Chapter 2: "Test Drive" (Patreon)

Hey everyone! I’m excited to share this brand-new chapter with you—24 pages total! (Full chapter in the description w/ Attachment Below) I gotta say that was a crazy amount of time into this Chapter alone but i really think it paid off, I also want to give you a peek at some of the inspirations behind the main illustration.

First, one of my favorite classic transformations is from the original Animated Series, where Stanley's head stretches and compresses like taffy. I wanted to pay homage to that iconic look by giving my own illustration a similar feel. As for Gabrielle’s sleepwear, it was inspired by Mai from Fatal Fury, with her Street Fighter 6 casual outfit in Gabrielle’s signature colors. Funny enough, I saw Gabrielle wearing a simple white tank top and gym shorts in a photo and thought, “That’s perfect!”—and ran with it.

Thanks so much for the support! Your support means a lot, pretty much the only reason I keep doing this is with my busy schedule is because of you guys, and I hope you’ll enjoy every twist and turn in this chapter.

Quick question: would you prefer that I keep posting the entire chapter here in the description, or are you good with just a Word Document attachment? My phone tends to freeze when I load the full 20+ pages, so I wanted to see what works best for you. Thanks for letting me know!

Now, without further ado... here’s Chapter 2: “Test Drive.”

Chapter 2: Test Drive 

“THUD—THUD—THUD.”

Gabrielle stirred in her bed, half-asleep, vaguely aware of heavy footsteps echoing through the apartment. She blinked groggily at the digital clock: 6:03 A.M. What on earth is that noise? Before she could fully register the danger, her bedroom door burst open with a thunderous crash.

WHAM!

In a move straight out of an action film, Phoebe launched into the room with a perfect flying kick, arms raised defensively. Gabrielle jolted upright so fast her heart nearly popped out of her chest.

Gabrielle (startled, half-asleep): “PHOEBE! What the—?!”

For a fraction of a second, they locked eyes in slow-motion—like the climactic stare-down in a blockbuster movie. Dust motes hung in the air around Phoebe’s sweeping silhouette. Then reality rushed back in.

Phoebe seized a fistful of Gabrielle’s T-shirt, practically hauling her out of bed.

Phoebe (urgent): “Gabs! Gabs! Gabs!”

Gabrielle (voice shaking): “WHAT!?”

Phoebe’s eyes blazed with adrenaline.

Phoebe: “Somebody broke into our apartment!”

Gabrielle’s exhaustion vanished, replaced by alarm.

Gabrielle: “What!? How?!”

Phoebe: “I don’t know! But hurry—c’mon!”

They hurried out of the bedroom. Gabrielle’s bare feet scuffed the hardwood floor as she followed Phoebe into their living room. It was wrecked: couch cushions tossed everywhere, coffee table flipped on its side, books and random gear strewn around like a localized hurricane had hit.

Gabrielle (wide-eyed): “Oh my God… what happened!?”

She was still half-asleep and overwhelmed by the mess; her mind felt cloudy, as though the night before was just out of reach. The last thing she remembered was stumbling for a glass of water in the middle of the night… then a complete blank.

Phoebe spun around, scanning the chaos.

Phoebe: “I don’t know. I got home, saw the door was ajar, and this place was trashed. So I started kicking every room down to catch the burglar off-guard, if they were still inside—but all I found was you, snoring.”

Gabrielle let out a yawn, still rattled.

Gabrielle: “It’s so strange. I didn’t hear anything last night. The last thing I remember is…”

She trailed off. Suddenly, something in her memory clicked—the dream. She recalled her face, green skin, and unstoppable powers swirling around her. No, that had to be just another weird nightmare, right?

A loud gasp escaped her lips. She clapped a hand to her cheek, feeling normal skin and bone. Thank goodness. Without another word, she bolted back into her bedroom and dashed for the bathroom mirror. Phoebe, still surveying the living room, overheard Gabrielle let out a loud sigh of relief.

Phoebe (calling after her): “Everything alright? Did you find something?”

Gabrielle stepped out of the bathroom, pressing a palm to her chest to calm her frantic heartbeat.

Gabrielle: “Where’s… The Mask?”

Instantly, Phoebe’s expression hardened. She turned back toward the couch, eyeing the scattered cushions.

Phoebe: “Last I remember, it was on the coffee table. But look at this place—I don’t see it anywhere.”

Gabrielle: “Could someone have taken it…?”

They exchanged worried glances. Then, as one, they turned to survey Gabrielle’s bedroom. The rumpled sheets were piled on the mattress, and the smaller decorative pillow had slid off onto the floor. But lying on the second pillow, tucked under the covers with only the corner sticking out from it… The Mask. They pulled the covers and there it was, that dull, greenish-brown artifact with the bronze nose plate looked weirdly innocent now, as though it had always been there.

Phoebe: “…You must’ve slept-walked or something, Gabs.”

Gabrielle: “I guess so. But it felt a lot more real than that. I had one of those dreams again. My face was green, cartoonish powers… the whole deal.”

Phoebe frowned, crossing her arms.

Phoebe: “What’d you do in the dream this time?”

Gabrielle tried to recall the details. Fleeting images rushed back—wild stunts, and…

Gabrielle: “Remember how my gear got soaked last week and pretty much died on me? In my dream, I—this is ridiculous—but I stole some insanely high-end equipment from Jungle City Studios.”

Phoebe (puzzled): “Eh?”

Gabrielle: “You know, that top-tier recording place in NYC? Jay-Z, Rihanna, Alicia Keys—everyone records there. In my dream, I just walked in, took what I wanted… I was unstoppable.”

Rolling her eyes with a half-smile, Phoebe placed her hands on her hips.

Phoebe: “Only you, Gabs. Even in your weirdest, green-faced dream, you’re still an audio geek.”

Gabrielle gave a small laugh, equal parts relief and lingering worry. Why was she dreaming about petty theft, anyway? And more importantly, why had their apartment been ransacked without her noticing?

________________________________________

Phoebe: “Let’s get serious. Someone definitely broke in—Why would they ransack the living room?”

Gabrielle reached out to lift the Mask from its resting spot, heart pounding. Her dream or not, a real intruder had definitely messed up the place.

Gabrielle (softly): “Could they have been looking for something else? We have zero valuables.”

