively early -- hardly ten o'clock, so after getting ready for bed and putting out the lights, you distract yourself by streaming a movie: something in the pain-and-blood horror genre, like Braydon loves to watch.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
<i>Tuesday.</i> This morning it's Gillian waiting for you at the edge of the student lot. She's got her sunglasses on so you can't see her eyes, but her mouth is curled up in a smile. "So are you ready to face today?"<br/>
<br/>
You roll your eyes and sigh deeply. "No, but I can't really stop it from coming, can I?"<br/>
<br/>
"You just have to look at the positive side. They can't even really hurt you without getting into all kinds of trouble, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"Isn't that bad enough? Don't you want me to try hurting them back?"<br/>
<br/>
"No." Gillian presses in close to you. "Let them make their point. If you make it worse for Braydon, then you'll just be stuck playing my hubby until they get done with you."<br/>
<br/>
You're about to retort that you can always take Braydon's mask off, but swerve at the last moment. "Well, that'd be a consolation, wouldn't it? Playing your hubby, I mean." You put your face close to hers. "Will you kiss the oopsies to make them go away?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't press your luck, Will." She hooks the top of your t-shirt and pulls it down to give you a soft kiss on the chest. "I'm being really nice now to make it all look good. And I've never gone this long without him. I'm missing him."<br/>
<br/>
You grit your teeth as you cock rises. "And you won't take me as a substitute."<br/>
<br/>
"You've got all the right bits, and it looks like they're working the right way." She brushes her open palm over your crotch, and you stifle a yelp. "Except for the part that really turns me on." She looks up into your face, and you wish you could see her eyes. "The part of him that makes him my hubby."<br/>
<br/>
<i>And what part would that be, exactly?</i> you wonder. <i>And is there any way to copy it?</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Gillian promised that she'd treat you like the real Braydon in front of everyone else, and she keeps her word, though she also keeps things restrained. She lets you kiss and nuzzle her shoulder and the side of her head in the library before class, and she lets you hold her close during first period Art class as you sketch on a shared pad. His other friends also treat you normally, except for Darrell Parsons, who's a little cool to you when you connect with him and some others in the theater during second period. After the bell has rung, and you're leaving together for third, you ask him if anything is wrong.<br/>
<br/>
"Christian told me you and Will Prescott switched faces for school yesterday," he says a little stiffly. "So who was I talking to in the library yesterday morning? You or him?"<br/>
<br/>
"Him, I guess." You feel both a little please and a little sick at the way you keep fooling Darrell. "Why are you pissed? We've switched off before without telling people. What's your deal with Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Meh, nothing against Will. He's so bland he's barely there. But did you check out your mask before you came to class today? Do you remember what I said to, uh, to <i>him</i> in the library?"<br/>
<br/>
You pretend to give Darrell's question some thought as you watch the students streaming from the nearby gym. "You mean about how he was creeping you out as Tilley?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. Well, it's kind of creepy to think I was telling him he was creeping me out as Tilley, when it was him being, you know, creepy and convincing as <i>you.</i>"<br/>
<br/>
You smile crookedly. "I'm sure he just took it as a compliment. Wouldn't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know how I'd take it," he mutters, then suddenly adds, "Wouldn't it make you, I dunno, self-conscious, hearing something like that? Wouldn't it make you fall out of character?"<br/>
<br/>
You shrug. "I don't know. No one's ever told me I'm really good at playing Braydon Delp." Which is truthful enough from Braydon's point of view. You smile crookedly "You're doing really good at playing Darrell Parsons right now, whoever you are."<br/>
<br/>
He reddens. "I'm really Darrell."<br/>
<br/>
"Either way, you're doing a great job." You lift your eyebrows. "You have a compliment for me now?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck off."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But you do feel a little self-conscious during fourth period, when you see "Will Prescott" again at a distance. You catch him staring at you. You return the stare. He cocks a querying eyebrow at you. You mirror it back at him. He gets a worried look on his face. You put a worried look on yours. He shakes his head and turns away.<br/>
<br/>
Lunch is uneventful, though you spend it in a fretful state as you anticipate the coming of sixth period. You are sorely tempted to skip Latin, as that is where Tanner will look for you. But you decide to stick it out. Tanner is going to want a pound of Braydon Delp's flesh, and it seems better to get it over with than to slide along under the continuing horror of anticipation.<br/>
<br/>
So you're not sure whether to feel relief or even greater dread when the hallway outside Mr. Leavey's classroom is bully-free.<br/>
<br/>
And then you're not sure whether to feel terror or relief when six strong hands grip you by the arms and belt and hustle you quickly forward, past his classroom and toward the doors leading outside. The voices are rude and harsh. "It's like a fuckin' magic carpet." "Watch out he doesn't turn you into a toad." "It's witches, not little bitches like him that do it." "Like he's your bitch, you fag." "I'll make you <i>my</i> bitch, cocksucker."<br/>
<br/>
So it goes, all the way as you pass between C wing and the Agricultural Annex and back behind the portables. They carry you around the abandoned units to a corner where you can't be seen from the school, and throw you hard onto the ground. Someone sits on your back as someone else pulls off your shoes, socks, jeans, and underwear. Then they get off you. Raucous laughter as you lay there. "So you just gonna lay there, you little pansy?" A hard hand grabs you by the arm; you try to resist, but you're flipped over. Hoots, whistles and jeers go up from half a dozen throats as your pecker flops around.<br/>
<br/>
It's the gang you expected: Tanner Evans, Joe Thomason, Joshua Call, Jamie Rennerhoff, Nicholas Horner, and Jeff Spencer. You feel some slight relief that Gary Chen and David Kirkham aren't here. These guys are just dumb and cruel; those two fuckers are <i>vicious</i>. You just smile tightly and avoid their eyes as they holler and laugh at you, until Call -- a bruiser with meaty arms and grimy hands -- grabs you by the hair and forces your head back. "You think you're like a little witch or something, don't you? That's what they say about you. I mean, fucking look at you." He hocks up a loogie and spits in your face.<br/>
<br/>
"Harry Potter!" Rennerhoff laughs in a whinnying giggle.<br/>
<br/>
"I ain't touchin' your wand," Call continues.<br/>
<br/>
"It's called a staff," Horner shouts. "Wizard's staff."<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck do <i>you</i> know?" Call sneers over his shoulder. "Anyway, that ain't a staff down there." He nudges you in the side of the hip with the toe of his work boot. "But if you can turn it into a staff, I'll make Horner suck it off. Here." He drops a magazine in you chest. It's an old ragged copy of <i>Hustler.</i> <i>Lovely.</i><br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
An hour of hell follows as they force you to page through the magazine, jeering that you can't get it up. Call finally snatches the rag from you and says you can go. But they've tossed your pants and underwear atop one of the portables, and with your butt hanging out you are forced to climb atop it to catcalls and whistles before you can finish dressing. Then they follow you back inside, mocking you all the way.<br/>
<br/>
Did you pay your debt? You're not sure, and when the final bell rings, you haven't decided whether to pull Braydon aside and switch back. Because Gillian had suggested getting together after school.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112221112122
author_id: seuzz
title: Collecting on a Credit
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You decide to leave it up to Braydon, in a way. As eighth period ends, you remain in your desk as the rest of the class files out. Your alter ego is across the hall in Mr. Cash's Astronomy class; if he wants to switch back, let him come find you. He can start by looking in here.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn't. After five minutes of playing with Braydon's phone, you have felt no tap at the shoulder, and no text message has come from him. You go to Braydon's locker.<br/>
<br/>
A hand on your back causes you to almost jump inside it while changing out books. "I'm sorry," Gillian says. "Did I scare you?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, your hand's cold." You look down at her briefly, then double-take back to her face. It's so cute, and has so much concern writ on it. You want to take her head in your hands and nuzzle her long and slowly and wetly.<br/>
<br/>
"Are you okay?" she asks, and puts her arm around your waist. "You need to hang out?"<br/>
<br/>
You put your arm around her, and draw her close. It feels very natural. "I'd like to. Are you okay with that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I said I would." She raises her hand to the side of your face, then hesitates. She lays it on the back of your head and pulls you close. "Who are you?" she whispers. "Really."<br/>
<br/>
"Will," you sigh.<br/>
<br/>
You feel a tremble run through her. "I'm going to make you take it off and show me."<br/>
<br/>
"Why? Don't you trust me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Let's go someplace. Koffee Kauldron. A back booth. You can show me, and we can talk." She pulls away, but you can sense the reluctance in her, and after you close your locker, she lets you hold her close as you walk out to the student lot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The Koffee Kauldron is a New Age-themed coffee shop a couple of blocks from the Keyserling College, and four o'clock is the time of day when it thins out between the afternoon post-classes rush and the evening entertainment hours. But though you have your choice of seats, you and Gillian slide into a booth in a far corner with your backs to the rest of the establishment. She makes you sit by the wall, and she pins you in close. You put your arms around each other, and you softly snuffle in the dusty perfume of her hair and skin and the leather of her vest. She lets you stroke her brunette bob and its little "flips" at the end while she strokes your cheek. "Was it horrible?" she asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Was what horrible?" you ask, though you can guess what she's referring to.<br/>
<br/>
"What those guys did to you." Pain shows in her eyes. "I saw them grab you from the classroom. Tanner and Joe Thomason and Josh Call. I wanted to run out and kick their asses." Tears form in her eyes. "I should have."<br/>
<br/>
"It was kind of rough," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't see any bruises. No blood."<br/>
<br/>
"They didn't do that."<br/>
<br/>
"What did they do?"<br/>
<br/>
You want to look away, but you don't want to stop staring at her. You compromise by closing your eyes and putting your face close to hers. "I don't want to talk about it." <br/>
<br/>
"You have to, Will."<br/>
<br/>
"Why?"<br/>
<br/>
She doesn't immediately answer. "Because you're paying a price for what you did for me, and I have to know what you paid."<br/>
<br/>
"You're going to hate it."<br/>
<br/>
"Not as much as you did."<br/>
<br/>
"No, you're just going to make me relive it." You pull away from her, and open your eyes to stare at the table while you describe the attack. How they pulled everything off you but your shirt, and how they mocked your cock -- you don't emphasize that it was actually Braydon's cock they were mocking -- then tried taunting you into jacking off to a <i>Hustler,</i> which of course you couldn't do, and all the rest. She says "Oh my God" over and over again in a little voice. When you finish with a weak shrug, she buries her face in your shoulder and snuffles and sniffles into it. "I'm so sorry," she says.<br/>
<br/>
"I volunteered, right?" you say. "After punching Tanner yesterday."<br/>
<br/>
"I feel so sick," she murmurs. "Can you -- " She raises her face, and shows you streaming eyes. "Can you make it go away by taking the mask off?"<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. "I don't know."<br/>
<br/>
"Let me help you." Then like a mother cradling the head of her child, she lays both her hands across your face and brow. Her lips work. You feel a tearing at the front of your skull, and the world collapses into a singularity.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You wake with your head on the table and something gnawing and nibbling at the crook of your neck. It tickles, and you pull back.<br/>
<br/>
Gillian raises her head and crinkles her nose merrily at you. "Welcome back."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, what are you -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Trying to wake you up. I want you -- " She pinches you, and you jump " -- to pay attention to me."<br/>
<br/>
"Like how?"<br/>
<br/>
"Like usual, you goofwad." She snuggles up closer. "Like my hubby does."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Hubby. Braydon.</i> You blink in confusion. <i>That's me. Gillian and I -- </i> You shake your head violently, because you've still got Braydon Delp inside your skull, telling you exactly what he wants to do with Gillian, and warning you to keep your hands off her because <i>you</i> are not her "hubby."<br/>
<br/>
<i>Wait, why do you have Braydon inside your skull? Didn't Gillian take the mask off you?</i> "The hell is going on?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just relax," Gillian says, and hugs you closer. "Don't worry. Do what comes naturally."<br/>
<br/>
But you shrink back, even though that's practically impossible given that you're wedged against the wall. You stammer. "I thought -- What if someone catches us, Gillian?"<br/>
<br/>
"So what if they catch us? There's nothing funny about me -- " She kisses your shoulder " -- and my hubby -- " She kisses your chest " -- making out."<br/>
<br/>
You run a hand through your hair. It feels both very weird and very natural. You pull your hand down and study the fingers. The nails are slightly sharpened, and dark hairs stand out below the knuckles. <i>Just like Braydon's fingers.</i> "I thought you took the mask off me."<br/>
