This choice: Put the mask on yourself • Go Back...Chapter #35Tempted by the Face of Another by: Nostrum   At last, you've achieved your original goal. On the desk before you is a mask, containing the face and form of another person, sealed and ready to wear. All you need to do is to put it on.
Yet you hesitate. You've put immense work into it and taken terrific risks. You've broken into Professor Blackwell's house – twice, even! – and taught yourself an arcane and obscure science without the help of a teacher or mentor. But mixed with your labors are huge risks. Yes, you've done it alone, but have you done it correctly? Yes, you've studied an occult craft, but have you actually mastered it?
Yes, you have a mask. But will it transform its wearer, as Taylor's mask does? Or will it plunge him into a coma, as Sawyer's did?
Your brother's voice snaps you out of your thoughts. "So who gets to try it out?"
"I do", you reply.
"How come?"
"Because I'm the only one who hasn't got to try one of these things out yet. You and Taylor got into Scott's mask, but I—"
"Well, whose fault is that? Besides—"
"Just shut up. Here." You scroll through your cell phone until you find Taylor's number. "If something goes wrong, if I put it on and I don't wake up in—" You mull it over, trying to remember how long Taylor and Robert were knocked out for.
But Robert doesn't give you a chance. "You know, we made it with my stuff, so it should be mine, so it should be me who—"
"Yeah, maybe it was your stuff, but I was the one who made it."
"Yeah, and what if you screwed up?", he jeers.
"Yeah, what if did? That's another reason I'm not letting you put it on. It's too dangerous."
He thrusts his lower lip out. "So why's it dangerous for me but not for you?"
"That's not what I'm saying and you know it. Come on, Bobby, give me a chance to act like the older brother, okay?"
"You always act like the older brother", he mutters. "And don't call me 'Bobby'."
"Just call Taylor in ten minutes if I don't wake up", you tell him as you drop the phone on the table and snatch up the mask. "He should know how to fix everything."
"So why don't we call him out here to supervise?"
"Because he might not like seeing us do this." Or because, you silently add to yourself, it would be fun to surprise him while wearing it.
You hop onto the table and lay on your back, holding the mask over your face. You draw a deep breath, close your eyes, and lower it. It is very cold and heavy as it weighs on your face, and for a moment you feel as though you are being suffocated.
Then the mask grows very heavy. It feels like an anvil sitting on your face, and your face is dough, and the mask is sinking down through the front of your skull. But your limbs are paralyzed, and when the mask sinks through your head and through table beneath, it drags you down with it, into someplace warm.
--
You wake with a groan, feeling as though a boxer punched you squarely on the face. You feel disoriented as you sit up, and find Robert staring at you. His eyes are shining, but his mouth is hanging open.
You stretch your back and arms, feeling like you've woken from a deep sleep, and are startled by the feeling of new muscles. You raise your hands before your face. They don't look too different, but there is something slightly "off" about them. But when your eyes drift down to your forearms ...
"Bro", Robert says. "You know what you look like?"
The question alarms you. "I don't look like a mutant or a birth defect or something, do I?" You start at the sound of your voice. It sounds like you're talking inside a metal drum—deeper and more resonant.
"No." Robert laughs. "But you sure as fuck don't look like you anymore!"
You don't feel like yourself anymore either. You feel knotted with muscles in unexpected places. In your upper back, in your shoulders, in your arms.
You grip your left forearm, which is much bigger now. Where before you could almost touch your middle finger to your thumb when clasping your forearm, now the thick muscles, which flex just beneath the tight skin, keep them a good two inches or more apart. You slide your palm up under your sleeve and flex, feeling a bulge as big and hard as a baseball. You rub your hand across the front of your t-shirt—which clings more tightly to your chest—and feel thick pads of hard flesh where before you could trace ribs. You lift your shirt and touch a flat, hard stomach, and with a fingertip trace the shape of bone-hard abdominal muscles.
"So who is this guy?" Robert asks as you hop to your feet. You wince and kick off your too-small shoes, and waggle your toes. Your pants feel a little snugger, too.