Phoebe shifted uncomfortably.

Phoebe: “If they wanted electronics, they’d have taken your TV or my laptop, but—none of that’s missing.”

Gabrielle: “So they did all of this for nothing?”

They knelt to pick up the scattered items. Coffee mugs had crashed onto the floor, one handle snapped off.

___________________________________________________________________

The morning’s frantic commotion began at 6:03 A.M. with Phoebe’s dramatic flying kick, followed by the rush to confirm a break-in, and Gabrielle’s cryptic mention of a “green-face dream.” By 7:30 A.M., both women had done a hasty cleanup of broken glass, and righted the toppled coffee table. Exhaustion weighed on them both.

Gabrielle seemed particularly restless—she kept checking her face in the mirror, gingerly touching her temple where that bruise from the pier incident used to be. Phoebe noticed how Gabrielle paled at finding it completely gone, not even a tender spot left.

But after the last couple chaotic days, there was no time to dwell. Gabrielle needed to rush off to an early shift at the studio for some last-minute audio tasks. She left the apartment around eight, looking dazed and muttering something about “I’ll see you later—maybe I can figure this out then.”

Phoebe nodded, still groggy from her own overnight gig. She sank onto the living-room couch with a bleary yawn, telling Gabrielle she’d “crash for a bit” before cleaning the rest of the place. “One crisis at a time”, Phoebe thought.

________________________________________________________________

An hour later—9:00 A.M.—the apartment was strangely peaceful despite the earlier crisis. Sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting the disarray they hadn’t fully dealt with yet: scattered DVDs, half-eaten chip bags, and a few old cords from Gabrielle’s audio corner.

After dozing for half an hour, Phoebe roused herself. She decided to gather up anything out of place, hoping the tidiness might help them both think straight. She noticed the closet door was slightly ajar—stuffed so full that it wouldn’t close properly. Typically, Gabrielle kept her old, water-damaged audio gear in there. Phoebe guessed maybe Gabs had rummaged around in search of salvageable parts.

With a shrug, Phoebe reached for the handle.

________________________________________

WHUMP!

She barely touched the closet door before a cascade of boxes and equipment tumbled out, clattering around her ankles. Phoebe let out a startled yelp, hopping back so she didn’t get beaned by a toppling microphone stand.

Her eyes widened at the brand-new, high-end gear now piling up the floor: pristine cables in plastic packaging, an expensive interface with a bold brand name, and at least two pairs of fancy studio headphones. This wasn’t random junk—this was top-shelf audio tech that cost more than Phoebe made in months of stunts.

Phoebe: “What in the world…?”

Her pulse quickened. She knelt to examine a sleek monitor case. The box was shiny, sporting fresh manufacturer stickers. No way was this Gabrielle’s old, water-damaged rig. Where did Gabs get brand-new gear?

Then she noticed a slender black microphone case lying atop a tangle of bubble wrap. She picked it up carefully and squinted at the label:

“Property of Jungle City Studios.”

Phoebe’s heart jumped to her throat. Jungle City? The fancy, celebrity recording studio? She picked up the mic, turning it in her hands. This was easily worth thousands of dollars. Why would it be jammed in their closet?

Phoebe (soft gasp): “No way…”

She recalled Gabrielle’s frantic mention of a “dream” where she supposedly snuck into a big-name studio, and carted off gear. That couldn’t have been real. Right?

Anxiety gnawed at her. What if Gabs actually did this while under that weird Mask’s influence?

*Consulting the Internet

Fear spiked in her chest. If the gear’s from Jungle City, maybe the theft is already making headlines. She snatched her phone from the coffee table and typed, “Jungle City Studios stolen equipment” into Google. Her thumb trembled as she hit “Search.”

Within seconds, a cluster of breaking news articles popped up:

“Late-Night Heist at Jungle City Studios”

“Bizarre Incident: Green-Faced Individual Spotted on CCTV Taking Costly Audio Gear”

Phoebe swallowed hard, dread twisting her stomach into knots. She tapped one of the local news links. The page loaded quickly, revealing a short article describing how, sometime after midnight, a figure in a blue dress had apparently waltzed through a side entrance at Jungle City, gathered tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment in a comically oversized bag with a dollar sign on it, and vanished without a trace.

Her blood ran cold as the article revealed a grainy security camera photo: a lean, yet curvy silhouette in a bold, off-shoulder dress—face was colored lime green, gigantic pearly white teeth, shining like something out of a cartoon. In one hand, the figure clutched an expensive microphone case; in the other, the oversized bag with a dollar sign on it. It looked as if the large piece of equipment she had on her hands was weightless. Instead of merely sneaking by, the woman had actually paused to pose for the camera, beaming a whacky-yet-confident smile that filled the frame. It looked absurdly triumphant—like the thief was gloating, reveling in the moment.

What made Phoebe’s stomach twist wasn’t just the cartoonishly exaggerated complexion or the devil-may-care posture—it was the startlingly icy blue eyes peeking through that satin lime-green face. They were unmistakably Gabrielle’s. Despite the warped skin color, despite the flamboyant off-shoulder dress clinging to every curve, the eyes were the same ones Phoebe had known for years—warm, spirited, but this time they were overflowing with mischief. Seeing them staring out from this bizarre, masked form was a surreal gut-punch.

The image’s low resolution couldn’t hide Gabrielle’s signature black hair, which tumbled in glossy waves down her back. Nor could it disguise the shape of her figure—one Phoebe recognized from countless times they’d swapped clothes or teased each other about new outfits. But here, it was amplified by the Mask’s magic into something borderline theatrical, the dress cut scandalously high, hugging her waist with sensual precision.

And there, in the center of the frame, was the grin: a dazzling, unnaturally wide smile radiating unshakable confidence. It seemed to mock the camera, as though the masked Gabrielle had known she was being filmed and wanted to put on a show. The photo even caught a hint of laughter in the tilt of her jaw, like she’d broken the fourth wall, turned to face the lens, and dared whoever watched to enjoy the spectacle.

Phoebe felt her heart lurch. This wasn’t just some random burglar wielding what seem to be magic powers—this probably was her best friend, wholly taken for a ride by what seem like an ordinary wooden mask, brimming with flair, probably delivering some cocky one-liner while loading up on stolen gear.