<br/>
"I did, long enough to make sure it's really you." She presses her face into your chest. "Then I put it back on." She looks up with an impish smile. "So no one would wonder when I did this." She pinches the inside of your thigh, and you jump.<br/>
<br/>
"Gillian, you know it's me, Will!"<br/>
<br/>
"Mm-hmm."<br/>
<br/>
"Why are you -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Don't you want me to?"<br/>
<br/>
<i>God, there is no possibly good answer to that.</i> "Uh, do <i>you</i> want to?"<br/>
<br/>
"I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't. Come on, Will. We don't have a lot of time." She twists around to put her mouth at your throat, covering your Adam's apple.<br/>
<br/>
You put your arms around her, and stiffen all over, especially down there. <i>Freaky Goth chick, why can't she make up her mind?</i> She struggles half-way into your lap. "I know it's you, Will, but be Braydon with me. I've missed doing this with him so much. And <i>you're</i> the Braydon who punched that asshole Tanner through the floor, and you're the Braydon who -- " A shudder runs through her. "You're the Braydon who paid a price for me."<br/>
<br/>
"But what will Braydon think of this?"<br/>
<br/>
"He won't know. Besides, I'm getting together with him tonight, and I'm going to make him not care. You -- " she says, and punctuates the words that follow with wet kisses to the side of your head "-- are going to have so. Many. Great. Memories. After tonight. From what we do in this booth. And from what I'm going to do. To Will. Prescott. Tonight."<br/>
<br/>
You feel like a million bottle rockets just went off inside you.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Without remorse or guilt you spend the next twenty minutes doing unto Gillian Kiefer what Braydon Delp enjoys doing unto her: kissing and pinching and nibbling lustily at each her. You're in a public coffee shop, so you can't get under each other clothes, but you lay your heads on the table and stroke and pet each other while gazing dreamily into each other's eyes.<br/>
<br/>
Then it gets interrupted. Christian drops into the booth opposite. "They make motels for this kind of thing," he says acidly.<br/>
<br/>
Anger flares. "If you don't want to watch, you don't have to sit down. There's lots of fucking room -- "<br/>
<br/>
"That's what I'm talking about. Rooms for fucking."<br/>
<br/>
Gillian speaks. "Sweetmeats, I forgot to tell you that Christian called you on your cell while you were in the bathroom."<br/>
<br/>
"When was I in the -- ?" you start to ask, but Gillian kicks you under the table. "Oh, right."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah," says Christian. "I guess she didn't tell you I was coming, and she sure as hell didn't tell me that <i>you</i> were. Coming all over her, I mean."<br/>
<br/>
Gillian sticks her tongue out at him. "I'm gonna get me a refill," she says, and rises.<br/>
<br/>
Christian watches her go, then leans across the table with a meaningfully raised eyebrow. "If you wanna stay and snog," he says, "that's your business. But we also got business out in the wilderness, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" It takes you a moment to realize he's talking about the latest spell: a pile of dirt that's burning in a corner of Suffolk Wilderness.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah. That's where I was calling from. I'm on my way back to my place to pick up the <i>Libra.</i> That fire is out and it's not relighting."<br/>
<br/>
He raises his eyebrow another quarter inch, and fixes you with a piercing stare.<br/>
<br/>
This is Braydon's business, not yours. But given the display he interrupted, Christian is certain that you're Braydon Delp.</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122211121221
author_id: seuzz
title: The Thing in the Tent
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Gillian returns to the booth before you can answer, and she picks up your hand and sucks on your right index finger -- the one sporting the "ring of power" that Braydon made. Her eyes pop. "Wow," she says. "I don't want to waste that kind of action up here when I can have it down -- " She drags your hand under the table and puts it to her crotch.<br/>
<br/>
And that's what decides you. You can't confess your identity to Christian without compromising Gillian, because out of loyalty to Braydon he will tell his friend what you and Gillian were getting up to in this booth.<br/>
<br/>
But it kills your mood with Gillian. "Hey," you tell her, "Christian popped by because he needs my help."<br/>
<br/>
"Bullshit," she says. "You're not running a campaign today."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not a campaign. It's business with that book. The latest experiment."<br/>
<br/>
She frowns. "But that's -- "<br/>
<br/>
Then she catches herself, and stares intently at you. You stare back, trying to communicate telepathically with her.<br/>
<br/>
Her eyes narrow, and she looks over at Christian with a small smile. "You really need my hubby for this, don't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't <i>need</i> him," Christian says. "I just figured he'd be -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I know what you figured," she says. She takes your face between her hands and stares at you. "You can take him with you. I don't mind. He really is incredibly sweet." She kisses you, and you kiss her deeply back.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to be sarcastic, Gillian," Christian mumbles as you're kissing.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not being sarcastic," she says brightly after releasing you. "Actually, he's doing me a big favor. But you wouldn't understand." She gives you another bite. "So you better take him away before I eat him all up for being so sweet." She clambers out of the booth and blows you a wet kiss before leaving.<br/>
<br/>
You are too weak to move, and sag in the corner. Christian looks at you over the top of his glasses and from under his arched brows. "Maybe I should start wearing mascara," he says. "Or personal jewelry." You're too feeble to resist as he picks up your right hand and studies the ring you're wearing. "Is it the ring? It's not that your finger tastes like chocolate, is it?" He pulls it to his open mouth, but you jerk it away at the last moment.<br/>
<br/>
"Go hang with Charles if you're into that kind of action," you say. "So the fire went out?"<br/>
<br/>
"I never had a fire, with Charles or anyone -- Oh! You mean the thing out in the wilderness. Yeah, you should come take a look. I think you'll be interested. I know I am."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It takes almost an hour to get out there, for Christian has to stop at his house before meeting you at the entrance to Suffolk Wilderness Park; and then it takes another thirty minutes to hike in to where he and the others had set it up.<br/>
<br/>
It was a fraught experiment, Braydon's memories tell you. He and Christian and the others had to buy a bunch of volatile chemicals and mix them with hundreds of pounds of dirt taken from a cemetery; then the spell called for the mess to be set on fire. There was a lot of argument about whether to even hazard the test, and where to try it, for no one wanted to set off a blaze on their own property. Finally, they backpacked the dirt and all the rest a bit at a time deep into the wilderness, set it on a fire-proof tarp in the biggest clearing they could find, and lit it.<br/>
<br/>
It turned out they needn't have worried about the fire. Though it blazed briefly in a purple bloom, the resulting fire gave off no heat whatsoever. They erected a tent over it to hide the glow, and left it to burn, returning every couple of days to relight it when it went out. Only when it failed to relight would it be finished.<br/>
<br/>
Whatever "it" was. And now "it" is ready.<br/>
<br/>
Christian opens the tent flap and lets you go in first. Though the tent is opaque, enough light comes through the fabric that you can make out the figure on the ground.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Figure?</i><br/>
<br/>
That's what it looks like, and your brow furrows as you study it. It's about six feet long and two feet wide, giving it semi-human dimensions. A fissure up the middle has split the bottom half into two smaller cylinders like legs, and two other fissures higher up on either side have the crude appearance of arms. A lump at the top completes the illusion of a crude, stone humanoid. You kneel beside it and press a finger to it. It yields but only a little, and a thin dusting of powder sticks to your fingertip. "What's the book say to do now?" you ask Christian.<br/>
<br/>
He kneels beside you and opens the <i>Libra Personae</i> -- that's the name that he and Braydon deciphered on the title page. "We have to polish it," he says.<br/>
<br/>
"Not like the fucking masks!" you exclaim. That's another bad memory Braydon carries with him: the week-long effort it took to polish an ash-colored mask until it was a brilliant, burning blue in color. Then they figured out that a car buffer would work just as well. But even a car buffer would be a pain to operate on this thing. There's no backpacking this hunk of rock out in stages: your whole company would have to carry it out on their shoulders and back to town to someplace that has a power outlet.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't think so," says Christian. "The way I translate it, it's only until we get the dust off."<br/>
<br/>
"What do we use to dust it with," you start to ask, then stop as Christian strips off his t-shirt and starts rubbing at the thing. You roll your eyes, and follow his example.<br/>
<br/>
The hardest part comes when you have to roll it over to polish the underside, but it only takes about five minutes to get the thing smooth and glossy. "Now I guess we find out if it's done," says Christian. He lays the <i>Libra</i> -- open to the spell that was used to create this thing -- across its chest.<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure, but you think you hear a faint snap, as though someone has in the distance stepped on a dry twig. You and Christian stare at each other, holding your breaths, as he licks a fingertip and puts it to the corner of the book.<br/>
<br/>
That was another thing he and his friends had learned -- something you had almost figured out. In order to turn the pages in the book, you have to complete a spell. And in order to demonstrate that you've completed the spell, you have to touch the spell to the completed object.<br/>
<br/>
The next page flips easily over. You feel the gleam in your eye, and see the gleam in Christian's, as you huddle over the book.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey guys -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus!" "God <i>damn</i> it!" You and Christian almost shred the tent as you explode to your feet at the sound of the intruding voice. <br/>
<br/>
It's Hugh Flake, and he grins at your discomfiture. "Did I catch you guys making out? Tch, if I told Gillian what you were getting up to -- "<br/>
<br/>
You grab him by a hunk of his curly brown hair and haul him, gasping, inside the tent. "If you want a good fucking, Hugh, we got a fresh made dildo here that's almost big enough to fit up your asshole."<br/>
<br/>
Hugh whistles. "So this is what it made. What is it?"<br/>
<br/>
"That's what we're trying to figure out, dipshit," says Christian. "Go back out and keep watch."<br/>
<br/>
"Sure. But if you want to move it to the new place -- that school basement, I mean -- Howie and them sent me over to tell you they've got the locks and just need to get the stuff out of your house. Masks and clothes, you know."<br/>
<br/>
"Why didn't they text me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Uh, I said I would, but then I wanted to see how this thing was coming along."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, it's done. So wait outside."<br/>
<br/>
"Why do I have to -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because you're sucking up all the oxygen. Three in a tent's bad luck, unless two of them are girls, and then it's a menage. Get out."<br/>
<br/>
Hugh grumbles but leaves. You and Christian study the reverse of the page that turned, which will contain a description of what you've made and what it's used for. You use your gradually accumulating knowledge of Latin along with a web-based translator to slowly figure it out.<br/>
<br/>
"It's a golem," you eventually exclaim with a snap of your fingers. "Like a robot made out of rock. It's a servant, a slave -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Of the magician." Christian points to a cluster of words. "We all pitched in to make it, so does it obey all of us? And what happens if we fight?"<br/>
<br/>
You puzzle over the translation some more, then turn back to frown over the ingredients. "No, it's the hair," you say, pointing to a line. "That's why it wanted your hair. Damn it, I knew we should have used mine."<br/>
<br/>
"Ha, but we used mine, so it's <i>my</i> slave! Mine!" Christian says fiercely. "But I'll let you guys borrow it." He flips the page again and reads through the translation slowly, working with you to remember it. "So we put a mask on it. And it'll make a slave. For me." He looks at you. "Think it'll turn into the person who's in the mask?"<br/>
<br/>
"Let's put a mask on it and find out."<br/>
<br/>
"I need to pick up masks anyway to move to the new headquarters," he mutters thoughtfully. "Hey!" He pounds the tent flap, and Hugh puts his head in. "You and Braydon start breaking this shit down. I'll be back in, like, an hour."<br/>
<br/>
"Where are you going?" Hugh shouts, but Christian is already sprinting away. Hugh turns to you.<br/>
<br/>
You just shrug. "I guess we start breaking this stuff down," you say.</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111222111212211
author_id: seuzz
title: The Two Christians
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>It doesn't take you long to get it all up and apart: just a matter of pulling the struts out of the fabric and rolling everything up. Hugh asks you about the thing you're uncovering. "I heard you guys say it's a golem. What's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"The <i>Libra</i> doesn't call it a 'golem'," you reply. "That's just an analogy. A golem is a thing in Jewish legend, a big statue made out of clay that a rabbi made. I think it was a rabbi. Anyway, he used magic to make this big clay statue, and it did jobs and protected people. Like a robot."<br/>
<br/>
"Did it look like a person? Did it look like that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know what it looked like, but I don't think it looked like a person." You crane your head to examine the "golem" that Christian and his friends made. This one looks like a crude, unfinished statue. "We think that if you put a mask on it, it'll come to life, act like a servant. It'll obey Christian."<br/>
