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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "Carlos Explains It All"  "Long-term play" versus "short-term play." Impersonating one of these guys—Fairfax, Montoya, Hollister, or Shank—versus impersonating an outsider. There's a big difference between using this magical stuff to have fun with friends, and using it against other people. And if it were up to you— If it was still your book, and your decision— If you were in charge— Whew! You're kind of glad you're not. But if you were, then you'd probably do the "short-term play." It seems a whole lot less scuzzy. Yet it doesn't matter in the current case. Fairfax, Montoya, and Hollister, at least, are going for the "long-term play." They're going to kidnap some of your classmates and use magical masks to take their places. * * * * * "I wouldn't call it 'kidnapping'," Fairfax tells Keith when your friend uses that word. He points his chopsticks at him. "It's not like we're going to be locking them up in a basement somewhere." "But you have to get them out of the way," Keith insists. He's put down his own chopsticks, because Tilley is a dumbass and can't manipulate his chopsticks while arguing. "You can't go out and pretend to be these people if—" "I know that," says Fairfax. He says it patiently. But he says everything patiently. Which isn't what you're used to, because he's a red-head, and you're used to the old cliche about red-heads being excitable and fiery-tempered. Hollister, for instance, has reddish-gold hair, and he squirms and bounces and grins even as he slurps down chow mein. Cassie Harper, another red-head at your school, talksfastwithallherwordsjumbledup that it's hardly worth trying to pay attention to what she says. But Fairfax is so low-key he's practically monotone. Maybe it's that whole "serious science nerd" thing he's got going. His hair is red, but it's shorn in a close crew cut, and his black-frame glasses shout "Kennedy-era rocket scientist," not "urban-core hipster." His face and arms are almost as pasty as his bleached t-shirt, and there's not a smudge of dirt or grime on his khaki trousers (which are, to be fair, rumpled and creaseless). Even his black Converse high-tops seem like a throwback to the 1950s. So when he starts tossing around phrases like "long-term play" and "sociological investigation" and "experimental form," he makes this hinky scheme for replacing and impersonating classmates sound a lot more reasonable than it really is. "You see, the real genius behind this layer," he continues in his low, quiet baritone, "is in the way it is able to hide the victim of the impersonation, unharmed, in plain sight." He picks up the mask of Carlos Montoya with one hand and with his chopsticks in the other points to its white, inner surface. "You'll notice," he says, "that this layer is the exact same color as the golem." He points to the statue, which is propped up against the opposite wall. "Now, I can't say for sure that this is what is going on, because the author of the book doesn't explain the theory, he only says what it does. But I think—" He directs a withering glance at Hollister, who has just noisily slurped up some messy noodles. "What?" says Mike. "I know you understand this," Fairfax says, "because we've talked about it. But can you keep quiet long enough for me to—?" "Yeah yeah. But—" Mike half-hurls himself across the communal space to grab the box of white rice. "Can you make it fast? I told my mom I'd be home by seven." "You can go home now, if you want," says Fairfax coldly. "We don't exactly need you." "Hey Will," says Carlos. "Did you want to record a video bit? For the movie we watched yesterday? Keith mentioned you might need the extra credit—" "Huh? No, I wanna hear about this." "Well, we don't need you either," says Hollister. He hops to his feet and dusts his knees. "In fact, let's go do that now." He slaps Carlos in the shoulder. You stare. "What? What are you—?" "They're gonna use your mask, dude," Keith says as Mike winks at you. "That's what they did with me for my bit on Jaws. Mike put it on and pretended to be me, that's how come—" "Oh, Jesus!" Your mouth falls open. "Right, and we got some of your clothes already," Mike chortles. "So I'll just use your face and shit and make you sound like a genius." Carlos is already rummaging through the foot locker, and you catch your breath when you see your sky-blue t-shirt and a pair of slacks come out. Fairfax gnaws on a little Peking duck until they're gone, then lays it aside and picks the mask back up. "Okay, so as I was saying, the color of the layer inside this mask matches the color of the golem—" You attention briefly wanders as you stare at him. That wasn't him here yesterday, when you watched the movie, even though you saw the same pale figure with red hair and glasses and white t-shirt