Phoebe (voice trembling): “Oh, Gabs… what could have you gotten yourself into?”

She tore her gaze from the phone, but the image remained burned in her mind: Green-skinned Gabrielle, off-shoulder dress fluttering, bright blue eyes sparkling with an impossible mix of glee and mischief. Never had Phoebe felt so sure—and so horrified—that the intruder behind last night’s fiasco was actually her own roommate, captured in a triumphant pose for all the city to see.

She sank onto the living room floor, leaning against the closet door. The stolen gear now felt like damning evidence, each label mocking her with the words “Property of Jungle City Studios.” The Mask. The erased bruise on Gabrielle’s temple. An unstoppable thief. Everything clicked into place.

An adrenaline wave hit her, spurring her to text Gabrielle:

“CALL ME ASAP. FOUND SOMETHING. WE MIGHT HAVE A MAJOR PROBLEM.”

She set the phone down, arms wrapped tight around her knees. What if the cops track them down? The article said the thief left almost no trace, but who knew what clues might connect them to the crime?

Phoebe rubbed her hands over her face, trying to stay calm. She pictured Gabrielle’s nervous expression that morning, how she’d kept touching her healed temple. No wonder Gabs was so rattled. She’d likely realized something big had happened. Now that Phoebe might had confirmed it, they were in deep trouble.

Phoebe (softly): “How do we fix this…?”

Her mind raced: they could attempt to return the gear secretly, maybe drop it off at Jungle City’s doorstep. But what if that triggered more questions? Or the police had recordings of a green-faced figure leaving the building’s side entrance?

One thing was certain: the cartoon-like transformations and comedic chaos weren’t funny anymore—if this was real life, with real legal consequences… That was terrifying.

______________________________________________________________

With her phone clenched in her hand, Phoebe stared at the swirl of cords, stands, and sleek monitors. The morning sun glinted on a sealed box of pro-audio headphones, seemingly mocking her. She kept refreshing her texts, hoping Gabrielle would respond.

Minutes dragged by. She paced, glancing at the door, half expecting officers to barge in. Her heart pounded each time a car engine revved outside. They must have it all on camera. Sooner or later, the trail leads here.

Phoebe: “Why’d you have to do this alone, Gabs? Why didn’t you warn me?”

Yet she knew it wasn’t that simple. If the Mask had truly taken over, maybe Gabrielle had no control or memory of it. A chill coursed through Phoebe’s veins. What if it could force any of them to do worse next time?

___________________________________________________________________

Phoebe hovered in that uneasy limbo, phone in hand, mind swirling with questions:

• Should they come clean to Jungle City?

• Will the police discover Gabrielle’s identity through the partial CCTV image?

• Did the Mask truly override free will to such a degree that Gabrielle never stood a chance?

The glowing sun only seemed to intensify the glaring reality: the stolen gear was piling up in their hallway, a mountain of trouble they could no longer ignore. The green face on the CCTV footage might be comedic to outsiders, but to Phoebe, it spelled heartbreak, fear, and an urgent need to protect her best friend from the artifact’s grip.

____________________________________________________

Meanwhile Gabrielle slipped into the studio’s makeshift break room, sandwich in hand, feeling more tired than hungry. The hum of distant set construction, combined with the faint smell of sawdust, created a strangely comforting background murmur. Despite the hectic morning cleaning up after the so-called “break-in,” she’d been pushing through the day’s chaos—balancing levels, fixing faulty mics, and trying to pretend everything was normal.

But it wasn’t normal. Not even close.

She dropped into a battered folding chair near a scuffed table and stared at her half-eaten peanut butter sandwich. Why can’t I focus? she wondered. Her mind kept returning to those bizarre, vivid images she’d dreamt about: unstoppable swirling force, her green face, that borderline euphoric sense of power. The memory sent an odd warmth creeping across her cheeks. What if it’s not just a dream? she thought, unease skittering up her spine.

The overhead fluorescent light buzzed softly. She tried to ground herself, nibbling a corner of the sandwich—salty peanut butter sticking to the roof of her mouth—yet her thoughts still wandered. The last time she daydreamed this hard, she’d missed a cue to swap mic batteries for Victoria, leaving her boss rolling his eyes. Focus, Gabs, she scolded herself silently.

Gabrielle (muttering): “Come on… keep it together.”

Her phone buzzed against the table, cutting into her spiraling thoughts. She glanced down at the screen and frowned at the string of missed texts from Phoebe:

1. 10:42 AM – “CALL ME ASAP. FOUND SOMETHING. WE MIGHT HAVE A MAJOR PROBLEM.”

2. 10:44 AM – “We have a problem. BIG problem.”

3. 10:47 AM – “Check your email. Sent a link.”

4. 10:55 AM – “Where are you???”

Her heart sank. Phoebe never barraged her with messages like that unless it was urgent. With shaking fingers, Gabrielle thumbed open the conversation, scrolling upward. Another text arrived at that very moment—a link to a local news article. The preview mentioned “Masked Burglar” and “Jungle City Studios.” Her pulse spiked so sharply, she thought she might drop her phone.

Gabrielle (softly): “…Oh God.”

She tapped the link. The article loaded, headline glaring on the screen:

LATE-NIGHT HEIST AT JUNGLE CITY STUDIOS: CCTV CAPTURES GREEN-FACED THIEF IN BLUE DRESS.

Each sentence made her throat constrict a little more. Then she spotted the photo: a grainy frame capturing a woman in an off-shoulder gown, face unmistakably green, clutching what appeared to be a cartoonishly big bag. She was actually smiling at the camera, brazen and showy. A wave of lightheadedness threatened to topple Gabrielle right out of the folding chair.

Slowly, she set her sandwich aside, leaning in over her phone with mounting dread. The silhouette was hauntingly like her own—though the figure’s posture was bolder, more… confident. The hair, though—dark, with the same length and shape as hers. And those eyes—flickers of a familiar hue even in the blurry image. An unnerving tingle shot up Gabrielle’s spine.

Could that be… me?

The question blazed in her mind like a siren, sending a bolt of disbelief through her. Her lungs tightened, breath coming short. She tried to swallow the dryness in her throat, but it stuck. A coworker from props wandered past and gave her a curious glance—she barely noticed.