<br/>
"Why's that?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because he's the one that made it." You feel Braydon's disgust and disappointment.<br/>
<br/>
Hugh frowns heavily. Thinking is sometimes hard for him, and it makes him look even more like an overgrown and slightly slow-witted hobbit. "So what does the mask have to do with anything?"<br/>
<br/>
"It brings it to life. It turns the golem into a copy of that person."<br/>
<br/>
"And then it has to obey Christian?"<br/>
<br/>
"I guess."<br/>
<br/>
"So what happens to the guy whose mask it is?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know! What are you worried about happening?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know either. That's why I'm asking."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I assume nothing happens. I assume there'd just be two of that person running around, same as when we go larping as other people. There'd be the person, and then there'd be the golem-copy of him. Like, we put your mask on it, and there'd be you, and there'd be a golem copy of you. Come on, let's go put this stuff in my car."<br/>
<br/>
"But why would we want to have another version of me around?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know, Hugh. At the moment I don't know why we want to have <i>one</i> of you around."<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to be an asshole."<br/>
<br/>
"I'm just giving you shit. Look, how about this, if we had an extra one of you around, we could make him do our homework or something while we hung out doing a campaign. Wouldn't you like that, having a guy you could order around to do the shit stuff you don't want to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want anyone ordering me around," Hugh says, "even if it's just a golem thing that looks like me."<br/>
<br/>
"Whatever. So we put <i>my</i> mask on it, make it a -- Make it a Braydonbot instead of a Hughbot. I'd like that better anyway. Then it could do <i>my</i> homework and I could send it to school while I hung out -- "<br/>
<br/>
You don't finish that sentence, because it's surprised you. It seems to have surprised Hugh too, for after giving you a sharp look, he pauses briefly in mid-stride before continuing silently alongside you.<br/>
<br/>
Both of you, clearly, are struck by the idea of sending an obedient duplicate out to do the chores and schoolwork that you'd rather avoid yourself. You sit silently in your cars, absorbed in your own worlds while occasionally reading and sending text messages that have nothing to do with what's foremost in your minds.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
The sun is still above the horizon -- though not very far above it -- when Christian gets back. "Sorry to take so long," he says. "I swung by that old school to get a key to the outer door from Howie." He also brandishes a bulging plastic grocery bag. "I figured we'd use my mask on it. Less dangerous that way." He sounds nervous.<br/>
<br/>
"Good call," you reply. "If he gets rambunctious and runs off, even Gillian could take him down by herself." Christian flips you off.<br/>
<br/>
The sunlight is cut off by the trees by the time you make it back to the golem, and the clearing is already deep in gloom. Christian unpacks a t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, and a mask. He holds the latter a long time in his lap. "Where should I try putting it?"<br/>
<br/>
"Try the head," says Hugh.<br/>
<br/>
"Be more fun if you put it on the crotch," you say. "Just do it, man, it's getting dark."<br/>
<br/>
Christian draws a deep breath and lays the mask on the "head" of the thing.<br/>
<br/>
It's like watching a stone drop quietly into a pond. The form of the golem seems to briefly ripple -- once, maybe -- as the mask vanishes. Then another Christian Knouse appears there: a skinny blonde kid with a huge mole on his right cheek. There's no fuss about it slowly waking up, either. The eyes instantly blink open, then tighten into a squint as he stares up at Christian. Naked Christian sits up on his elbows, peering at his original.<br/>
<br/>
Then his eyes spring open. "Ho. Lee. <i>Fuck!</i>" he shouts, and scrambles backward.<br/>
<br/>
"Hey, grab him!" Christian yells.<br/>
<br/>
"You grab him, it's <i>you,</i> you know!" you yell back.<br/>
<br/>
"That'd be too weird!" Christian feints a weak clutch at his duplicate's skinny ankle, but the other twists frantically away. You and Hugh jump for the naked classmate, and tackle him just as he's getting onto all fours.<br/>
<br/>
"Get off me!" fake-Christian shouts. "Guys, it's me! Let me go, that other guy over there isn't me!"<br/>
<br/>
You and Hugh and Christian exchange saucer-eyed glances. "No fucking way!" Christian yells. "He thinks he's me?"<br/>
<br/>
"Of course he thinks he's you!" You grapple with the naked guy, getting him in a chokehold as Hugh wraps his arms around two flailing legs. "He's got your brain, your memories, your personality -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Your stinky feet," says Hugh.<br/>
<br/>
"Your tiny cock," you add.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh shut up!" Christian drops next to his double and grabs him by the face. "Listen to me!" he shouts at it. "You're not me! I mean, you are, but you're not."<br/>
<br/>
Fake-Christian howls. "Make him stop! He's melting my brain!"<br/>
<br/>
"Calm! The fuck! Down!" Christian shouts, and his double instantly goes limp. "Yeah, you're Christian Knouse," he stammers. "But you're, um, you're only <i>a</i> Christian Knouse, okay? You're only one of them, and you're not the real one. Do you understand?"<br/>
<br/>
"No!"<br/>
<br/>
"Christ, how do I explain this when I barely understand it myself?"<br/>
<br/>
"Take the mask off of him for a start," you say. "That'll fix part of the problem we've got here. Then put it on, recharge the memories. Maybe if he remembers what we were talking about earlier he'll understand better. Or at least he'll understand as good as you do now."<br/>
<br/>
"What if he doesn't? What if he just -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, just do it, Christian!" Hugh hollers.<br/>
<br/>
So Christian grabs his double by the face and yanks.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"I feel like I'm on the Bataan Death March," says Christian.<br/>
<br/>
"You have no idea what the Bataan Death March felt like," says Christian.<br/>
<br/>
"Neither do you," says Christian. "So who are you to say it didn't feel like this?"<br/>
<br/>
"I didn't say it didn't feel like this," says Christian. "I said you have no idea what it feels like."<br/>
<br/>
"I think this is what the Bataan Death March would have felt like," you shout, "if the marchers had been a bunch of whiney idiots. Would you tell him to be quiet," you ask the Christian who pointed out that the other Christian has no idea what the Bataan Death March would have felt like."<br/>
<br/>
He obliges, sort of: "Would you be quiet?"<br/>
<br/>
"Is that a question or are you telling me to -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
"Shut up until we get to the car."<br/>
<br/>
"And after," Hugh adds in a mutter.<br/>
<br/>
The four of you -- you, Hugh, Christian, and Christian -- are marching through the darkening forest. You're in the lead, Hugh is taking up the rear, and the two Christians are in the middle. The real one is walking sort of beside the fake. Your idea "worked" in the sense that the fake Christian now understands that he is definitely a fake. It didn't work, in the sense that the fake Christian seems only sullenly reconciled to the idea of being a fake. But you also found that he will obey the real Christian's orders, though sometimes he seems to take them with a bloody-minded literalness that is even more troublesome than when he was resisting you. But the goal at the moment is only to transport him to the old elementary school, where you will remove the mask from the underlying golem and store it away until there can be a conference to decide what to do with it.<br/>
<br/>
The trip is uneventful, at least for you, since you take your own car back and leave the two Christians to fight it out in "their" car. When you get to the school Christian tells you that Hugh texted to say he was peeling off so he could get home in time for dinner. After that it's easy, for Christian just orders the golem down into the basement and onto a table, and removes the mask. "That shouldn't have been so stressful," he observes.<br/>
<br/>
"Did you look at the next spell?" you ask him.<br/>
<br/>
"Haven't had time."<br/>
<br/>
You click on a flashlight. "Let's take a look at it, if you've got a minute. We can check to see if we've got the supplies already."<br/>
<br/>
Christian shrugs and fetches the book from his car. In the spooky dark of the basement, you read and translate it with your cell phones.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't take long for Christian to slam the book closed. "Okay, we're not doing that one. We are not sacrificing a human being."<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe we could substitute a goat."<br/>
<br/>
"You read it too, Braydon. It wants a person." He looks around. "And I want out of here."<br/>
<br/>
You follow him slowly out, and linger after he's driven off. Your house is nearby. It's been a busy day, and maybe you should debrief the real Braydon.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112221112122111
author_id: seuzz
title: In Which You Become Jealous of Yourself
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You sit in the car for ten minutes or so, thinking things through. You're not used to having a complicated life. But for the past few days you've had two semi-complicated lives, so it's a new experience for you.<br/>
<br/>
The new spell worries you. It worries you for the same reason it worries Christian: it calls for a body, and though using a dead body would be bad enough, by the way it's written it sounds like it's calling for a living, human body. It's also asking that the body be soaked in chemicals and set on fire, the way the previous spell called for that kind of thing.<br/>
<br/>
Christian says he's not going to do that, and even Braydon -- who has killed a few animals in his time while experimenting with black magic -- wouldn't like to do that. You also are inclined to go along with Christian.<br/>
<br/>
So the easiest thing to do is to keep your mouth shut and not tell Braydon about the new spell. But what happens if Christian starts talking about it with him after you and Braydon switch back? Then it will come out that you were pretending to be Braydon today; and Braydon might think you were holding back some pretty important information about that new spell, and about the golem.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh, hell,</i> you decide after a bit. Braydon's going to go along with Christian anyway. It won't make any difference whether he knows about the new spell or not since he's not going to try to use it.<br/>
<br/>
Is he?<br/>
<br/>
You try not to think about the bird he sacrificed to empower the ring you've got on your right index finger.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your dad's expression -- which rarely looks pleased -- visibly darkens as he stares at the kid standing on his doorstep. "Is Will around? I'm a classmate," you say, and try not to shit yourself. You half expect your dad to grab you by the shoulder and demand to know why you've disguised yourself with a magical mask.<br/>
<br/>
"He's studying at the library."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." You cover your embarrassment by pulling out and studying your iPhone. "I thought we were supposed to meet here to study."<br/>
<br/>
"He left more than an hour ago."<br/>
<br/>
Sweat breaks out all over your body under the heat of his glare. "Oh-kay. I guess I must've missed the change in plans."<br/>
<br/>
"I guess you must've."<br/>
<br/>
"Did he go to the city library?"<br/>
<br/>
"Didn't he tell you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Well, I messed up on everything else. I guess I'll look for him there."<br/>
<br/>
"It's a free country." Your dad glowers at you, and you trip as you take a step back. He rolls his eyes and shuts the door.<br/>
<br/>
You're halfway to the municipal library before you start to wonder if your dad was angry at seeing a guy like Braydon Delp show up on his doorstep, or if he was pissed at the Will Prescott who's been living with him for the last few days.<br/>
<br/>
You make a transit of the library twice, checking out all the corners, before it hits you that "studying at the library" was probably just Braydon's excuse to get out of the house to see Gillian. With a groan you fall into one of the reading chairs and take out the iPhone to text your old number. No answer comes, so you text again. And again.<br/>
<br/>
Only after five rapid texts do you get a reply: <i>wtf? busy</i>.<br/>
<br/>
"Gyah!" you mutter, and much more loudly than you'd intended, for an old lady a few chairs over raises her head to give you a dirty look. You text back: <i>call me asap.</i><br/>
<br/>
The callback comes ten minutes later, when you've moved to a patio area outside the library and are sitting in the dark, jogging your leg nervously. "You know, I was putting some pretty sweet memories into this mask of yours," Will Prescott says in a whine that sets your teeth on edge. "So, tell me how much more important this is."<br/>
<br/>
"I just want to talk to you before you see Christian and them next."<br/>
<br/>
"Like, when's that going to be?"<br/>
<br/>
"You tell me. Did Gillian tell you what happened to me today?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and I don't want any part in it. You think they're done with you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck if I know. But I want to talk to you about the <i>Libra.</i> The thing up in the wilderness finished cooking, and we're on to the next spell."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah?" <br/>
<br/>
Now he sounds interested, and spitefully you decide to hold back on him. "Yeah, but go back to putting those sweet memories in my mask. I'll catch up to you later."<br/>
<br/>
"Hey wait, what's -- ?"<br/>
<br/>
But you've hung up on him, and with grim amusement imagine the consternation you must have caused him.<br/>
<br/>
He calls you back a little after midnight, though, after everyone has gone to bed, and you tell him about the afternoon's events in the wilderness. He plays his reaction close to the chest, and only thanks you for the update.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Gillian's in a subdued mood the next morning when you meet her in the student parking lot. She lets you kiss her on the cheek, and she holds your hand on your way into the school, but she's a little distant and undemonstrative. "When are you going to let me start picking you up for school again," you ask her.<br/>
