Mask party

The deep voice belonged to a man wearing an ornate golden half-mask, the candlelight dancing across its surface making the expression seem to shift between smile and sneer. Alex fought the urge to step backward as the man approached.

'Well, this is definitely not a jacket appreciation club,' Alex thought, his heart threatening to burst through his chest.

"Brothers," the masked man announced, raising his hands theatrically, "our wayward son returns to us after his... period of reflection."

The room filled with murmurs of "Praise Thespis" that made Alex's skin crawl. He quickly mumbled along, hoping he didn't sound as clueless as he felt.

'Period of reflection? Is that what we're calling a coma these days?'

"The traditional greeting, Brother Rivers?" the masked man prompted, his head tilting expectantly.

Alex's mouth went dry. 'Oh god, there's a greeting. Of course there's a greeting. Why wouldn't there be a secret greeting?' He glanced desperately around the room, but every face was turned toward him, waiting.

The handsome young man who'd brought him cleared his throat softly and whispered, "The mask becomes..."

"The face!" Alex blurted out, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "The mask becomes the face. Yes. Of course. Sorry, still a bit... foggy." He tapped his temple apologetically.

The masked man nodded sympathetically. "Understandable. Your recent... experience... must have been quite taxing. Thespis tests us all in different ways."

'Yeah, like throwing us into secret societies we know nothing about,' Alex thought while maintaining what he hoped was an appropriately solemn expression.

The members moved with practiced grace, forming concentric circles around a central altar that looked straight out of a Gothic cathedral, if churches decorated with theater masks and ancient Greek symbols. Candlelight painted wild shadows across the walls as someone dimmed the gas lamps, transforming familiar faces into grotesque shapes.

The Director raised his golden-masked face skyward. "Proséxte, adelfoí!" he called out. The others responded in unison, "O Thespis mas akoúei!"

'Oh great, they're doing the thing where everyone knows the words except me,' Alex thought, mouthing what probably looked like a fish gasping for air.

Alex watched, fascinated despite his terror, as silver-masked figures produced ornate chalices and what looked suspiciously like stage blood. The members without masks caught his attention – faces he'd seen before but couldn't quite place. A woman with sharp cheekbones he swore was on that popular medical drama, the one Sarah made him binge-watch when they were doing the script research some days back. A radio host whose voice had kept him company during countless late-night drives. And... was that the guy from those insurance commercials? The one with the catchphrase about accidents?

'It's like a celebrity spot-the-difference game, except everyone's playing cult member,' he thought, trying to focus on recognition rather than the growing knot in his stomach.

"I prósklisi!" the Director bellowed.

"I apántisi!" the crowd responded.

Alex mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "Eye panties," earning him a sharp look from the insurance commercial guy.

The ritual continued, each phrase more tongue-twisting than the last. "Dóste mas tin evlogía!" ("Dose mass the bologna," Alex muttered). "I psychí mas eínai diká sas!" ("Easy nice tin dinner sauce?" he attempted, sweating profusely).

One particularly enthusiastic bow sent him off-balance, and he stumbled slightly into the person next to him. As he straightened, muttering "Signomi" (the one Greek word he actually managed to pronounce correctly, having heard it repeated by others when they bumped into each other), he caught the eye of an older man whose face pulled at his memory. That same grandfatherly smile had beamed from his TV screen just before his accident, accepting some lifetime achievement award. Now here he was, passing Alex a chalice filled with what he desperately hoped was wine.

The Greek phrases continued to fall from Alex's tongue like loose marbles, clumsy and misshapen. He focused on the back of the person in front of him, copying their movements with all the precision of a drunk mime. Each gesture probably carried centuries of meaning, and here he was, treating it like a game of Simon Says with potentially lethal consequences.

Finally, the masked man – who Alex had gathered was called the Director – turned his full attention back to him. The golden mask caught the firelight, and for a moment, Alex could have sworn it winked at him.

"Now, Brother Rivers," the Director's voice carried an edge that hadn't been there before, "about your outstanding debt."

'Here we go,' Alex thought, swallowing hard.