Gabrielle (barely audible): “This is insane… I—I couldn’t have done that. I’m not a thief…”

All at once, **the memory of that colorful swirling**—that unstoppable transformation she’d foolishly dismissed as a “dream”—**came rushing back**. She could practically feel the phantom rush around her limbs, the overwhelming surge of confidence warping her every movement. The sight of the **news article** on her phone slammed headlong into that recollection, making her skin prickle with shock. *What if this wasn’t just some hazy nightmare?* she thought, her throat constricting. *What if I actually lived it?*

Her brain raced, trying to piece together the bizarre possibility. If the masked thief in the photo really **was** her—someone wearing her face and hair, but twisted into a flamboyant, green-skinned version—what happened to her own will? *Could I actually have strolled into Jungle City Studios, stolen thousands of dollars’ worth of gear, and not even remember it?*

Just entertaining the notion made her stomach flip. A hundred questions battered her nerves: **Would** she face charges for something she only recalled as a half-formed hallucination? *But it’s impossible,* her mind insisted. She pressed her lips together, forcibly steadying her breath. *I’m not a criminal. I’d never do something that reckless.* Yet the logic faltered when she compared her reflection—her features, her distinctive hair—to that unearthly figure in the security image. The resemblance was unnerving.

A taut jolt of disbelief clamped onto her senses. *I’m not a thief. I can’t be.* She swallowed hard, forcing calm into her voice even though no one was around to hear. But deep inside, a coil of uncertainty took root. Because if the power she’d felt from the Mask was as formidable in real life as it had seemed in her “dream,” who was to say she wouldn’t have done something outrageous under its control—something that normal, everyday Gabrielle would never consider?

Her eyes flicked back to the phone screen: that flamboyant grin, the bold off-shoulder dress hugging her skin, the stolen mic gleaming under cheap security-cam lighting. The implications made her head spin. *Jail time, public humiliation, losing her job…* The potential fallout was terrifying if the story pointed to her.

She tried to chase away the notion by telling herself it was all **too** absurd to be real—a comedic facade so outlandish it couldn’t align with her quiet nature. And yet, there it was, captured on camera. And here she was, heart pounding, confronted with the possibility that her **quiet** identity had unravelled into something wild and unrecognizable. The question hovered in her mind, refusing to be dismissed:

**Could** she have become that unstoppable green figure—just for one insane night—and thrown her entire life into chaos? Her pulse throbbed in her temple, each beat an unwelcome reminder that the day’s routine was shattered. No wonder Phoebe was texting me frantically, she realized. She brought the phone closer, re-reading the snippet detailing how thousands of dollars’ worth of gear was stolen, the bizarre mention of a “green face” as though straight out of some cartoon fantasy.

She lifted the phone in trembling hands, her sandwich utterly forgotten. The face in that CCTV shot—though tinted a surreal shade of green—wore an almost playful smirk, a grin too wide to be normal. It clashed with Gabrielle’s quiet, behind-the-scenes nature in every conceivable way… and yet, if she looked closely, the shape of the mouth, the angle of the jaw… they could be hers.

Gabrielle (whispering): “But how—?”

A silent wave of stunned disbelief kept her rooted to the spot. She wasn’t quite panicking—shock was a more apt word. Like she’d stepped off a curb without seeing an oncoming bus. The possibility of real, life-altering consequences loomed. She’d tried to brush off her bizarre experiences as figments of an overworked mind. But this? This was a clear sign that reality might be warping around her—and that The Mask might be far more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

She inhaled through her nose, forcing a tight, uneven breath. Finish the shift, she told herself. Then figure out what to do. She couldn’t exactly vanish from work without an explanation, unless she wanted to attract suspicion. But the sense of normalcy that had threaded her morning unraveled one spool at a time. She half-expected someone in the hallway to point at her, exclaiming they’d seen the newscast.

Yet everything around her went on as usual: she was alone in her discovery, pinned under a surreal sense of dread. For all the swirling tension in her gut, not a soul here knew anything about her possible masked escapade.

Gabrielle: “This can’t be real. Right…?”

The day still had hours to go, and part of her wanted nothing more than to sneak out a back door and flee to the apartment, see what Phoebe discovered. But running away wouldn’t fix anything. Keep it together, finish the day, she repeated in her mind. You can unravel all of this soon enough.

________________________________________

Coming Home to a Disturbing Reality

Gabrielle trudged up the final flight of stairs toward her apartment door, exhaustion pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. The afternoon’s quiet hum had given way to the low buzz of late afternoon city life. She could hear a faint drip from the building’s ancient pipes and someone’s TV from a neighboring unit, but her mind was too cluttered to focus on such details. All she could think about was Phoebe’s frantic messages—those texts demanding, “CALL ME ASAP,” and “BIG problem,” along with that jarring article about a green-faced burglar.

Her hands shook slightly as she slipped the key into the lock. Just talk to Phoebe. Figure out what’s going on. She inhaled, then swung the door open.

Instantly, Phoebe appeared in the narrow hallway, looking like she’d been pacing for hours. Their eyes met: Phoebe’s filled with a conflicted mix of relief and worry, Gabrielle’s with utter fatigue.

Phoebe (urgent): “Gabs! Finally. We need to talk… right now.”

Gabrielle nodded, swallowing hard. “I—I know. I saw the article.” Her eyes flicked around the living room; it was still messy, but tidier than before. The big difference was the hallway closet door, which stood ajar, revealing a jumbled chaos of equipment boxes. Several brand-new audio interfaces and pristine studio equipment sat in a pile by the couch. Gabrielle’s stomach twisted. That could only mean…

Gabrielle (softly): “So it’s real? You found all that… stuff?”

Phoebe pressed her lips together, nodding grimly. “Yeah. Some of it literally fell out of the closet. ‘Property of Jungle City Studios’ labeled all over. And the news—” She trailed off, eyeing Gabrielle’s reaction.

Gabrielle set her messenger bag on the floor, stepping closer to the gear. Up close, the items gleamed in their packaging, completely at odds with the battered coffee table and mismatched cushions of their modest apartment. Stunned, she reached out and touched one of the sealed microphones. The label boasted top-of-the-line specs—a dream come true for any audio engineer.