<br/>
"When things are back to normal. You guys are doing a game session after school, right?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think that's the plan. Why?"<br/>
<br/>
"Go to it. I'll hang out with someone else."<br/>
<br/>
You don't have to ask who that "someone else" will be, and jealousy twinges hard in you. Then you see a silver lining: Maybe the longer she hangs out with a fake Will Prescott, the more impressed she'll be with the real one when he returns.<br/>
<br/>
The rest of the walk passes in silence, for you can't think of anything to say that wouldn't be awkward: <i>Did you have fun last night?</i> or <i>When are we getting together again?</i> or <i>Can you skip fifth and have lunch with me?</i> That doesn't leave a lot to talk about, and as you open the library door for her, you ruefully reflect that yesterday's make-out session at the Koffee Kauldron seems very long ago<br/>
<br/>
That last question, about lunch, would be one of Braydon's usual questions -- most days he asks Gillian that, and most days she dimples while telling him she can't. Today it gets a little more salience, though, during second period. It's not long after you've joined Charles Hartlein and the others in the theater that he looks up from his cell phone with a laugh. "Oh my God, did I tell you guys that Gillian Kiefer's getting into a new bunch of weirdos?" he says without looking at you.<br/>
<br/>
"Like who?" asks Andrew Harding. He glances at you and you alone, for Darrell -- who would normally be sitting with the group -- actually has studying to do and is in the library.<br/>
<br/>
"Like Carson Ioeger and James Lamont," Charles says with a snigger. "Last couple of days I've seen her sitting with them at lunch."<br/>
<br/>
"They're not weird," Lee Reynolds protests.<br/>
<br/>
Charles rolls his eyes. "Do you ever see them at parties? Do you ever see them at clubs?"<br/>
<br/>
"No, so what's that got to do with them being weird?"<br/>
<br/>
"You don't think it's weird they don't go to clubs and parties?" Charles sniffs, and moves his chair a few inches away from Lee. "I didn't know that about you." Lee's mouth tightens into a straight line.<br/>
<br/>
"So what's the big deal about Gillian hanging out with them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Just evidence I was always right about her," Charles says smugly. "She's coming out of that phase." He says "that phase" as though "that phase" is the ickiest thing he could imagine. "Finally. Yesterday it was guys who sacrifice goats in the woods. Today it's guys who write code and argue over <i>Avengers</i> movies. Tomorrow it'll be frat guys who can give her babies." He sniffs again. "She's <i>obviously</i> been covering up for something. Like the fact that she's actually really boring."<br/>
<br/>
You feel yourself getting very hot and very red over this. Andrew and Lee shoot nervous glances in your direction. But Charles, who has been ostentatiously not looking at you all this time, returns to his cell phone with nasty little smile playing on his lips. After a minute of burning humiliation, you jump to your feet and stalk out the door.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You distract yourself from Hartlein's assholery by concentrating on the implications of what he's said: Gillian has been skipping her fifth period class. Fifth period is Braydon's lunch period, but instead of hanging out with you, she's been hanging out with Carson Ioeger and James Lamont and their friends. And why hang out with them? Because sometimes Will Prescott hangs out with them at lunchtime.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It's perfect,</i> you reflect as you try to fight down both your jealousy and the jealousy boiling out of Braydon's mask. <i>She gets to have lunch with her "hubby" while disguising that fact in the company of a large group.</i><br/>
<br/>
You don't say anything about it to Gillian third period; and since she seems distracted too, almost nothing gets passed between you. She gives you a queer look when the bell rings, and you start to leave without touching or kissing her. So, impulsively, you blurt out, "Have lunch with me this afternoon?"<br/>
<br/>
"Can't. Have a date with someone else," she says in a teasing tone, then practically runs out the door. Seething, you push your way to English class.<br/>
<br/>
Caleb is in there, but as the clock ticks down to the bell ringing, Will Prescott remains absent. <i>So it's a two-period lunch date.</i><br/>
<br/>
You try telling yourself that she's only putting more "good memories" in your mask. But you don't want "memories." You want the real thing.<br/>
<br/>
And for three days now you've been roleplaying as Braydon Delp. Maybe you should go find him, tell him it's time to end the campaign.<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122211121221111
author_id: seuzz
title: Someone Unexpectedly Evens the Score
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>The bell rings, but Ms. Gladstone's back is turned, so you're able to dive out the door without being stopped or spotted. You sprint quickly until you reach the central corridor of the school, where you are able to melt into the crush of students on their way to the cafeteria for fourth-period lunch.<br/>
<br/>
You spend five minutes or so making a circuit of the cafeteria, and then you go out front to scope out the quad. There's no sign of Braydon or Gillian. You make a circuit around the back of the school, past the athletic fields, in case they are huddling in a quiet corner. No one. You glance over at the portables, but even the central section, where the stoners sometimes hang out, is deserted. You think you hear voices coming from behind the portables, but after your experience yesterday you don't dare investigate.<br/>
<br/>
Your long circuit brings you back around to the library, which would be the last place you'd look to find Will Prescott and Gillian Kiefer making out, but you've exhausted the other options. It's crowded with students and you are about to give up when you recognize a bobbing brunette head: Gillian, sitting at a table with Fred Hildown and Danielle Davis. This is not Gillian's usual kind of crowd: Fred is a straight-A student who doubles as a track star, while Danielle is an African-American who plays in the school band. Well, maybe it's not so odd. They're both decent kids.<br/>
<br/>
Briefly, it returns to you: Charles's gibe about Gillian getting tired of "weirdos".<br/>
<br/>
You sneak up on her, and she looks up and does a double-take as you touch and rub her on the shoulders. "Hey, I thought you'd be eating with Christian and them," you tell her.<br/>
<br/>
"Wasn't hungry today," she says. "What's wrong, why are you skipping?" She doesn't flinch as you continue rubbing her shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
"I was looking for Will Prescott, and he wasn't in class today. Have you seen him?"<br/>
<br/>
Gillian's expression subtly tightens. Danielle just shakes her head.<br/>
<br/>
But Fred looks a little troubled. "You seen him around?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
He hesitates, and hunches a little under the three-way stare he gets from you and girls. "I saw him out close to the portables just before lunch," he says. "He was, uh, talking to Joe Thomason."<br/>
<br/>
Your sphincter wobbles. Thomason is one of Tanner Evans's cronies, and one of the assholes who took you out back yesterday. <i>What the fuck is Braydon doing with him?</i> "Like how were they talking?" you ask Fred.<br/>
<br/>
"It was Thomason. Like how do you think?"<br/>
<br/>
You were hoping that was all done with. Feeling sick, you stumble toward the door to the library.<br/>
<br/>
And Gillian leaps to the wrong conclusion. "I'm going with you," she says, following you.. It takes you a moment to realize she thinks you're running off to rescue her disguised hubby.<br/>
<br/>
"No, you shouldn't go," you tell her, stammering. "You don't want to mess with those guys."<br/>
<br/>
"You're not going by yourself," Gillian says. "Besides, I can scream, and that'll get 'em expelled."<br/>
<br/>
Your jaw drops. And it drops further when Danielle also stands up. "I'm going to. About freaking time someone did something about them."<br/>
<br/>
Fred blanches, but when Danielle shoots him a dirty look, he also gets up. "I guess I'll show you where they are," he says with a long, low sigh.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Your knees are wobbling as you exit near the music wing and head toward the portables. You don't know why you're even more scared now than you were yesterday. Maybe it's because now you know exactly what Thomason and his friends are capable of, whereas yesterday you only had an existential dread of it. Maybe it's because you're worried about Gillian and Danielle, and that you might have to try protecting them.<br/>
<br/>
Or maybe it's both. Yesterday you just had to endure the humiliation Thomason and the others put you through. Now, you'll have to do something about it. And if you fail in front of Gillian you will have two sorts of humiliation: the humiliation of failing to stop them, and the humiliation of failing in front of her and Danielle.<br/>
<br/>
No one says anything as you approach the U-shaped double line of portables, so you can hear the hoarse, chortling cursing from the far side very clearly.<br/>
<br/>
And when you turn the nearest corner you can see them clearly, too.<br/>
<br/>
Fortunately, it's a far smaller group than yesterday: only Thomason, Evans, Mendoza, and Rennerhoff today. They're standing in a loose circle, looking down and jeering at a fifth figure, huddling in their midst. His face is turned away, but you recognize the stiff blonde hair. <br/>
<br/>
You'd prefer to slow down -- hell, you'd love to run away -- but Gillian keeps your quartet marching double-time. "Hey!" she shouts when you're still twenty yards away. "Yeah, you fuckers! Over here!"<br/>
<br/>
The four "fuckers" turn, and break out in guffaws when they see you.<br/>
<br/>
"The fuck are you doing? Get the fuck back to class or I'll kick your asses!"<br/>
<br/>
Rennerhoff looses his whinnying laugh. "Would you? Please?" He bends over, thrusting his skinny butt at your company and patting it. "Right here?"<br/>
<br/>
And before you can stop her, Gillian takes a running leap at him, jumps, and plows into him with both feet. He flies head first into Evans, knocking him to the ground too.<br/>
<br/>
"Crazy cunt!" Mendoza shouts, and grabs at Gillian.<br/>
<br/>
Instinct takes over, and you nail him in the side of the head; he wobbles on his feet, then sits down heavily. Thomason leaps at you with a snarl, but Hildown charges in and bowls him to the side.<br/>
<br/>
But Rennerhoff and Evans are getting back up, and things would probably have gone very bad, but Danielle looses a loud scream that stops everyone. "You want me to do that again, get a dozen teachers out here, let 'em see what you were doing," she shouts, and points to Will. Only now to do you notice that -- as with you yesterday -- he's lost his pants. "Back away -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Get the fuck out of here!" Gillian yells.<br/>
<br/>
For a moment, no one moves. Then Mendoza takes a step back, and that sets off a minor stampeded. The four bullies disappear around the corner.<br/>
<br/>
Gillian hurries over to Prescott; you look around until you spot his jeans dangling from the roof of a portable, and with Hildown giving you a leg up you're able to pull them down. At least your double has his underwear still, but he avoids everyone's eye until he's got his pants back on. He mutters and doesn't give a straight reply when asked what happened.<br/>
<br/>
After they're satisfied that everything's okay, Danielle and Fred return to the school. You linger because you feel like you've got a stake in things, but your presence quickly proves awkward when neither of the other two start comforting each other. So you excuse yourself by saying you'll catch up to them later.<br/>
<br/>
As you turn, though, you can't help dropping one last remark. "It's good thing nothing really bad happened. No one came running after Danielle screamed."<br/>
<br/>
"Because no one gives a shit," Prescott snarls. "No one gives a fuck what happens back here."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You don't expect to see him or Gillian again that day, but just before last period you get a text from Christian saying that he wants to meet at the "new campaign spot." He sent it to everyone, because when you get to the old elementary school you find a small crowd waiting: Christian, Darrell, Howie, Hugh, Harrison. And Gillian and Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
Christian starts off by showing everyone the new "storage facility": a padlocked footlocker containing the masks, which is stored inside a padlocked desk, which is itself of course locked inside the padlocked basement. He gives footlocker keys to you and Hugh; keys to the desk to Howie, Harrison and Darrell; he and Prescott get keys to the outside door. "If you're going to get a mask for larping," he says, "you have to get two other guys to go with you." That has been standard procedure all along, so that's nothing new to the group.<br/>
<br/>
Then Christian shows off the golem, using masks of himself, Dane Matthias, and Erik Carstairs. It's clear that everyone else has heard about the golem and what it can do, so no one is bowled over, but there are still expressions of shock and even a little fear after Christian puts it through some paces and shows it will obey him no matter what he asks of it. "I'm willing to share this thing," he tells everyone, "but I only want to use with our own masks, not masks of other people. You only get to use it for twenty-four hours at a time."<br/>
<br/>
"Use it for what?" Harrison asks.<br/>
<br/>
"Like, sending it to school if you don't want to go," you reply, and catch Prescott's eye as you say it.<br/>
<br/>
"That's right," says Christian. "Or anything else where you don't want to be the one who shows up. But you're going to have to get my permission and bring me along when you set it up," he adds. "Because the golem will only obey me. So you'll have to tell me what you want it to do so I can give it the orders."<br/>
<br/>
That elicits a few grumbles, but you have the impression no one is really going to be using it.<br/>
<br/>
Except, maybe, for you and Braydon. He quietly asks if you can stick around when the group breaks up for the evening. "You thinking about using the golem tomorrow?" you ask him. "Using it the rest of the week? Rest of the year?"<br/>
<br/>
He glances around, even though it's just the two of you, for even Gillian has gone. "Actually, I was thinking about that new spell," he says. "The one that uses a body." His tone drops in both temperature and volume. "What do you think of volunteering Thomason or one of those guys?"</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111222111212211111