"His name's Marc Garner. He's the captain of the school soccer team."
"He's a friend of yours?"
You shake your head, then gingerly touch your face. You can't tell anything by touch, not until you rake your fingers through your hair. The thatch of straw has gone, replaced by a rug of spiky hair across the top and a nice, clean, faded trim on the sides and back. Your teeth feel different, too, and your roll your tongue around inside your mouth and suck your teeth. There's a missing molar, and two other teeth are squeezed up close where before there was a gap you are always getting meat stuck between.
"So how'd you make a copy of him?"
"Mirror", you mutter. "Mirror!" You snap your fingers at Robert. "Isn't there a mirror—?"
There is one, against the wall, a full-length one, and you push aside a table to get to it. (And as you push it aside, you marvel at how easily it slides away. These new muscles aren't just for show!) The mirror's surface is dusty and the light is dim, but there's no mistaking the face and form that advance to meet you.
It's Marc Garner, only in your clothes.
Your skin is flushed but clear, with cheeks that shine like apples. Your mouth is small until you grin, and then your lips flare wide to flash two rows of pearly teeth. Your eyes are dark, but your hair—standing stiffly in those spikes—is a dirty blonde several shades darker than your own. Your features are regular, even, handsome. Marc doesn't particularly look like his sisters, but there's no missing that the Garners have great genes. You can't stop grinning at yourself.
"This is so cool", your brother says. "I wish I it was me who put it on. Can I try it?"
"Sure. Gimme a chance to enjoy it first." You pull your t-shirt off over your head, and gape at your new torso. It is taut and sculpted, with defined pecs and abs that show faintly when you flex them. You raise your arms and flex your biceps. They pop out and writhe.
"Want me to give you some quality time by yourself?" Robert's smirking face appears in the mirror behind your shoulder.
"Shut up. Tell me what happened when I put the mask on." But you can't tear your eyes from your reflection.
"It wasn't much to see, actually. You put the mask on, and it was on top of your face for a second or two, and then it was like it just melted. And I got up close to see what it was doing to you, but it did it already. You were this guy! I made sure you were still breathing and stuff," he adds. "Listened for you heart, and you were alive, so—"
"How long was I out for?" Your cock is getting stiff, so you turn your back on the mirror and put your shirt back on before Robert can notice.
"I dunno. A couple of minutes. I shook you a couple of times, just a little, to see if I could wake you up. Then I thought that might be a bad idea, so I just waited." He reaches for your face. "Come on, give me a chance."
"In a minute."
You return to the table and grab up your notebook and a pencil. Gotta get the experience down. All of it! Quickly, as each thought comes, you jot it down. What you did, what you felt, how you feel now. Even writing feels different, you marvel. Like the muscles in my hands are arranged differently. You squint at the words. Has my handwriting chanted? You also feel like your posture is different. You are sitting up straighter, and you feel a coiled strength.
But as you try to record—for science! you tell yourself—the results of the experiment, other thoughts force their way to the forefront. There are ways of copying memories, too. If I had Marc's memories I could have his confidence and his charisma. And with his memories and his body, I could slip into his life. Take it over, take everything he has.
I could replace him. Be him. I could be Marc Garner.
And that's exactly the sort of thing that Blackwell is probably doing.
--
"The fuck are you doing?", you holler as the guy who looks like Marc Garner starts to wriggle out of his pants.
"These things are too small for me!", your brother cries as he pulls his jeans down off his hips.
"I don't wanna see your trouser snake! I don't wanna see his!"
"They're too small for me!"
It's Robert inside the mask now, and he's awake now not a minute after putting it on. His shirt and pants are stretched tight across Marc's much larger frame, and Robert is panting and sweating as he peels them off.
"Then maybe you should take the mask off", you tell him.
"No! Lemme just take my clothes off! Or let me put yours on!"
Gross! you think. But you also think, Maybe we could go buy a set to go with the mask.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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