Gabrielle: “So this was… me? Or—someone wearing my face but green?”

Her mind reeled, flipping through half-remembered images from that swirling “dream.” She still couldn’t wrap her head around the notion that she’d marched into a high-security studio, carted out a fortune in pro gear, and stuffed it in their closet like souvenirs.

Phoebe exhaled, running a hand through her red hair. “I’m not blaming you, Gabs. But… the photo. The eyes. Your hair, right down to that wave at the ends. And we don’t know what that mask is.”

Gabrielle sank onto the edge of the couch, nearly toppling one of the new cables. The tension in her chest tightened. “I saw the article. They said ‘green-faced figure in a blue dress, brazenly stole thousands in equipment.’ How—why—” She paused, noticing how her voice trembled. “I mean, the night of the break-in. The night I had that weird dream about actually doing it.”

Phoebe knelt beside her, picking up a small audio interface from the floor and setting it aside. Her expression softened. “I’m guessing the Mask… transformed you. Or took control. You said in your dream you felt unstoppable, right? But if it was real, then we have a serious problem. Cops. Cameras. This gear in our closet… The Mask.”

A wave of unexpected shame surged through Gabrielle. She’d always prided herself on being discreet, morally grounded—someone who never sought trouble. And yet, the mounting evidence was undeniable.

Gabrielle (hoarsely): “So I guess we… hide it? Return it somehow?” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Phoebe set the pair of newly opened headphones aside and locked eyes with Gabrielle. Inhaling sharply. “I need you to be straight with me: how did this happen last night? The Mask—did you actually put it on while I was gone? I mean… if that’s what got us here, you’ve gotta walk me through it.”

She paused, glancing at the battered artifact resting on the coffee table. A hint of dread shadowed her features. “I still can’t wrap my head around you turning green and—well, pulling off a heist at Jungle City. But if you wore that Mask, if it changed you… tell me everything you remember.”

Gabrielle sighed, her gaze drifting to the mask that looked almost harmless in the fading light. “I… will try my best to remember.” She swallowed. “I woke up around 1:00 A.M.—couldn’t sleep. I saw it there on the coffee table, and it was like it was waiting for me. I picked it up. Next thing I knew, I was like hypnotized by colors inside the mask, before I knew it, it latched onto my face, like it had a will of its own.” She tapped her temple, remembering the pulse of electric excitement, the swirl of impossible colors. “My muscles twitched without my permission, I got… wet down there, for lack of a better term—like the Mask was cranking up my arousal as it merged with my face. I had no control. Eventually, it was just this swirl of neon colors and raw need.”

Gabrielle paused, swallowing again, eyes distant. “I only recall flashes—my body arching, my mind buzzing with half-laughter, half-panic. I’d never experienced anything like that primal… at points orgasmic. One second I was freaking out, the next I was moaning. My hips were bucking and I was humping air, like the Mask had hijacked my body. I tried to fight it, but it was too strong… and after that, it’s all fuzzy. I’m guessing that’s when I changed—went on a rampage.”

A tense hush hung between them. At last, Phoebe broke the silence with a low exhale, rubbing the back of her neck. “So it was you. Or… a version of you, at least.” She nodded at the pile of stolen gear, her expression grim. “And now we have all this to show for it.” Her attempt at a laugh came out hollow. “This is so messed up, Gabs. I still can’t believe—”

She hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Wait, you said you knew you were, like… turned on? Wet. How— I mean… in the middle of a transformation, how did you even notice something like that?”

Gabrielle winced, crossing her arms self-consciously. “I… I could feel it,” she admitted, her cheeks coloring. “It wasn’t subtle. It was like a wave of heat that spread under my belly. My body was hypersensitive, and that… surge was impossible to miss.”

Phoebe’s gaze flicked from Gabrielle’s face to the Mask on the table. “God. That must’ve been so disorienting—like your body turning against you, but also hooking you with pleasure and your privates getting wet?”

Gabrielle swallowed, nodding slowly. “Exactly. It was terrifying, but at the same time… it was this insane rush. I had no idea whether to scream or moan. Then next thing I knew, I was cackling. It didn’t feel real—more like some fantasy that my body forced me to live out.”

Phoebe shook her head, letting out a shaky sigh. “This is so messed up,” she repeated, her voice softer now. She glanced again at the new gear, the incriminating evidence of Gabrielle’s masked rampage. Gabrielle winced. “I know. And the worst part? I barely recall the details—just flashes of unstoppable energy, that spinning madness.” A shiver coursed through her. “If it was me wearing the Mask… then I guess the first step is admitting: I did it, even if it felt like the Mask was wearing me, not the other way around.”

Outside, the orange glow of sunset bled through the taped-up window, cutting across the living room floor. Inside, the two friends faced a swirling mixture of guilt, confusion, and the surreal realization that Gabrielle’s midnight transformation might had been terrifyingly real. Gabrielle set the pair of studio headphones down, swallowing the last remnants of her shock.

________________________________________

Late-Night Dare

A strained silence pressed down on the living room after Gabrielle’s confession of how the Mask seized control of her body. The dull overhead light threw shadows onto piles of stolen audio gear. Phoebe folded her arms over her chest, eyes flicking from Gabrielle’s anxious face to the innocuous-looking Mask on the coffee table.

She finally broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “Listen, Gabs,” she began, brow creasing. “I hate to suggest this, but… we need to know if it’s really the Mask doing this, and not just some crazy coincidence.” Her voice trembled faintly. “What if we tested it? You, me, this living room. Tonight.”

Gabrielle blinked, recoiling as though the Mask had just hissed at her again. “Wait—you mean, actually put it on? Again?” Fear flickered behind her eyes, recalling the transformation of last time. “Phoebe, if this thing actually works and takes my body for a ride… you saw how out of control I got. It’s not exactly a casual dress-up.”

“I know.” Phoebe set her hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder, earnest expression. “But how else do we confirm what’s real? All we’ve got is a fuzzy memory, some security footage, and stolen equipment. While we have proof. You need definitive proof.” She nudged her phone on the table. “I can film it. We lock the doors, keep you in sight. If you actually… transform, we’ll see it happen. And if you don’t, well, maybe we can breathe a little easier.”