author_id: seuzz
title: Plans That Might Come Together
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"You mean you want to sacrifice them?" you say. The words that follow comes surprisingly easy, maybe because you can't believe Braydon would mean them: "Kill them?"<br/>
<br/>
"Maybe it wouldn't kill them," Braydon says. "We don't know what would happen. Maybe it would just, I dunno, scare them to get thrown into a purple fire."<br/>
<br/>
You stare at the ground. If you scared Tanner Evans or Joshua Call or Joe Thomason enough that badly, they wouldn't get revenge by taking your pants off. They'd get revenge by coming as close as <i>they</i> dared to killing you.<br/>
<br/>
Paradoxically, that's the thought that keeps you from freaking out over Braydon's suggestion. Because he has to know that too, so he can't be serious about this suggestion.<br/>
<br/>
"Or maybe we could just give them a little magic show," Braydon says after you've not replied. His tone has turned subdued, guarded. "We could make a mask of them, whoever it is. Put it on the golem and scare them with a doppelganger. Or just go out and make trouble for them."<br/>
<br/>
That's a little more inviting, and since you're wearing Braydon's mask you feel double the appeal: You like the idea, and Braydon's mask-personality likes it too. "But we don't try sacrificing them in the new spell?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon hesitates. "We could have it ready, just in case."<br/>
<br/>
"We need the book to perform the spell, don't we? Christian's not going to lend it to us."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon thinks a bit. "Christian wants to finish copying the football team, so we need to make more masks anyway. We could ask to borrow the book, bring it here to make them, and have everything on hand for the new spell. Just in case."<br/>
<br/>
You really don't want to say "Yes." You don't want to say "No" either. "I guess we could ask," you slowly say.<br/>
<br/>
"I'll do it," says Braydon, who is still wearing your mask. "I think he trusts Will Prescott more with the book than he trusts Braydon Delp."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
But it turns out that Christian doesn't trust anyone with it, not without his supervision. He likes the idea of making more masks, but instead of letting one of you come pick up the book, he brings it out directly to the elementary school, and insists on staying. "You guys are getting real friendly with each other," he observes when he finds you also in attendance as he gets out of his car. He looks sharply between you and "Will Prescott." "I'm glad to see it."<br/>
<br/>
Down in the basement he lays out the book on the table and starts pulling out supplies for making masks. Halfway through, though, he discovers that you're running low on quicklime, a key ingredient. "I know one place we can get it that's open late," Christian says as he glances at his phone. "I can run out -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I think it's getting too late now," says Will after catching your eye. "I have to get home for dinner. You can leave the stuff here and we can pick it up tomorrow."<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck it, it's just a mile away." Christian looks at you. "Can you keep an eye on things here? Awesome," he says when you nod. Will shoots you a worried look as he follows Christian out of the basement.<br/>
<br/>
He's left the book with you, unattended. But not for long, not long enough to do anything with the new spell. But as you study the page with the new spell --<br/>
<br/>
A lot of the magic appears to all be in the sigils: that's something Braydon has noticed as he's worked with Christian. Every spell has involved placing objects upon the sigil that appears with each spell. Even the golem: Christian and the others dumped the dirt and chemicals on top of the open book, set the pile on fire, then pulled the book out from under the flaming mess. The sigils are extremely complicated, but if you had the book long enough to copy the sigil for the new spell -- <br/>
<br/>
Even if Christian got back before you finished, you might find another excuse to borrow the book and finish copying it --<br/>
<br/>
You're not sure why -- you were half-arguing against Braydon when he suggested trying the new spell -- but you run up to his car and retrieve the Art class sketchbook from the back seat. Feverishly, down in the basement, you start to copy down as much of the new sigil as you can.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You finish it, too, for Christian is delayed by almost two hours in returning. "I got caught at home," he said when he called with an update. "Are you gonna be out there until I get back?"<br/>
<br/>
"I don't need to be anyplace," you curtly replied, not taking your eye from the sketchpad. In fact, Christian was so delayed that Braydon got back from dinner with the Prescott family first. He approved of what you were trying, and kept guard at the door against Christian's return. You also double-checked the list of ingredients, and found that the new spell differed from the golem-making spell in only one regard: It called for only a handful of cemetery dirt instead of four hundred pounds, and for a body. Otherwise, the spells are identical.<br/>
<br/>
It's almost pitch black by the time Christian gets back, and you and Braydon sit outside on the hood of his car while waiting. You talk a bit, about Evans and his friends and why they were after "Will Prescott" ("shits and giggles," Braydon says with a stiff shrug), and by the end you are feeling close enough to him that you almost confess to some of the fooling around that you and Gillian got up to on Tuesday.<br/>
<br/>
Almost. You don't actually cross that line.<br/>
<br/>
When Christian pulls up, the three of you go down into the basement, and with the help of a flashlight get some kind of temporary screens across the windows so that you can put on a few lamps without attracting attention. Christian supervises mask production for the benefit of the kid he thinks is Will Prescott; of course, Braydon -- under that mask -- knows what how it is done, and you -- with the memories in Braydon's mask -- know it too. But you don't stop Christian as he mixes the ingredients, fires them over the sigil, gags on the stench, pours the liquid over a convex mirror, and lets it dry. The half-spherical shell twists into a bone-white mask when removed from the mirror. To be usable, a mask has to be polished, so you take turns running the car buffer over the three masks you make. It's closing in on eleven o'clock by the time you part, leaving three new masks in the basement to be used to copy members of the football team.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"It's supposed to be three people," Darrell says stubbornly. "That's the rule, three people go out together when larping."<br/>
<br/>
"This isn't larping," you tell him. "It's a raid. I didn't go out with three people when I scored us masks of Will and Caleb and Keith."<br/>
<br/>
"That was a mistake," Darrell says. "Shoulda left them alone."<br/>
<br/>
You bite back a retort, and wonder how it's going to be when you're under your own face again instead of playing Braydon. This is the fourth day you've gone in to school as him, and you're increasingly conscious of the fact that they know you better as Braydon than as Will Prescott.<br/>
<br/>
It's second period, and you've drawn Darrell aside to tell him that you need a key to the desk in order to get some masks: You and Will, you tell him, are going to use the masks of Erik Carstairs and Dane Matthias to copy one of the football players; then use that mask and Erik's to copy a second player; then use those two new masks or Erik's to capture a third. But Darrell wants to be the third partner.<br/>
<br/>
"This isn't larping," you repeat. "We just need to pick up those two masks, and there's no natural third person to go with Erik and Dane. It would be weird if Geoff Mansfield or Keith Tilley showed up with them."<br/>
<br/>
"Okay, so you two go out, get a copy of whoever, and come back. Then the three of us will go out."<br/>
<br/>
You almost acquiesce, but tell Darrell to talk to Christian to see if he's going to insist on three going out for the raid; after grumbling, he agrees.<br/>
<br/>
"We on for this afternoon?" Will asks when you see him in fourth-period English. Caleb gives him a curious look.<br/>
<br/>
"I think so. Talk to me after school," you reply.<br/>
<br/>
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Caleb lean in to ask Will a question. Will murmurs an answer back, and Caleb gives you a skeptical sidelong glance before shrugging at his friend.<br/>
<br/>
It leaves you feeling guilty. Caleb is your best friend. Shouldn't you be doing this stuff with him instead of Braydon and them?<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You and Braydon had settled on a plan during the course of a post-midnight phone conference the night before: you would use masks of Erik Carstairs and Dane Matthias -- two known drug users -- to get close to Tanner Evans, a known dealer. At the very least, a mask of him might be useful at spreading trouble among him and his friends; and though neither of you explicitly suggested it, neither of you ruled out luring him back to the school basement for use in the next spell.<br/>
<br/>
But another idea suggests itself at the start of fifth period, as you're changing books at your locker. "Heard your girlfriend fucked up some of my friends," a soft voice says behind you, and your spine turns to ice. "So me and my friends are thinking turnabout's fair play. We're gonna give your girlfriend a better fuck than a sad little shit like you ever could."<br/>
<br/>
You don't have to turn around to recognize the voice of David Kirkham, a bully to make all the other bullies at Westside quake in their shoes.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112221112122111112
author_id: seuzz
title: The Bully Gambit
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You turn around, and try not to flinch when you find yourself almost nose to nose with David Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
He's not a big guy. He's almost eye-to-eye with you now, and Braydon runs a little below average in height. But what he lacks in height, Kirkham makes up in exuberant malice.<br/>
<br/>
His face is still brown from the summer, and his dark hair is streaked here and there with patches bleached to a lighter brunette shade. His features are regular and even: one might even call them handsome but for the fact that his tinted glasses -- so dark that even under a roof one can barely make out the eyes behind them -- take away the key to his face. Between cheek and gum he nurses a toothpick, and his face is so close to yours that you can smell the cinnamon on his breath.<br/>
<br/>
And below that expressionless mask are rounded shoulders and bulging biceps and a taut torso balanced on a fighting stance. Kirkham -- thank God! -- rarely pays attention to you, but you've seen him strike others, and he is as fast and mean and powerful as a king cobra; and since he often has to stand up to the bigger jocks and bullies on the basketball and football squads, he fights dirty, too. There are no cruel psychological games with him, as Tanner and the others played on Tuesday. With Kirkham, there would just be lots and lots of pain.<br/>
<br/>
He isn't one of the guys you and Braydon have a grudge against, but the school wouldn't miss him if he suffered an accident. And if he met himself, got in a fight against himself, learned what an asshole he is? That might be kind of fun.<br/>
<br/>
"If you've got a problem with me, then take it out on me," you tell him. God damn it, but you can't keep the tremble out of your voice as you speak.<br/>
<br/>
The toothpick shifts in his mouth, and he smiles faintly. "I don't got a problem with you, Delp," he says softly. "I don't got a problem with your girlfriend either. And she won't have a problem with me once I show her how good I can be with her." He balls up his fist and taps you lightly in the chin.<br/>
<br/>
"You'll have to convince me first. Let's talk about it after school. Just you and me."<br/>
<br/>
He shifts the toothpick to his other cheek, and grins. "Really. Pretty fucking ballsy of you, Delp."<br/>
<br/>
"One condition. We meet at the old elementary school down in Acheson."<br/>
<br/>
"I don't know any fucking schools down in fucking Acheson. You want to talk to me, we do it -- "<br/>
<br/>
"We do it there," you say firmly. "If you can do it here, you can do it there. Because I know I'm probably going to lose the argument. It'll make it easier for me to get home afterward."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham sniggers. "At least you know what you're in for. Okay, sure. Where's this fucking hospital exactly?"<br/>
<br/>
"School." You give him the address. "You'll see my car. Meet me at four-thirty."<br/>
<br/>
"Four-thirty then." He pats your cheek. "And don't worry. I'll be as gentle with you as I'll be with your girlfriend afterward. Make it easy on both of us, why don't you, and invite her along too."<br/>
<br/>
You manage to hold it in until he's vanished into the crowd, then fall back into a violent shiver and shudder.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Darrell catches up to you at the end of fifth and gives you his key to the desk. "Christian says to have it back to me by tonight," he says. "He's okay with you and Will doing it alone since you're just getting masks. What's with you and him suddenly being best friends?"<br/>
<br/>
"We're not being best friends. We're just getting to know each other. You should give him a chance."<br/>
<br/>
Darrell makes a face and leaves with a shrug.<br/>
<br/>
Then you're halfway to Latin before realizing you're likely to see Tanner Evans outside the classroom, so you go to the library instead. You almost turn around in the doorway, for you'd forgotten that Caleb has study hall this period, and he's occupying a table near the door. But you stick it out and sit at a table nearby. He looks at you sidelong for a few minutes, then comes over. "What are you and Will doing this afternoon," he asks.<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not sure we're doing anything."<br/>
<br/>
"Will says he's getting together with you."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, my plans are a little up in the air. Just a little extracurricular project if we do."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh." His expression tightens with suspicion. "Like what?"<br/>
<br/>
"Teaching him some magic tricks."<br/>
<br/>
Suspicion turns into alarm. "Really?"<br/>
<br/>
"He's trying to write a short story," you improvise. "Harry Potter kind of stuff. He wants to ask me some questions."<br/>
<br/>
"Oh." And suspicion turns to puzzlement. "I didn't know Will was trying to write something."<br/>
