Chapter #63New Faces, New Places by: Seuzz   "So we could just make you up a new face," Joe says.
"I'd still have to take this mask off," you point out.
"I can move fast," Joe says. "No fears."
You're rather tired of having Seth Javits kicking around inside your head by this point, so you shrug. "Where do we get the face?"
"We make a new one," Joe says, and grins. "Frank, you're gonna be a daddy."
"The fuck?" Frank demands.
"Yeah, another thing me and Dad spotted in the Libra. First spell actually lets you merge more than one face inside a mask. It creates a new face, a combination of the two or three or ten that you put into it. Then you seal it up. The easiest thing would be for you and me put our faces into a mask. Well," he shrugs. "Easiest and nicest thing would be to just give Will a copy of my face without yours to mess it up, but Dad says--"
Frank is suddenly on top of Joe, pounding him hard. Joe howls. "Now is your face gonna look so pretty?" Frank says as he lets his brother up.
"Pretty as ever, Frank," Joe groans as he sits up, clutching his stomach and chest. "Your aim's as bad as your looks."
* * * * *
It's quickly accomplished. There are lots of blank masks in the garage still, the spoils of the raid on Westside, and Joe and Frank each take turns putting one on. There's also some ready-made sealant, and you yourself coat the inner surface of the mask. An image floats on the outer surface, but you can't make it out clearly. There is no name on the inside, for of course there is no mind band attached. You lay in the middle of the floor and grit your teeth as Joe looms over you.
* * * * *
"About fucking time, Prescott," Joe says as you open your eyes. "You must like your beauty rest."
You sit up, feeling a little stiff and woozy. You blink, and gingerly touch your face.
You have one, at least. A nose, cheeks, lips, chin. You brush your hair. It's short and stiff and thick. "How do I look?"
"Mirror's in my bedroom. Not awful," Joe sighs. "But you picked up more of Frank than of me."
"Good genes win out," Frank says smugly.
"Crap rises to the surface," Joe retorts even more smugly.
You totter into the bedroom, to the mirror. A strange face gazes back at you.
Not bad, you reflect on your reflection. Solid, even a little adult; armed with a fake ID, you'd probably have no problem getting into bars and clubs. It's dark in aspect: dark hair, dark brows. So Joe is right, it looks much more like Frank's than Joe's, and your expression is sour like Frank's when you frown. But the smile is Joe's--wide and bright--and you decide you will try to smile more than you frown.
The rest of your body is also solid, which shouldn't be a surprise, since Joe and Frank are both big. Broad shoulders, big arms and chest, some fur on your forearms. You grit your teeth as you reach into the front of your pants. Balls and cock feel normal--
"Yeah, you can get some work outta them," Joe drawls behind you, and you whirl guiltily. He laughs, and puts his arm around your shoulder. "Can you live with it? You're a little big to be our little brother, but-- Say, you need a name."
"What's wrong with 'Will'?" you demand. "It's what I'm used to."
"Yeah, what's wrong with his own name," Frank says, joining you. He looks you up and down appraisingly.
"Nothing," Joe says. "But with a new face I figured you might-- Hey, how about 'Chet'? You could be Chet."
"Don't be an idiot," Frank says. "'Will' is fine."
"We don't go by our real names," Joe insists. "'Chet' fits the pattern."
"No it doesn't."
"Who's 'Chet'?" you ask.
"Chet Morton," Joe says. "Hardy Boys. That's where me and Frank--"
"And Chet's not their brother," Frank says. "He's just their friend."
"Technically, we're not brothers either," Joe says. "So it's--"
"Still doesn't fit the pattern," Frank says.
"Then how about 'Larry'," Joe says sourly. "He can be Larry, you can be Moe, and I can be-- Woo woo woo woo woo!" He flutters his hand in front of Frank's face. "Ow! Ow ow ow ow ow!" He sinks to his knees as Frank grasps his wrist.
"Stick to 'Will', Prescott," Frank says. "I mean, stick to 'Will'. Or leave it to Dad. Speaking of which, we should take off now."
"Take off where?" you ask.
"Olympia. There's no reason to stick around here. I've already got the rest of the mask stuff packed."
"Olympia?" you ask.
"Where our dad lives." He puts out his hand, and you take it in a handshake. "With your new face, it's now officially the first day of the rest of your life."