________________________________________

Gabrielle squeezed her eyes shut, a knot of dread forming in her gut. She pictured: the swirling, the chaos, the electric rush down her spine. “The risk is huge,” she muttered, voice taut. “What if I run off again? Or break something? Or worse?”

She paused, then lifted her gaze to Phoebe, who stood nearby with arms folded. “Maybe... maybe you should be the one to wear it,” Gabrielle blurted, swallowing her nerves. “You’re a stuntwoman. You can handle crazy situations—flip out of grapples, dodge hits, all that. If it takes control of you, maybe you’ll stand a better chance.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened in immediate disagreement. “Gabs, I tried it on once before this afternoon—nothing happened. It was just a chunk of old wood. Besides, what if this time it does fuse to me? Then we’d have a green-faced stuntwoman running amok, and nobody to do the tackling.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “You’d be the one left behind to stop me, and you remember how unstoppable it felt.”

Gabrielle’s shoulders tensed. “I just… I’m scared. What if it fuses to my face again and won’t ever come off? Last time, it felt like it was practically part of my skin. If it doesn’t release me this time, or if we can’t pry it off, that’s it—I’m stuck as that unstoppable cartoon psycho forever.”

Phoebe inhaled slowly, reaching out to rest a calming hand on Gabrielle’s arm. “I get it. But trust me, I’d rather be on the outside looking in. I’m the stuntwoman, remember? I’ve wrestled guys twice my size. I’ll figure something out if you start going all… unstoppable Jessica Rabbit.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt, her fingers tightening around Gabrielle’s elbow. “Besides, we’ll plan carefully. You won’t be able to slip out.”

Gabrielle looked down, her fingers shaking. “You sure you can handle me if I go crazy again?” she asked quietly. “I’m not exactly bulletproof, but it sure felt that way last time.”

“I’ve spent years learning to roll, dodge, subdue, and basically not die in stunts,” Phoebe reassured her, though tension lined her voice. “And I’ll do everything in my power to keep you in check. If the Mask doesn’t want to come off, I’ll get the plunger ha… we’ll figure it out. One thing’s for sure—this time, we won’t let you roam free. The door’ll be locked, windows shut, camera rolling.”

Gabrielle closed her eyes again, torn between relief and lingering terror. “God, this is insane,” she whispered. “But okay… guess we do it your way. Better me than you.” Even so, the unspoken question—What if it never comes off?—hung in the space between them like a threat.

Phoebe exhaled slowly, giving Gabrielle’s arm a light squeeze before stepping back. “We’ll face that if we have to. But we won’t face it unprepared. Trust me—I won’t let the Mask keep you for good.”

For a moment, neither spoke, tension filling the air. Then Gabrielle managed a shaky nod. The plan was terrifying, but at least she wouldn’t be alone. And, with luck, the Mask wouldn’t decide to stay welded to her face forever. They could only hope that planning, vigilance, and Phoebe’s stunt instincts would be enough.

Gabrielle bit her lip, eyes drifting to the wooden artifact. Its carved lines looked almost mockingly plain. “I don’t even like to look at it,” she admitted in a hushed tone. “But you’re right… we need to do this for our own sanity.”

“So you’ll do it?” Phoebe asked, relief and anxiety warring on her face. She retrieved a rubber band from her wrist, snapping it nervously. “We wait till it’s late—till midnight like last night when apparently it worked, also this way no neighbors will barge in. I’ll set up my phone camera to record. And… well, we’ll see.”

“Alright,” she whispered, throat tight. “But we do it with every safeguard we can think of. No open windows, phone fully charged, you ready to tackle me if I go ballistic. And the second I start changing, we record everything. Understood?”

“Understood.” Phoebe mustered a lopsided grin, though her hands were visibly trembling. “This might be the strangest science experiment I’ve ever done.”

A wry laugh escaped Gabrielle, surprising both of them. “Then let’s hope we don’t blow up the living room. Or, you know, end up on the news again.”

They lapsed into an uneasy hush, each lost in their own swirling thoughts of what midnight might bring. Outside, the last of the day’s colors faded into a deep indigo sky. In the dim glow of the apartment, the Mask sat quietly on the table, as though awaiting its next chance to unleash a dreamlike—or nightmarish—transformation.

The Moment of Truth

________________________________________

Midnight hovered like a held breath in the cramped apartment. The city outside felt distant—muted hum of traffic, faint neon glows against the window. Inside, Gabrielle and Phoebe stood facing one another in the living room. The Mask, dull green wood and bronze nose plate, sat on the coffee table as though mocking them. A single lamp glowed, casting jittery shadows on the wall. Gabrielle stood by the coffee table, wearing a plain white tank top and snug blue gym shorts with white trim—an outfit she often slept in. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

Phoebe checked her phone clock: 11:59 P.M. “Camera rolling,” she murmured, her voice a whisper wrapped in tension. She stood near the coffee table, draped in a set of golden pajamas that shimmered each time she shifted her weight. The soft fabric clung slightly to her figure in the warm lamplight, catching little glints of gold as she adjusted the phone on a makeshift tripod cobbled together from an old microphone stand. Its blinking red light confirmed it was recording. “Gabs… you ready?”

Gabrielle, hands trembling at her sides, nodded. “As I’ll ever be.” She swallowed hard, stepping forward. The Mask almost seemed to breathe with the faintest hiss, as though it anticipated her touch.

They’d locked the door, latched the windows, and switched off some of the overhead lights—no prying neighbors or passersby. Phoebe lingered a few feet behind, arms tensed, ready to intervene. Gabrielle eyed her best friend with a nervous half-smile. “Don’t let me run off,” she murmured.

Phoebe lifted her chin. “I won’t. If it even looks like you’re losing yourself—”

“I know,” Gabrielle said, voice tight. “I’m counting on you.”

With that, she reached down, flipped and slowly lifted the Mask. The overhead lamp caught on the inside’s surface, flickering across strange swirl patterns, turning them into glistening whorls of vibrant oily like sheen. Gabrielle’s stomach lurched—she could’ve sworn those patterns shifted on their own, like a living thing. The hush in the living room felt electric, charged. She shivered, recalling the last time she wore it, the brief glimpses of unstoppable power, adrenaline, and a potent undercurrent of desire.

“Here goes,” Gabrielle breathed, lifting it slowly to her face.