<br/>
"Neither did I," you truthfully reply. "I guess he's got depths no one's ever seen."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus. If he's consulting you, I don't want to know what kind of things he's got swimming down in those depths," Caleb mutters, and returns to his table. You frown sourly at his back.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
Will Prescott looks very scared after class when you tell him of the "meeting" you've arranged. "Kirkham?" he gasps for about the third time. "Fuck, I think the two of us might be able to take Tanner. Maybe we could even take Call, if we jumped him fast enough and had a mask ready. But I don't see us taking Kirkham!"<br/>
<br/>
"We can do it," you assure him. "We've got masks. We got Erik Carstairs' mask. He's big enough, strong enough. Look, we'll put you in Carstairs' mask," you explain as he gapes. "You hide, come around the corner when Kirkham shows up. Make it just look like you showed up randomly, and you want to watch when we tell you what's going on. But I'll have a mask out and ready, and when Kirkham goes in for me -- " You pause, and swallow, at the thought of what you're putting yourself on the line for. "You grab him from behind and hold him while I get the mask on him. And after that, well -- We'll see what happens."<br/>
<br/>
Your double takes a deep breath, but agrees.<br/>
<br/>
And by four o'clock you and he are at the school. With his key, you are able to get into the basement; with Darrell's you get into the desk; with yours, you get into the foot locker. Carstairs' mask is near the top. "We should get everything else set up in case we decide to, you know -- " Will says.<br/>
<br/>
You exchange a long look. Then by some unspoken agreement you start pulling out supplies for the next spell: chemicals, a little bit of the leftover cemetery dirt, and the sigil you copied, which you lay out on the big conference table in the middle of the basement. "Hair," says Will as he reads the list you'd jotted down. "Whose? Yours or mine?"<br/>
<br/>
"Both of ours?" you say.<br/>
<br/>
"I don't want to screw anything up."<br/>
<br/>
Rock-paper-scissors settles it when neither of you will yield to the other. It probably makes sense that Braydon wins, since he has to remove his mask anyway to change into Carstairs'. He lays on a table and pulls at his face.<br/>
<br/>
It feels a little strange to look down at his face after he's got yours off. Over the past few days, getting up and dressing in the mornings, putting on the mascara, studying your appearance in the mirror, you've gotten halfway used to thinking of his face as your own.  But that's the real Braydon Delp laying there now, with the long face, the thick eyebrows, the unruly mop of hair.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Right. Hair.</i> You snip some of it off, and roll Erik Carstairs' mask onto Braydon.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Whoa.</i> You take a step back. You knew Carstairs was powerfully built, but you didn't realize he had those kinds of muscles on top of those kinds of muscles. It makes you feel a little more confident about the upcoming confrontation. You drop some gym clothes -- probably too small -- over your partner's crotch, and take one of the blank masks outside, to wait for Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
And he's five minutes early. "I'm pretty fucking impressed, Delp," he says as he slams his car door. "That won't last long, though." He peels off his jacket and tosses it aside.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Where's Delp?</i><br/>
<br/>
You lick your lips. "Hang on. How is this going to end?"<br/>
<br/>
"With you on the grass. Spread your legs so I can kick your balls up the back of your throat, and I'll put you down fast, spare you a lot more pain. Your balls are going to hurting anyway, you might as well spare yourself what you can."<br/>
<br/>
You take a deep breath. And flinch as Kirkham's arm goes back.<br/>
<br/>
But as your eyes close, you see a movement to the side. So does Kirkham, and he stays his swing at the last moment as Erik Carstair's spiky blonde head bobs up the stairs leading into the basement. "Hey, what's going on out here?" he calls.<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham hisses. "I knew you were a cocksucking coward, Delp."<br/>
<br/>
"Me? I didn't -- ! I didn't know he was going to be here! Erik, what are you doing here?" Even to yourself, your squealing protest sounds unconvincing.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh, I'm just hanging out," says Erik. Sure enough, his t-shirt and shorts are too tight, and they don't leave much to the imagination. Truth is, he looks a little like he should be marching in a gay pride parade. "S'up?" he says.<br/>
<br/>
But Kirkham's too smart to say anything about how he looks. "Just dealing out a little extracurricular discipline," he says coolly. He lays a hand on your chest. "Give you one last chance, Delp. Record a voice message for me, tell your girlfriend she should suck my cock."<br/>
<br/>
You put out your hand, as though leaning against your car. Your fingers close on the mask that's balanced there.<br/>
<br/>
Seeing your movement, Erik grabs Kirkham around the torso.</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122211121221111121
author_id: seuzz
title: A Golem of Braydon's Own
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>Braydon is fast at getting his arms around Kirkham, but Kirkham is fast in reacting: He twists violently and slams his head back against your friend's face. In an instant, he's loose.<br/>
<br/>
You dart in with the mask, but Kirkham swings a wild fist that connects with your jaw. It's like sheet lightning all up the side of your head, and you stumble and roll, bracing against a kick.<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't come.<br/>
<br/>
You blink and scramble up. A voice is yelling your name. <i>Your</i> name: "Will! Will! Get the -- !"<br/>
<br/>
Erik -- Braydon -- Whoever; your head is ringing -- is struggling face down on the ground. There's something under him. <i>Kirkham,</i> thrashing violently. The mask slipped from your fingers, and you look around wildly for it. It bounced behind you, and you grab it up.<br/>
<br/>
Erik cries out, and Kirkham writhes from under him. He raises his head --<br/>
<br/>
-- and loses his face inside the mask. He collapses.<br/>
<br/>
You and Erik sag, breathing heavily. Blood is trickling out of his nose, and you gingerly touch the side of your face. "Shit, man," Erik gasps. "Fuck. I told you this was a bad idea."<br/>
<br/>
"But we got him, right? And we're going to throw him on that sigil, right?"<br/>
<br/>
Erik brushes his nose with the back of his hand. "And if it kills him?"<br/>
<br/>
"People will thank us," you snarl. "Anyway, we've got a mask of him and Christian's got a golem. Who'd miss him?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon -- since he's wearing the stronger body -- carries Kirkham by the shoulders while you carry him by the feet into the basement. Braydon nurses his nose and leaves you to disrobe your victim: sneakers and socks; jeans; t-shirt; finally his underwear. Kirkham, it turns out, is trimly built with well-defined but not bulging muscles, and is almost hairless except for the bush around his ball sack and some light hairs on the back of his calves.<br/>
<br/>
You sprinkle the cemetery dirt and hair over his chest and douse him with the chemicals. After lifting the mask off his face, Braydon lights a match. You and he give each other a long look, then he flings it onto Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
A purple bloom of blinding light fills the room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"He's not going to wake up, is he?" you ask.<br/>
<br/>
"Shit, I hope not," Braydon says. "He was fucking impossible to fight before. If he hit us with <i>those</i> fists -- "<br/>
<br/>
You are both leaning against desks for support. The flame that engulfed David Kirkham's unconscious figure lasted less than a minute before dying out, and it would not relight. You're not certain, but you're pretty sure that means the spell is complete.<br/>
<br/>
From a distance, the spell would have seemed to leave Kirkham unchanged. The line work of his muscles, the wrinkles of his knuckles, the fuzz on his upper lip, even the texture of his hair are all as they were before.<br/>
<br/>
But he is a dull white all over, and his skin has the texture and firmness of stone.<br/>
<br/>
You and Braydon swing your heads back and forth, comparing Kirkham's figure to the golem that Christian made. In terms of color, they look exactly the same, and they have the same feel when you run your fingers over them. "It's kind of obvious," Braydon says quietly. "It's almost exactly the same spell. Of course it'd turn him into a golem."<br/>
<br/>
"But is he going to wake up?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon doesn't answer. You wait for a very long time, it feels like. You slap the recumbent figure. Nothing happens.<br/>
<br/>
"Fuck it," says Braydon. "We've got masks, let's put one on him." He turns to the footlocker.<br/>
<br/>
You pick up the mask you made of Kirkham and turn to get out a jar of paste that will seal it, allowing it to be worn. When you turn around again, Kirkham is sitting up.<br/>
<br/>
But it's not Kirkham. It's Keith Tilley. "Holy fuck," he mutters, and his eyes widen. "What the hell is -- "<br/>
<br/>
"What's your name?" Braydon barks, and it sounds like a bark since he's still wearing Erik's mask.<br/>
<br/>
"Huh? It's Keith. Keith Tilley."<br/>
<br/>
"You sure it's not David Kirkham?"<br/>
<br/>
"Kirkham?" Tilley's mouth falls open. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure I'm not Kirkham." He catches sight of you. "Yo, Delp. What the fuck is going on? The last I saw you -- " A look of utter bafflement washes over his face, and he puts a hand gingerly to his cheek. "A mask," he mumbles. "The last thing I remember, I had a mask -- " He trails off.<br/>
<br/>
You and Braydon watch tensely as he plays with his face. After a long moment of hesitation, he grips his forehead, mutters inaudibly, and pulls.<br/>
<br/>
Nothing happens. You watch as he tries a few more times without success.<br/>
<br/>
"When's the last time you saw David Kirkham?" Braydon asks him.<br/>
<br/>
Tilley shivers. "Why do you want to know about Kirkham? I try <i>not</i> to see him, no more than -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Hit yourself."<br/>
<br/>
Keith jerks in surprise, then jerks hard after punching himself in the thigh. "The fuck?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon looks back at you. "Looks like a golem. Totally a golem, like what Christian made."<br/>
<br/>
You nod. "Let's try it with Kirkham's mask. Because if we can get Kirkham to punch himself in the face -- "<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
David Kirkham glares at you so hard he trembles. "I will fuck you up so bad," he says in a tight whisper. "I will kick you in the guts so hard you'll spew your colon out over the floor." Blood streams from his nose. "I will -- "<br/>
<br/>
"Punch yourself in the face again," Braydon tells him, and he does. You'd like to laugh, but it's too terrible and wonderful for mere emotions.<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, this is fun," your friend says, and presses something hard into your back. "But we need to get one of the football players before giving Darrell his key back."<br/>
<br/>
You turn: It's Dane Matthias's mask he's pushing onto you. <i>That's right.</i> In the excitement of dealing with Kirkham you'd almost forgot. You and Braydon are supposed to use Erik's and Dane's masks to copy a couple of members of the football squad. "What are we going to do with him?" You jerk your chin at Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
"Get dressed and go home," Braydon tells Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
"Gladly," Kirkham mutters.<br/>
<br/>
"Tell him to leave Braydon and Gillian alone," you tell your colleague. "Oh, and Will Prescott, too."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon obliges, and adds a whole string of other names to the list of "Do Not Fuck With": Christian and Darrell and Hugh and Harrison and Howie and Caleb and Keith and Carson Ioger and James Lamont. Kirkham seethes.<br/>
<br/>
"So, I'm thinking we should run a play on Dalton Douglas," Braydon says as he pulls some clothes out of the desk for you: some of Dane's trademark pajama bottoms, a green t-shirt, and a dirty sports coat.<br/>
<br/>
"What about the Molester?" you counter, naming the one of that class who gives you the most grief.<br/>
<br/>
"Who?"<br/>
<br/>
"Lester Pozniak. Caleb and Keith and me, we call him the Molester. Don't you know this? Weren't you playing me for a couple of days?"<br/>
<br/>
"I'm not wearing your mask right now, haven't you noticed? But forget him, let's go see Douglas." He cocks his head. "You know, if you're going to go as Matthias, you should really have weed with you."<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't got any."<br/>
<br/>
"Neither do I. Hey Kirkham!" he calls to the golem, who has just finished dressing. "You got any weed at your place?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yes," he says dully.<br/>
<br/>
You and Braydon exchange a look of surprise. "Seriously?" he says. "You get it from Tanner Evans?"<br/>
<br/>
"No."<br/>
<br/>
"So who from?"<br/>
<br/>
"Do I gotta answer?"<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah, and you gotta tell the truth."<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham's lip curls. "From Chen."<br/>
<br/>
You and Braydon again glance at each other. "Give us details," he orders Kirkham.<br/>
<br/>
It's tough to question the surly and uncooperative golem, but it gradually comes out: Gary Chen is the primary dope seller in the school. He gives a couple of ounces for free to Kirkham, since they're friends and because he doesn't want Kirkham fucking things up for him. The rest he either sells directly himself, or sells at a discount to Tanner Evans, Joe Thomason, and George Mendoza, which they in turn deal. In fact, Kirkham took possession of a couple of ounces just last weekend. "Go home, get it, bring it back," Braydon tells the golem. Kirkham hisses, but complies.<br/>
<br/>
"I guess I can change while waiting," you say.<br/>
<br/>
"Hold it," Braydon says. His expression is creased with thought. "It'd be nice to collect a profit on this kind of shit, wouldn't it?"<br/>
<br/>
"What are you thinking? Getting Kirkham to deal a little on the side?"<br/>
<br/>
"Why do that," Braydon says as he holds your eye, "when we can have Chen dealing for us?"<br/>
<br/>
A tremble runs through you. "You mean, doing to Chen what we did to Kirkham?"<br/>
<br/>
Braydon fixes you with a penetrating stare. "Wouldn't you like to have a golem of your own to order around?"</span></div></div>


