You are David. You're 27 and at the moment, you're sat in the driver's seat of a taxi cab with your feet up on the dash, slowly and mournfully singing the theme tune to Friends, a fun thing to do when life is particularly depressing, as it is now. About three weeks, two days, four hours ago, your girlfriend, Annabelle, left, along with your TV, your computer, your DVD collection, and everything else she thought she might like or be able to sell. She even took the light bulbs. You now live in a very expensive bare box in the center of town, struggling to pay double rent for the remaining two months until the contract runs out.
Out of necessity, in order to meet your rent and replace your worldly possessions, you work two jobs. During the week, you work in as an admin assistant in the offices of a local newspapers, holding onto the vain hope that one of your superiors might eventually notice you and your creative arts degree and elevate you to a reporter. On the weekend, you're a taxi driver. On this particular Sunday, you're parked outside departures, waiting for a passenger.
"So no one told you life was gonna be this waaaaay. Your job's a-"
The violent screech of tyres grabs your attention. One of the other taxis has braked to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road, inches from the bonnet, is a small, wizened asian man in a magenta robe that reaches down to the ground, the muddied hem trailing in the puddles. The poor old guy is frozen in fear, trembling as the driver shouts abuse and slurs, before reversing and accelerating past.
You climb out of the car. As you approach him, you see that the man is ancient, with a face like a shriveled walnut. Gold and gems glitter around his fingers. "You alright, sir? Do you need a ride?" He merely stares at you, confused and wary, and you start guiding him off the road towards your cab. "You can't stand there, it's not safe. Is there somewhere you need to be?"
As if understanding, he reaches into a robe, producing a crumpled piece of thick paper, which he pushes into your hands.
To the great and powerful Feng Li, Master of the Seven Arts, keeper of the Veil of Twisting Shadows, acolyte of the Mighty Fu himself, Emperor off the Terracotta Kingdoms, last and most feared avatar of the immortal Dragon Lord, and thrice winner of the golden wand award,
The Unbroken Circle humbly summons you to our annual Solstice and Champagne Soiree, beginning at 9pm on the 21st of December at the Grand Hotel and continuing for the following three nights, featuring live acts, dead acts, seminars by the governing heads and leading experts of the western wizarding world, and sinful delights that will tempt even your most discerning and depraved appetites. We hope that your visit may go some way towards healing the schism that has existed between the western and eastern magic communities for so long.
P.S. Due to ongoing difficulties with the intercontinental floo network, please find enclosed first class airline tickets, which will transport you in a mundane yet comfortable fashion.
P.P.S. As a display of good faith, please also find enclosed an object of considerable power, a Brush capable of molding flesh with a touch. Consider this a gift from the Unbroken Circle to you.
You read the letter, skimming over the parts that don't make much sense to find what you need to know. "Mister Li - Grand Hotel - 9pm. Gotcha." Guiding the old man into the rear seat of your taxi, you go to take the suitcase clutched in his hand. He shrieks, fighting you away and clutching the bag tighter.
"Okay, fine," you shrug, climbing into the drivers seat, resetting the fare meter and pulling away.
As you drive through the city towards the Grand Hotel, you keep glancing back at him. He cowers on the backseat, staring around him in confusion, like he's never seen a car before. The traffic picks up as you get onto the inner ring road, and you focus on the road. People drive like idiots in the wet conditions. "So you're some sort of magician, huh? Don't suppose you can make all this traffic disappear," you joke, glancing up into the rear view mirror.
The back seat is awash with smoke. Barely visible through the dense whirls, the passenger can be seen sucking on a hookah, smoke pouring from his nose, his mouth, his ears. "Hey! Read the sign! No smoking!" you yell, banging on the glass, perhaps a little harder than you intended because the old guy startles and drops the hookah, looking up in fright as if he's about to have a heart attack. Then... he vanishes.
You stare into the back seat in disbelief. One second he'd been there, the next... poof. The seat is most definitely empty and there was nowhere to hide. A hundred questions crowd your brain. Was it a trick? Is he hiding somewhere, or had he...teleported? Was it magic? Science? Or were you losing it? Had life finally gotten to you, causing you to imagine him all along?
More importantly, aren't you supposed to be driving a cab?
You turn back around just as the car drifts off the road, smashing through a plastic barrier fencing off a construction site. Orange cones bounce off your bonnet. You slam on the brakes, sliding to a long halt in the mud. Steam pours from your dented hood. Limbs shaking, you climb out, throwing open the passenger door and wafting aside the smoke that pours out. As it clears, you confirm what you'd already known - as if by magic, the man was gone.
All except for his bag. As you lift it, it comes away from the seat with a sticky slurrrp. An oily goop is leaking from the bottom of the bag, leaving a spreading, black stain on the rear seat. You pull open the bag.
A handful of gold coins covered in strange symbols. Reams of parchment and quills. Glass jars filled with multicoloured powders, dessicated animal parts, glowing liquids. And, finally, a brush made of dark wood, the bristles glistening and dripping with the black goo. You lift this item and reach out two fingers to touch the wet bristles.
It seems to be... latex, you discover, your fingers sinking deep into the liquid. As you try to extract them however, you discover your fingers are now gone, the knuckle joint replaced with a smooth patch of dark latex. It's acid! Desperately you grab at the lump of goop before it can erode the rest of your hand and to your surprise, it peels away as easily as a sticking plaster and your fingers spring back into existence, undamaged, pink, and whole.
Magic, a thought in your head keep insisting. It's magic. There's no other explanation. Only after you've used the brush to erase and return your fingers multiple times do you finally concede that it is magic. You find and reread the letter. This must be the brush it mentions, capable of remodeling flesh. Fascinated, you use the Brush again, this time painting your hand into the first thing that comes to mind, a lizard claw. Moments later, you flex the talon-tipped fingers of your immaculately-rendered, vicious-looking appendage, the muscles moving beneath the green, latex scales that coat it. You use the brush to erase the entire claw then repaint your original hand onto the nub of the elbow. Finally you peel off the rubber.
This is amazing! Real magic! With this, you can become anyone, perhaps even anything. You can...
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