A faint noise drifted from the Mask’s center—so soft at first that only Gabrielle caught its insistent murmur. As she brought it nearer, that gentle hush strengthened into a low hiss, reminiscent of pressurized steam. The subtle vibration made her fingers tremble, her grip unsteady as she raised the artifact to eye level. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the shifting patterns glimmering across the carved interior—bright, oil-like swirls cascading in a hypnotic dance. They rippled with a serpentine grace, each undulating movement drawing her in deeper, as though a coiled phantom snake beckoned her from within.

Phoebe’s voice, from somewhere behind her: “Stay calm… you can do this.”

Gabrielle gave the slightest nod. “No turning back.” Her heart pounding so loudly it thundered in her ears; she lifted the Mask toward her face. The moment the rough wood touched her cheeks, the Mask lurched, almost leaping the last inch on its own.

SLURP—

A wet, organic sound rippled through the silence. Gabrielle gasped, trying to pull away, but the Mask sucked forward, pressing flush to her features. The Mask clamped down, pressing into her mouth, nose, and forehead as though vacuum-sealed.

“Phoe—?!” she managed to choke out, muffled.

She heard Phoebe’s startled inhale. “Gabs, I’m here!”

Green streaks gleam traced accross the Mask’s surface, and a searing wave of warmth flooded Gabrielle’s face. She could feel a prickling tension grip her face, like something was twisting behind her skin. Her eyes—icy blue, already blown wide with panic—snapped onto the Mask’s carved eyeholes. Then, in a sickening lurch, those eyeholes moved. They flared open with an audible squelch, and Gabrielle’s scream choked off into a ragged, horrified gasp. A nauseating pressure clamped down on her skull, as if an invisible vise were compressing her entire head. Before she could even comprehend it, her eyeballs slid from their normal sockets, popping forward to align with the Mask’s shifting hollows. Wet friction and the stench of her own sweat coated her senses. She whimpered, feeling the grotesque displacement—like her eyes had been forced along a path never meant to exist—leaving her cheeks clammy, her breath stuttering in shallow, desperate gulps.

She let out a shrill whimper, while thinking. “Oh God—my—my eyes…!” She couldn’t even form the words. In the phone’s camera feed, her pupils looked bizarrely extended, protruding from the face for a moment. Then, with a sickening pop, they settled deeper into those new openings—like her skull was stretching. A mix of body-horror and sizzling arousal hit her simultaneously. She half-laughed, half-whimpered at the sensation of her face warping. The sides of her head elongated, then snapped back, the Mask squeaking with cartoonish elasticity and rubber sounds. The friction sparked jabs of pleasure that made her thighs clench.

Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth. “Gabrielle…I gotta stop this!” Suddenly green lightning started arching around Gabrielle’s body. Phoebe then resisted the urge to yank it off, afraid it would do more harm than good.

Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat. Her best friend twisted, hips bucking against invisible forces, eyes hidden behind a shifting, half-melded green wooden surface. God, I have to do something, Phoebe thought desperately. If she ran, who knew what Gabrielle might do next? Ransack the city? Harm herself? Her gaze darted to the phone—still recording—and Gabrielle’s convulsing, sweaty green-lit silhouette.

Gabrielle’s vision lurched, swirling with a green glow. She tried to scream, but the Mask pulled the sound into a vacuum, muffling it into a choked moan. Her cheeks felt as though they were fusing beneath the wood, the edges of her face turning spongy. Almost in the same breath, Gabrielle felt a sharp pressure along her gums—a terrible realization that her teeth were shifting, pressing outward until they felt far too large for her mouth to contain. Each contortion brought spikes of fear—but also a dizzying flash of euphoria.

Her breath rattled, half-laughter, half-sob. She clutched at the Mask’s edges, feeling them melt into her scalp. Her head stretched like warm taffy, suddenly elongating, then snapping back. She practically drooled inside the confining wood, all sense of normal bone structure vanishing.

In the midst of that grotesque distortion, a hot, pulsing wave ignited inside her torso, rocketing downward. She gasped, her gym shorts felt uncomfortably tight, riding up as her hips gave another involuntary thrust… A squeak of helpless arousal escaped her. She could feel her core throbbing, moisture gathering between her legs, an involuntary response she was powerless to stop.

Phoebe, using her hand to cover her eyes from the green flashes, shifted her weight, unsure whether to hold Gabrielle or stand back. “Gabs… talk to me. Are you okay?”

The heat between Gabrielle’s legs grew unbearable, her sex swollen, wetness already soaking through her blue gym shorts. She whimpered as invisible fingers stroked across her inner thighs, teasing higher until they brushed her now aching slit.

“Ungh… nngh—” Gabrielle’s only reply was a breathless moan as her pelvis jerked forward again, humping the air. The Mask’s hiss intensified, accompanied by unsettling cracks and moistened suction sounds., echoing in the living room. Her arms went rigid, then flailed. She arched her back, T-shirt riding up over her hips. “It—ah—it’s too—!”

She didn’t finish. Another shock of erotic heat tore through her. Her pussy clenched desperately around nothing, aching for penetration. Her shoulders quaked, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. The Mask’s surface no longer looked like carved wood—it started to resemble living green skin, flexing and warping with an almost inhuman expression that pulsed in sync with Gabrielle’s mounting tension. Its features twisted unnaturally, as though drinking in her rising arousal. The sight was nearly grotesque… yet impossible to look away from. Gabrielle trembled helplessly, hips grinding against the air as wave after wave of lust overwhelmed her senses, every nerve ablaze with near-orgasmic stimulation.

The Mask’s hiss and thundering grew louder, drowning out Phoebe’s worried voice. She let out a half-scream, half-laugh that escalated in pitch. The Mask’s edges fused seamlessly with the back of her head, black locks flailing in an unseen wind. She could feel her skull compress, expand, compress again, each time rattling her sense of reality.

The unstoppable current of pleasure and fear whirled together. Her legs quivered, then locked, driving her hips in a mindless back in forth motion. Her white tank top strained across her breasts, which now pressed forward—every brush of fabric like a shot of static. She could feel her nipples hardening beneath the thin cotton, revealing glimpses of bare skin. The bright-blue gym shorts, warping, hugging ever-tighter to her backside. She felt the fabric curving up, hugging her cheeks, revealing more. The camera light flickered, capturing every fleeting contortion.