* * * * *
"Don't you guys need to withdraw from school, close up the house, stuff like that?" you ask as the three of you slide into the truck. Joe takes the wheel, and you squeeze in between him and Frank. The sudden departure has left you feeling dazed. Does it have to be so sudden? And in the middle of the night? It's nearly ten o'clock.
"We'll take care of that tomorrow," Frank says. "Are you up to making a third trip?" he asks Joe.
"You got the rest of the pizzas?" Joe asks. "Then I am. Oh, man, Larry-- I mean, Will. You're gonna love this next part." He starts the truck, and lurches into the street.
"How far is it?" you ask. "I don't know of any place called 'Olympia' around here."
"Three thousand miles, as the crow flies," Joe says. "Minus nine hours, as I drive it, though."
"Minus--?"
"Don't break his brain, Joe," Frank says. "Breaking his face was bad enougha."
You lapse into a puzzled silence.
It's a short but uneventful drive until you hit the interstate, and neither Joe nor Frank talks much. Traffic thins out until you're a dozen miles out of town. Then Frank glances over his shoulder. "Looks like you're clear, Joe. Punch it."
Joe lets out a long, loud whoop, and you sink back into the seat as he accelerates hard. The speedometer creeps up past sixty, then seventy, and eighty, and ninety. The needle strains against the far end of the meter, then falls back to zero. Joe continues to accelerate.
The headlamps dim and go out, and even the hum of the engine fades. Your stomach and heart seem to press through your back into the seat cushions, then release into weightlessness. Silence and darkness enfold; the car seems suspended in nothingness.
Your jaw drops as you peer out the window. The stars are no longer points: they streak and smear, scratching bright, harsh trails in the inky void. The landscape flutters darkly by, like curtains flapping in a soundless wind. You look over at Joe, and gasp to see his eyes glowing. He grins, and light seems to seep from between his teeth. Slowly he turns to face you. It's a terrible, frightening sight, as though he is burning away from the inside. You jump as something clutches your hand. It's only Frank, though, and his face--thankfully unaltered--wears a tight but reassuring smile.
The stars stretch in long arcs and shred the sky with their light. A glow appears in the west, and a great pillar of fire thrusts into the sky, its light obliterating the night. You shut your eyes against it and the landscape, through which you are plunging as though through dense clouds of black cobwebs ...
And then with a teeth-shattering jolt everything snaps back to normal. You are on a country lane weaving between tall mountains with the sun shining cheerfully overhead, touching their snowcapped peaks with gentle rays. Fearfully you look over at the speedometer: forty-five.
Your nerves puddle in your feet. "What was that?" you gasp.
"Me breaking every speed limit known to science," Joe laughs. "It's yesterday, and we'll be in Olympia in ten minutes."
"Yesterday?"
"That's right. I went so fast we went backward in time."
You stare and stare. It can't be. But here you are high up in the mountains, and it's late afternoon, and-- "But--"
"Don't try to figure it out," Frank says. "I never could. Suffice it to say right now, back in Saratoga Falls, we're putting on masks of Eric Kim and his goons, and in a few hours we'll get on the highway to drive out here."
"And I've already been here," Joe says. "Drove out yesterday--or today, as we're experiencing it again--and had a long, long conference with Dad. Then I drove back the same way, getting back an hour after I left. And here we are again. Pass me that pizza, Frank. I'm famished."
"You mean we might run into ourselves?" It's the only thought that you can form.
"Whoa, you hear that Frank?" Joe laughs. "It took us five trips before you grasped that possibility! No, there's no danger of that," he continues as Frank glowers at him. "The universe doesn't tolerate paradoxes. So we'll be checking into a motel, giving Dad's place a wide berth until I've left again."
"What do we do until then?"
"Hang out," Frank says. "Until Uncle Fyodor shows up."
* * * * *
Eventually, a little town comes into view. Joe pulls into the parking lot of a small motel. The three of you dismount; Joe gets your trio checked in; and you move all your gear into a cabin.
It's close and musty, like it hasn't been aired out in weeks. Joe flops onto the bed and devours the rest of the pizza. "Recharging," he says. "Those trips take it out of me."
"Pace yourself," Frank says. "We're gonna be here awhile."
"Who says? We can go out."
"What about those paradoxes you're always warning us against?"
"Easy to dodge. And fun, too." With a grin he opens Frank's bag and pulls out a mask. "No chance of being recognized under these." You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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