and khakis. That wasn't him, even though that person talked in the same low-key manner and quietly ordered his classmates about as they set up the TV. That wasn't him, even though that guy's eyes were also alive with deep-plunging intelligence as he asked you how you were doing in Mr. Hawks's "Film as Literature" class. That wasn't Philip Fairfax with you. It was a fake. This guy, the guy lecturing in the droning monotone, was up at the mall with Carson Ioeger and James Lamont, where he was goofing off and being very, very stupid. He was up at the mall being you. And you "remembered" all that after waking up again to the smell of Chinese food. You remembered driving Fairfax's car to your house, where you climbed the trellis outside your bedroom and popped through the window you usually keep cracked, and confidently put your hands on a t-shirt and slacks and boxers and socks and an old, semi-discarded pair of running shoes. You remembered driving up to the mall and changing clothes in the back seat. You remembered strutting through the mall and making small talk with Bethany Lewis at a kiosk, bragging casually about how brilliant you are in your classes and shrugging when she mentioned seeing you getting manhandled by the Molester one day. "That's just one of those things you gotta put up with," you said. "Like, I don't even feel sorry for him, 'cos, you know, it's all just—" You sniffed and smirked. "I'm sure it's 'cos he's got a tiny wiener." She tittered, and you laughed coarsely. Then James and Carson went by. You leaped on Carson's back with a cry of "Hey guys, what's up?" then slid off with a laugh when he cursed you. "Heard you guys almost burned down a garage. What's'a matter, can't finish a job half started?" And James said, "I need to stop telling Jenny about these things," and Carson said, "Where's your hat?" and you laughed and ran your fingers through your hair. "Tryin' to break the habit," you'd had to say, since the real Will had it with him with the guys at the complex ... It's very queer, imagining the very sober Philip Fairfax as the capering jackaninny you "remember" from Sunday. But he pulled it off. No one had suspected it wasn't you. And if you do this thing, no one will suspect that you're not ... some other person. "—it encases the victim, thereby effectively hiding them. Will," says Fairfax. "Are you zoning out on me?" "Huh? Oh. No. I was just—" You snap your fingers. "You were saying that this stuff inside the mask, when you put it on another person, it wraps around that person. So, you've got the person on the very inside, like a butterfly in a cocoon—" That had been Fairfax's metaphor. "And around that person is a layer like that golem thing over there." You point. "And on top of it is the face that's inside the mask." "Correct," says Fairfax, and he sounds impressed. He turns back to Tilley, whose jaw is hanging open. "So, we're basically turning the person into a golem, like that one over there"—he points—"when we put this mask on them. The person underneath disappears. They're still walking around, but they're hidden, and the beta intelligence takes over. And when you take the mask off them, it turns them back to normal, but they don't have any memories of what happened. It's like they went to sleep when you put it on them." He goes back to eating. You raise a hand—it's hard not to treat him like a teacher—and ask, "How do you know this for sure?" "We tested it," he says around a mouthful of egg roll. "On me, in fact. I put on this very mask after we'd coated it with the new compound. I turned into Carlos." He swallows. "We recorded the experiment—but we purged the file—no point leaving evidence around—or I could show you. I turned into Carlos and acted like him and had no idea where 'Philip' was. Then they took it off me. When I woke up I didn't remember anything. It was pretty strange, watching the video and knowing that the Carlos in the video, who was acting so confused, was really me." "So we do that to these other people?" you ask. "For the long-term play?" "That's right. We'll treat all our masks with this compound and put them onto the subjects. By putting our treated masks onto them, we will create duplicates of ourselves so we don't disappear from school or from our homes. Simultaneously, we will be hiding the originals, leaving us free to replace and impersonate them." "And we have to impersonate a cheerleader?" "No, not necessarily," Fairfax says. "Not if you don't want to impersonate a cheerleader. But that's the obvious impersonation, given that that's who most of us will be." He turns to Keith. "You guys can go ahead and pick your own. Or you can wait for us to suggest something after we've inserted ourselves into our new situations." Keith gives you a querying look. Next: "Konspiracy with Keith" |
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