Green lightning forked wildly across the ceiling, casting flashes of emerald light that danced over the furniture. Ominous storm clouds—impossible indoors—swirled overhead, crackling with electric arcs that sent the hairs on Phoebe’s arms standing on end. She winced at each thunderous rumble, still shielding her eyes.

Then, abruptly, everything seemed to stop: the flaring lights, the howling wind, the vicious swirl of clouds. In that singular heartbeat, Phoebe could see Gabrielle bent into a horrifying, twisted pose—her limbs contorted, muscles visibly straining against the warped angles of her body. A hush gripped the air, eerie in its absolute stillness. It lasted barely an instant, but in that fraction of a second, Phoebe stood frozen in place, stunned by the sight before her. Gabrielle’s head jerked up—and for the briefest moment, their eyes met.

Her blue eyes stretched wide with raw terror, pleading, disoriented, still clinging to Gabrielle’s core self. At the same time Phoebe could see it, feel it in her gut: something else was inside her friend, and it was waking up. And then—WHOOOM!.

A Gabrielle-sized tornado sporting her colors exploded into motion, whipping the room into total disarray. The green lightning flared with renewed ferocity, fueling a whirlwind of scattered papers, tumbling coasters, even a stray Shardknado DVD box spinning past Phoebe’s head. She yelped and hurled herself behind the couch, clamping her arms over her face as the dizzying maelstrom raged. Above the roar, the neon glow of lightning pulsed against the swirling mass, painting the chaotic living room in ghostly green.

At the center of this, Gabrielle spun like a top, hair swirling in a black halo. She clutched at her midriff, chest heaving as her T-shirt dissolved away, replaced by slivers of shining fabric that crawled over her skin.

Her moans rose above the wind’s roar, tilting from pained yelps to delirious giggles. Peeking above the couch, Phoebe recoiled as the strobing flashes caught Gabrielle’s tornado mid-contortion, briefly revealing her skeleton—a cartoonish flash of ribs, pelvis, and spine twisting like pliable clay, her body contorting in impossible ways. Meanwhile Gabrielle never felt so completely broken—and so deeply, unnervingly alive.

Somewhere in that swirl, her underwear evaporated into a swirl of color, replaced by bright, sleek material hugging her hips. Each spin added more fabric until, piece by piece, a new garment took form: an off-shoulder dress in blue fabric, hugging her waist, flaring at mid-thigh. She felt the skirt swirl around her upper legs as if it, too, were alive.

Her shrill laughter rattled windows. The last vestiges of the old Gabrielle’s mind tried to fight, but the Mask’s unstoppable persona pressed in, flooding her with comedic bravado and flamboyant lust for chaos. Still peeking from behind the couch, Phoebe’s eyes widened as the whirlwind that was Gabrielle twisted in a kaleidoscope of color. At the top, where her head should’ve been, blazed a vibrant, unnatural green. Her midsection swirled into a deep, blue, almost fabric-like in texture, as if the tornado itself was stitching her new outfit mid-spin. And below, her legs flashed in rapid bursts of warm, exposed skin, flickering like brushstrokes of motion, human and surreal all at once. The tornado wasn’t just spinning—it was transforming, painting a new identity from the top down. A final contortion racked Gabrielle’s entire body, ankles popping up off the floor, spinning so fast that the lamplight blurred into neon streaks.

Then, as if a cosmic hand slammed “Stop,” everything ground to a sudden halt.

WHUMP.

Gabrielle’s feet landed with precision, striking the floor in a flawless, theatrical pose—one leg extended behind her, arms outstretched in a sweeping arc, chin lifted high like she’d just stepped off a Broadway stage. The swirling air collapsed around her in a dramatic gust, scattering a final burst of papers like confetti at the end of a show.

Phoebe slowly rose from behind the couch, breath caught in her throat, eyes wide with awe and dread.

Gabrielle—no, the masked woman—where once was a quietly athletic woman in a basic tank and shorts, now stood a green-skinned bombshell, cartoonishly perfect... Her face was now that bright, silky satin green, impossibly smooth and radiating a cartoonish sheen. Her hair, luscious black waves, tumbled around her shoulders. The newly formed dress clung to her curves, leaving her arms, collarbones, and a teasing glimpse of thigh exposed.

Gracefully she shifted her gaze to Phoebe, immediately a grin snapped into her new face—broad, impossibly pearly white teeth shining like stage lights. Yet, even amid the new bright green skin and over-the-top smirk… Phoebe swallowed hard. She’s in there, right? For a split second, she caught a flicker of the old Gabrielle—her icy blue eyes brimming with the same quiet warmth from countless late-night chats. But then that warmth twisted into a playful, near-lascivious spark, as though the Mask had taken that kindness and warped it into something brazen.

Phoebe stood rooted in place, torn between awe and terror, as the masked woman began to move toward her—each step an exaggerated sway of hips and a self-assured tilt of the shoulders, like a star sashaying onto a stage. Even with the glow of her vibrant green complexion and manic grin, there was an undeniable elegance in her stride, a theatrical flourish that made it impossible to look away.

Then, with slow, deliberate showmanship, she raised that single, slender finger, aiming it right at Phoebe in an almost taunting intimacy. Phoebe could almost sense waves of heat rolling off her friend’s body, the temperature in the room feeling strangely higher. A faint smell—sweat and perfume—itched at Phoebe’s nose. When she was close enough for Phoebe to feel the faint, electric tingle of her presence, the masked woman leaned in, reached out, and gently pinched Phoebe’s cheek—part playful tease, part unspoken warning.

Her voice slipped into a sultry, mocking parody of Gabrielle’s usual tone—like she’d stolen it outright, then infused it with a brassy, stage-commanding flair. Every syllable rang with larger-than-life showmanship. She parted her dark greenish-purple lips in a grin that practically shimmered with mischief and said, in a purr that rolled over Phoebe’s ears,

“Hello, sweet cheeks.”

A tingle ran the length of Phoebe’s spine. In that moment, the entire apartment felt like a stage set waiting for the next scene. Phoebe knew: Gabrielle was still in there somewhere, but this mask-born persona was calling the shots now. And the night’s real performance…had only just begun.