path: 11332111211111222111212211111211
author_id: seuzz
title: A Golem of Your Own
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>A golem of your own. Someone you can order around.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon has one. Christian has one. Why can't you have one? After all, you're the one who found the book that makes them. Okay, so you sold it to Christian, and that's why he gets to have one. But why does Braydon get one and you don't?<br/>
<br/>
But you can have one. Braydon is making you that offer. You just have to --<br/>
<br/>
You just have to do to someone else what Braydon did to David Kirkham. Turn them into a statue.<br/>
<br/>
But Braydon didn't do that alone. You helped. You even copied out the sigil so that you could do it. If you did anything wrong, you've already done it. And you did it to someone who deserves it. There are lots of other people who would also deserve it. Gary Chen is definitely one of them.<br/>
<br/>
He's Chinese-American, but he in no way fits the stereotype of "smart, educated, nerdy Asian-American." He's a gangbanger, pure and simple. A guy who sells dope and slams the heads of anyone who looks at him funny into lockers. You've seen him in action, and you know that most of the other bullies are afraid of him. Even the basketball players avoid him, the way they avoid Kirkham, as more trouble than he's worth.<br/>
<br/>
"Okay," you tell Braydon before you can change your mind. "It'll make sense if Carstairs and Matthias go over to see him, so -- "<br/>
<br/>
But Braydon shakes his head. "We should use Kirkham, not those guys, and that fucking golem is being a real pain anyway. When it gets back here, you switch over into that mask. If we need Dane along, we'll put his mask on the golem."<br/>
<br/>
That makes sense, but to save time -- it's getting close to six o'clock -- you go ahead and strip yourself of Braydon's mask. Kirkham doesn't say anything when he sees you on his return, and after Braydon tells him to be quiet, he doesn't say anything when Braydon tells him to get undressed. You also take off your clothes, though the golem is still so daunting that you do it in a corner where you won't be seen. <br/>
<br/>
A chill runs through you when Braydon hands you Kirkham's mask.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You're stiff and angry when you wake up, and you draw and exhale a deep breath. <i>God damn it,</i> you growl to yourself. You're going to kill someone, and if it isn't Erik Carstairs or Braydon Delp you'll just pretend the guy you kill is one of those two ass --<br/>
<br/>
You cover your face with your hands and draw another deep breath.<br/>
<br/>
This is much stranger than having Braydon Delp's or Keith Tilley's personalities inside your head with you. Keith is a dipshit and Braydon is an occult wannabe, but they really are not so very different from you, which makes it easy to coexist with them and imitate them. But David Kirkham -- <br/>
<br/>
You drop your hands and blink at the blurry ceiling.<br/>
<br/>
It's like an illusion you once saw in a book. A simple line drawing. The first time you saw it, you saw -- and told your dad you saw -- an old witch. She had a nutcracker nose and chin, and she was wrapped up in a muffler and headscarf. <i>Don't you see the pretty girl?</i> your dad had said, and traced his finger over the lines. <i>That's her neck and that's her head and that's her shoulder --</i><br/>
<br/>
And instantly that's what you'd seen: The witch vanished, and in her place was petite, bare shouldered girl with her head turned coquettishly away. Then the witch was back. Then you saw the girl. The picture flicked back and forth between them. The lines never changed, but you could choose to see it as one figure or the other.<br/>
<br/>
That's the way it is now. You're looking at the world with your own brain, and with David Kirkham's. It's the exact same world, but you have dramatically different thoughts and attitudes toward it. You think of Braydon Delp, and you think of a friend and of a fucking goth loser; you think of Will Prescott, and you think of your put-upon self and of a whiney little, sick-making douche. You think of Tanner Evans, and you think of a guy who frightens you and of a dumbass who snivels every time you slap him; you think of Gary Chen, and you think of a scary-as-fuck gangbanger and of a motherfucking hooligan you'd lay your life down to protect. You think of Gillian Kiefer --<br/>
<br/>
<i>Mm.</i> Not much disagreement there. Your cock rises smartly.<br/>
<br/>
"Oh God, put that thing down."<br/>
<br/>
You turn toward the speaker. <i>Erik Carstairs.</i> Now there's a smart cocksucker. Runs a team of near-criminals but keeps them under control by doping them up and keeping them aimed at a common, harmless enemy. No one fucks with Carstairs, except the line of pussy he's got going around the block.<br/>
<br/>
Anger and jealousy stir like a volcano, but you throttle it. "Suck it, man," you say as you sit up. "I don't take my flagpole down until I plant it someplace warm and wet. So pucker up or bend over."<br/>
<br/>
"Jesus, Will, you're not going to try to roleplaying this asshole, are you?"<br/>
<br/>
"You want me roleplaying him, right? Doesn't do us any fucking good if we get over to Chen's and I'm -- "<br/>
<br/>
"So save it for Chen, okay? I don't want to get in a dick-swinging contest."<br/>
<br/>
You grunt softly, and switch back to "Prescott" mode; you'd slipped over into "Kirkham" mode without realizing it. "Sorry," you mumble. "I wasn't trying to roleplay, it was just coming out that way."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon's expression turns alarmed. "You can control these masks, can't you, Will?"<br/>
<br/>
"Sure."<br/>
<br/>
"Because I wanted you inside Kirkham's mask because I wanted him under better control than -- "<br/>
<br/>
"I can handle it!" You shove Kirkham's personality firmly behind you. But the feeling of having a strong body is still intoxicating, and you stretch as an excuse to flex a set of strong muscles. "It's just easy for me to get in character, that's all. Haven't the other guys told you about that?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't been talking to them a lot. I've been larping as you."<br/>
<br/>
"Well, for what it's worth, Darrell and Christian have been telling 'Braydon Delp' -- " You put the name in air quotes. " -- that Will Prescott is kind of creepy because of the way he gets into character so fast and easy. Isn't it easy for you? What about you and Carstairs right now?"<br/>
<br/>
"I haven't been trying," Braydon says. "But I have to concentrate real hard to pick up anything he knows."<br/>
<br/>
You eye him critically, and let the lens of David Kirkham's mind fall into place again. You have to squint to make him out, but -- Yes, you can see the difference, you think. There's a hesitance inside Carstairs' eyes, and an awkwardness to his stance. He looks nervous, uncomfortable, even a little scared, not at all like the cool and confident asshole you're used to seeing around. In fact, you bet you could drop him with one punch, the way he's standing. In fact, you probably wouldn't even have to hit him. Just a few choice words and threats and you could probably --<br/>
<br/>
You shake the thoughts away, but don't push Kirkham away completely. "Where's my fucking phone? And my clothes? I know how to get Chen out here, but I'm not letting him see me like this, not unless it's with your mouth wrapped around my cock."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's business that will draw Gary Chen to the elementary school, but he can't come out, not until closer to eight, on account of some family crisis or other. That gives Braydon a chance to take off Carstairs' mask and put on Prescott's, and take your truck back to your place so he can eat dinner with the family. Kirkham's mother works evenings -- she's a nurse -- and you really ought to go back to his place and fix dinner for yourself and for Kirkham's little brother. But Tad is more than old enough to open a can of spaghetti or some shit like that for himself, and you can eat later, after you go home as Braydon Delp. So you relax out on the hood of Kirkham's car, a heavy palm over your crotch as you think of the pussy he's had.<br/>
<br/>
Yes, he's had it. Not nearly as much as he'd like, or as regularly. But more than you've ever had. You try not to think of Gillian, though. Kirkham likes Gillian a lot -- at least, he likes the sight of her; she's too smart to pay him any attention -- and he needed little encouragement to kick Braydon around out of furious jealousy.<br/>
<br/>
By seven-thirty, Braydon is back and inside Carstairs' mask again. By eight-fifteen, Chen has called back and said he's on his way over. You outline to Braydon how you'll do things.<br/>
<br/>
You wait with folded arms as Chen's rattle-trap Jeep with the canvas sides and top slides to a hard stop next to your car. "So what's the fucking deal, man?" he asks without preamble after hopping out. "I had to piss off my mom."<br/>
<br/>
"Don't shit yourself, you're gonna love it. Carstairs wants to talk to you. He's in the market for ganja. As much as you can sell him."<br/>
<br/>
Chen does a double take as Erik Carstairs looms out of the dark. "You're fucking kidding me?" Chen calls to him. "I thought you were getting your shit from Santa Claus."<br/>
<br/>
"He doesn't bring me enough. How much can you sell me?"<br/>
<br/>
You step forward and press yourself against Chen, squeezing him up against the Jeep. "Screw him for as much as you can," you murmur in his ear. "Else he's going to try fucking you."<br/>
<br/>
The warning comes to late for him. As soon as you had Chen against the Jeep, Braydon jammed the mask onto his face. Now you're holding up dead weight, and you grasp him before he can fall.</span></div></div>


path: 113321112111112221112122111112111
author_id: seuzz
title: Backwash of Guilt and Pleasure
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>You and Braydon carry the unconscious Gary Chen down into the basement, where you strip him, prep him, and set him on fire. Twenty minutes later, a seething robo-Chen and a furious robo-Kirkham are on their way back to their respective homes.<br/>
<br/>
You and Braydon perch on the desks in the basement, staring at the walls and at the floor, and occasionally glancing at each other. Braydon looks like you feel: Exhausted and a little sick.<br/>
<br/>
It's not horror at what you've done to David Kirkham and Gary Chen. At least, it hasn't turned into horror yet. It's only the nausea of adrenaline draining from your system. Your stomach quivers and your limbs are weak, and you feel a headache coming on. The excitement of the moment has gone, and now you're being slapped by the backwash of the retreating tide. As yet you feel only a slight sense of guilt -- a brackish miasma of self-recrimination.<br/>
<br/>
But you are also pretty sure it's going to get worse before it gets better. <br/>
<br/>
If it gets better.<br/>
<br/>
Did you have a choice? Did you have to turn those two into statues and send them out as slaves? Sure, technically you had a choice. Technically, you've <i>always</i> got a choice. You could have taken Kirkham's abuse. In any other circumstance you would have. You were wearing a mask. You only had to take it off when he left, and the hurt would have gone away.<br/>
<br/>
But it was the threats he was making toward Gillian. That's what sent you over the edge.<br/>
<br/>
Except --<br/>
<br/>
Kirkham's the biggest asshole you know, but even you doubt he would have done anything to her, beyond pushing her in a corner and gloating about what he'd done to her 'hubby.'<br/>
<br/>
But that's bad enough. Not because of the implied humiliation, but because of the hurt and horror he'd pour onto her. Gillian doesn't deserve that, and there's no way that you'd let a girl that you --<br/>
<br/>
You swallow. But there it is.<br/>
<br/>
-- that you'd let a girl that you love suffer that.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, to take care of Kirkham you didn't have to do anything to Chen. He was innocent of anything except being a swaggering thug, but even his swaggering thuggishness didn't have anything to do with Gillian. But you did the same thing to him anyway, and only so you could have a golem of your own, same as Braydon.<br/>
<br/>
But because you'd helped Braydon, you were already as guilty of doing something to Kirkham. That's the excuse you gave yourself at the time. Now, though, you're kind of wishing that life came with checkpoints and reload options.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon interrupts these reflections by slapping you on the knee. "It'll be fine," he says quietly. "It's better this way."<br/>
<br/>
You don't want him to think you're deserting him now, so you nod. "Yeah, it'll be okay. Just give it time -- "<br/>
<br/>
Hornets batter at your stomach. Time? Give yourself time to get used to what you've done? Can you give Kirkham and Chen time to get used to what you've done to them?<br/>
<br/>
But you force the feelings down with a deep, ragged breath. "I guess we should go home." You pause. "Are we done with the campaign? Do we go back to being ourselves?"<br/>
<br/>
"I think so." He hops down, then swings around to grip your arm. His eyes are deep pools of some volatile emotion you can't quite pin down. "Thanks, Will. To be honest, I thought you were kind of a doofus at first. But after the larping, and the shit you carried for me, and especially what you helped me with today -- " He looks away, and rubs his eye. <i>That gesture of embarrassment.</i> He stammers. "I don't think any of the other guys would have done that for me."<br/>
<br/>
"I think they would have," you say, more to be diplomatic than because you sincerely believe it. "I just happened to be the one who could jump in."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon looks past your ear, and his expression sobers up. "Yeah," he says. Then he looks straight at you, and smiles. "Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You are already in your old clothes, but you linger as Braydon changes. It's just as well, for as he's tying up the last of his wristbands, he gets a worried look. "You know, we have one big loose end. We were supposed to use those masks we made yesterday to get football players. But we used up two of them without getting anyone."<br/>
<br/>
"We got Kirkham and Chen."<br/>
<br/>
"But we can't tell anyone that. Christian's going to come back, and there's going to be two masks missing, and no new ones in the library, and he's gonna ask what happened to the two blanks."<br/>
<br/>
"So we tell people we took out two masks, but we didn't manage to get anyone, and we kept the masks to try again later."<br/>
<br/>
Braydon sucks in a cheek. "That'll work for a day or two, but we need to make two new masks to replace the ones we used."<br/>
<br/>
You look around. You've got all the material here, and it's not yet six o'clock, so it's just a matter of -- "Shit. Christian's got the book."<br/>
<br/>
"Uh huh. And he insists on making the shit himself."<br/>
<br/>
You chew on your lip, and Braydon sucks on his. "So we tell Christian we should make some more," you hazard. Braydon's eyebrows go up skeptically. "We want the whole football team, right, so we should have a giant supply of masks laid in. If we're making, I dunno, thirty masks, he's not going to notice if the actual count is two off, is he?"<br/>
<br/>
"That could work," Braydon says. "Even if he only wants to make half a dozen, I guess we could distract him, send him on a snipe hunt long enough to sneak in two extras. We just have to make the masks when he's here, and that doesn't take too long. We can polish them up separately." He lets out a sigh of relief. "We'll try that. Thanks." He claps you on the arm and grins. "I like this partnership."<br/>
<br/>
You return his grin and his friendly blow with ones of your own. For the first time you can think of, you feel genuinely warmly toward Braydon Delp, and your jealousy over Gillian goes into eclipse.<br/>
<br/>
At least until you go to bed.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
You writhe and gasp and moan and flip over and over again, pulling the sheets over your head and burying your face in the pillow. You bite the covers. You are going to cum, and you are going to cum harder than you've ever cum before. But you can't bring yourself to.<br/>
<br/>
It's the memories that Braydon put in your mask while wearing it. Three evenings and nights of hot Gillian Kiefer-on-Will Prescott action.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon actually reminded you to take your mask home so you could relive the last three days from his point of view. (And he declined to take his mask home, to your relief.) You hid the mask in your room, saving it for later, but the knowledge of what was up their waiting kept you jumpy and distracted all evening, to the point that your dad spoke sharply at you over dinner for passing him the butter when he distinctly asked you for the green beans. It felt like your guts had a steel cable running through them, attaching your brain to your cock, and every time you thought about what was to come, the thought cranked at the cable and pulled up your cock and rattled your guts all at the same time. Your homework was a shambles of half-finished math problems and reading that gives out in the middle of paragraphs. Six times you took out the mask, eyeing it greedily, wincing in pain over the wait and promising yourself that you'd be good until it was time to go to bed. Once you almost gave in, and raised it halfway to your face before thrusting it back down and under the mattress. By the time ten-thirty came, you were sprawling on your bed and recalling your episode with Gillian in the back booth at the Koffee Kauldron, and hoping fervently that the memories to come would at least equal those.<br/>
<br/>
When the lights under your door finally blinked out, you ripped off your clothes, tore the mask from its hiding place, and thrashed your way excitedly into bed. You covered your face with the mask and fell into a deep sleep.<br/>
<br/>
The clock said "12:23" when you awoke. You'd turned over, and the mask had fallen off. For a moment you were disoriented, and then it all came tumbling in. The three days that Braydon spent as you are now as vividly real in your memory as any other days in your life. More vivid, even, for they are so recent.<br/>
<br/>
And you practically drown yourself in them, and in the six times that Gillian let Will Prescott thrust and spend himself inside her after making a Thanksgiving meal of her soft, warm, yielding flesh.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
"Hey, you have a good night?" Braydon asks. It's the start of second period, and he's loitering by the door to Mr. Hawks's room. There are dark circles under his eyes, just as there are dark circles under yours. You fell asleep a little after one-thirty, but woke twice, needing to change into new underwear.<br/>
<br/>
You crinkle your eyes in embarrassment, and nod. You really wish he didn't think he had to come find you special to ask about your night. He'd see you in fourth period anyway.<br/>
<br/>
But then he pulls you to the side. "We got a problem," he says. "Christian found me first thing this morning, wanting to know about those masks we were supposed to get. I gave him that story about how we couldn't find anyone, but now he wants to meet us first thing after school at the clubhouse. He says the three of us will go out to get three new masks."<br/>
<br/>
"But we haven't made up replacements for the ones we used!"<br/>
<br/>
"No shit. But there's no one at his house in the daytime. Can you skip school, sneak into his place, and make up two new ones?"<br/>
</span></div></div>


path: 1133211121111122211121221111121111
author_id: seuzz
title: The Monster on Top of the Bed
chapter_content:
<div><div> <span>"I can't -- !" you start to exclaim, but Braydon shushes you. "I can't break into Christian's house," you hiss.<br/>
<br/>
"You don't have to," he hisses back. "I know where they keep a spare key. Just drive out there, get the book, go out to the clubhouse, and make some more masks."<br/>
<br/>
"Why can't you?"<br/>
<br/>
"Because I got a Latin test sixth period. If you can do it, you better hurry. It'll take you two hours to polish the masks after you make them."<br/>
<br/>
You almost tell him that you can't do it, that you should come clean with Christian about what you really did with those two masks. But that would lead to bad things. <br/>
<br/>
Under the impetus of panic, you race to the student parking lot.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * *</div><br/>
You park half a block from Christian's house and sprint the rest of the way there. As Braydon predicted, the driveway is empty, and no one answers the front door when you ring the bell. So the coast is clear.<br/>
<br/>
The spare key is in the back yard, hidden inside a hole in the bough of the biggest tree in the yard, and you grimace as you gingerly slip your hand inside it, for it's just the kind of place that you'd imagine a tarantula hiding. But there's only a nail and the key.<br/>
<br/>
You're on the porch and unlocking the back door when you realize that all of Braydon's calculations are of no good. Besides making the masks, you will have to make the brain bands that go into them, and there is no freaking way you can polish two masks and carve two brain bands before school lets out. But you wait until you're inside and upstairs in Christian's bedroom before sending Braydon a recriminating text. Maybe he'll have an idea, and you might as well get the book in case he does.<br/>
<br/>
Either Christian uses a version of your filing system, or he thinks that the best way to hide something valuable is to shove it under a bunch of junk, but it's half buried under books and papers, graphic novels, video game cases and comic books. You flip through it, hoping that Christian kept the shopping lists inside the book. He did.<br/>
<br/>
Braydon gets back to you quickly: <i>sending kirkham 2 help</i>. The fuck? Then it clarifies for you. Braydon will send his golem to the school. It can do the scut polishing work while you handle the brain band chores. You'll be cutting it very close, but you might be able to get it done, if you hurry.<br/>
<br/>
Then another text comes in from Braydon: <i>see if chr has bands already.</i> That's a thought. You search the room for any sign that Christian already has some blank brain bands made up. You do find three metal strips, and they have a kind of hinky, sticky glow about them. And one of them, when you peer at it closely, has a couple of scratches in it, like the start of a rune. It's not much, but it is something.<br/>
<br/>
You're texting a reply when Braydon hits you with another: <i>cant find k, wait t next pd.<br/>
<br/>
Shit and piss.</i> You fall onto Christian's bed and try furiously working through your options. You could go off to the clubhouse and get started on the masks, on the assumption that robo-Kirkham will meet you there eventually. But that would be a wasted trip if he's absent from school. It wouldn't surprise you if the golem did skip school, out of pique at having been bested by the likes of you and Braydon. On balance, you decide, it's best to stay at Christian's and use the tools to work on the brain bands until you hear one way or another about the golem. At least the instructions for making the bands are pretty clear.<br/>
<br/>
And that's how you happen to be in a bedroom not your own when you hear the downstairs door softly open and close.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
It's a little after eleven, and you're wondering with intense fear and irritation what's happened to Braydon and robo-Kirkham when you hear the sound. You've been concentrating on carving the runes into the band, but you're not so wrapped up in it that you miss the click of the latch downstairs. You bolt upright.<br/>
<br/>
Is it Christian's mom?<br/>
<br/>
Your terror subsides slightly when you remind yourself that your truck is not parked in front of the house, so there's no reason she would think there's an intruder. You just have to keep very quiet until you hear the latch again.<br/>
<br/>
The terror rises anew when you hear the soft but unmistakable sound of feet on the stairs. Christian's bedroom door is slightly ajar. If the person passes without looking inside, they'll miss you. But if they happen to glance through the crack --<br/>
<br/>
Quickly but quietly you drop to the floor. Your heart is hammering. In an excess of caution, you slide under the bed, dragging the book and your work with you. The underside of the bed is foul with dust and dirty clothes, and too late you worry about sneezing or coughing away your hiding place.<br/>
<br/>
And too late do you realize that if it's Christian himself, he <i>will</i> come in here and he <i>might</i> look for the book that you're clutching, and he even might look under the bed to retrieve some socks.<br/>
<br/>
You bite your fist to keep from shrieking when the bedroom door opens and footsteps come in. Another door opens. The closet? There's a sound of hangers sliding. A rustle, and the light <i>flphpf</i> of a garment hitting the ground.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, it's either his mom or Christian himself.<br/>
<br/>
Footsteps again, coming closer. The mattress and frame creak as something drops onto it. Something heavy and alive, for the bed groans as the weight shifts. The covers move, and the edge of the sheets lift so that you've a view of the bottom three inches of the room.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It's Goldilocks,</i> you mordantly tell yourself. She came upstairs to try out Baby Bear's bed.<br/>
<br/>
But of course not. It's Christian, coming home for -- <br/>
<br/>
<i>Oh Jesus!</i> Your eyes nearly pop from your head. <i>He came home at lunch to jerk off!</i><br/>
<br/>
You clench your eyes shut and bury your face in your hands as the bed shifts and groans in a slow rhythm.<br/>
<br/>
That's it. The next time you jerk off, you will check under your bed to make sure there's no one under there. Maybe -- and so rattled are your wits that you actually race after the joking thought so that you won't pay attention to what's going on up there -- maybe that's why the monsters move out from under kids' beds when they hit puberty. The monsters are too horrified by what's going on under the covers of the average thirteen-year-old boy.<br/>
<br/>
Then the gasps and the moans start. You grimace and wince and -- <br/>
<br/>
And you raise your head. Either Christian gets really effeminate sounding when he's entertaining himself, or it's a girl making those noises.<br/>
<br/>
Oh God. It can't be. That would be even worse than it being Christian.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Is Christian's mom doing it to herself in her son's bed?</i><br/>
<br/>
It's all you can do to keep from bursting from under the bed, to run screaming downstairs. Even if you got in trouble, even if you got arrested, it would teach his mom not to do that!<br/>
<br/>
Wretched minutes are chased by more wretched minutes. The noises continue without ever approaching a climax, or even quickening.<br/>
<br/>
Then your cell phone chimes. You almost levitate with panic, and scramble your fingers over the screen, hoping to mute it without setting off any other noises. You hold your breath.<br/>
<br/>
It was overheard, and the bed creaks and jumps. There's a long pause, then bare feet drop onto the floor right by your hand. You cringe, waiting for them to turn, and for the legs to kneel, and for a face to appear.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, they disappear again, briefly, to reappear inside some pink Converse sneakers. There's a long sigh topside, then the intruder walks out of the bedroom. You listen intently. A minute later you hear the downstairs door slam.<br/>
<br/>
Cautiously you crawl out from under the bed, and look around. All is disordered as before, with school stuff hanging off the desk and the sheets and covers of the bed twisted up. But it doesn't feel nearly as disordered as your nerves.<br/>
<br/>
The text is from Braydon, telling you that robo-Kirkham is on his way to the clubhouse. You gather up the book and the brain bands, and with every fiber of your body twanging you tiptoe downstairs. You see no one, hear no one, as you let yourself out the back, lock the door, and return the key to the hiding place. You sneak into the alley behind Christian's house, and run all the way down to the intersecting street before working your way back up the road to where your truck is parked. Not until you're halfway to the elementary school do you calm down from your adventure.<br/>
<br/>
And then, dreadful to realize, you remember that you'll have to sneak back into Christian's house to return the book to his room.<br/>
<br/>
<div align="center">* * * * *</div><br/>
David Kirkham -- or a thing that looks just like him -- is lounging insolently by the door to the basement when you pull. "Ah, fuck," it groans as you get out. "You did show up."<br/>
<br/>
"What did Braydon tell you to do?"<br/>
<br/>
"To help you out." Its voice is filled with loathing. "The fuck are we doing?"<br/>
<br/>
"Arts and crafts. Your job is to run the polisher."<br/>
<br/>
"It's not your fucking knob I gotta polish, is it?" it says with the expression of a one about to hurl every meal it ever ate.<br/>
<br/>
"No. I'll show you when we're inside."<br/>
<br/>
It doesn't take long to get to work, and thirty minutes later the golem is buffing a mask and you're working on the brain band. But your mind is elsewhere, on pink Converse sneakers.<br/>
<br/>
That wasn't Christian's mom in his bed, you're thinking. But who was it, then?</span></div></div>