"Thespis blessed you with life itself," one of the silver-masked figures spoke up. "Such a gift requires... proportionate payment."

The Director nodded slowly. "You've been given time to recover. More than generous, considering the circumstances. But now..." He spread his hands wide, the gesture somehow threatening despite its simplicity. "Payment must be made."

'I'm so screwed,' Alex thought, maintaining his best 'I totally know what's happening' face while screaming internally. 'The real Jason better have left some notes about this somewhere.'

"The terms were quite clear," another silver mask added. "A life restored requires a life transformed. You agreed to this, Brother Rivers."

Alex nodded solemnly, hoping his face conveyed understanding rather than the blind panic he was actually feeling. The red jacket suddenly felt heavier on his shoulders, like it was made of lead instead of fabric.

'Note to self: Next time I steal someone's identity, maybe check if they belong to any ancient secret societies first.'

Alex's mind raced. 'Okay, think. What would a desperate actor do? Besides whatever Jason did that got me into this mess.'

"About that," Alex started, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "I understand the... gravity of my debt." He paused, noting how they all leaned forward slightly. 'They love the dramatic pauses. Work it.'

"But as you mentioned earlier, Thespis tests us in different ways. And right now, he's testing me with..." He swallowed hard, channeling every ounce of pretense and acting he had in him "...complete financial ruin."

A murmur rippled through the circle. The Director tilted his golden mask, intrigue evident in his posture.

"The studio has frozen my accounts," Alex continued, building momentum. "How can I properly honor Thespis, properly transform a life, if I can barely maintain my own image? Wouldn't it be a greater offense to offer a mediocre sacrifice rather than one worthy of his blessing?"

'Where is this coming from?' he wondered. 'Maybe I should've gone into sales instead of accounting'

One of the silver masks spoke up. "Brother Rivers makes an interesting point. A shabby sacrifice would be more insulting than a delayed one."

"Perhaps," another added, "this is indeed a test. Not just for him, but for all of us. How do we nurture talent that Thespis has chosen to save?"

Alex seized the moment. "I'm not asking to escape my debt," he said, trying to sound humble. "I'm asking for the means to make it truly meaningful. To create something..." he gestured theatrically, remembering how much they loved that, "...transformative."

'Please buy this. Please buy this. Please buy this.'

The Director stood silent for a long moment. The flame light danced across his mask, creating the illusion of shifting expressions.

"You suggest we should invest further in you?" The Director's tone was unreadable.

"Think of it as..." Alex searched for the right words, "...producing a grander performance. After all, isn't that what Thespis would want? Not just a repaid debt, but a show worthy of his divine attention?"

'I cannot believe I just pitched a loan to a cult using their own god as a selling point,' he thought, fighting to keep his face solemn. 'Marketing school really did pay off.'

The insurance commercial guy nodded approvingly. Even the lifetime achievement award winner seemed to be smiling behind his chalice.

The Director raised his hands, commanding silence. "Brother Rivers, your... interpretation of this test is either brilliant or brilliantly blasphemous." He paused, and Alex felt his heart stop. "We shall deliberate on your proposal. But remember – a greater investment will require a greater return."

'Great,' Alex thought, maintaining his relieved smile while internally screaming. 'I just talked myself into bigger debt to pay off debt I don't even understand. Sarah's going to kill me if this cult doesn't beat her to it,'

***

The night air hit Alex like a splash of cold water as he exited the building, his accountant's brain already calculating how badly he'd just cooked the metaphorical books of his spiritual debt.

'At least with regular bankruptcy, you don't have to worry about divine repercussions,' he thought, loosening the red jacket that still felt too heavy.

A figure detached itself from the shadows – a woman in a black dress and a delicate silver half-mask traced with patterns that caught the streetlight. Before Alex could step back, she pressed a thick card into his hand.

"The mask becomes the face," she whispered, her accent unplaceable.

"The face becomes the—wait, was that right?" But she was already gone, the click of her heels fading around the corner.

Alex studied the card under the dim street light. Heavy stock, letterpress printing in deep red ink. An address, a time, and a single line: "The Metamorphosis Masquerade." Below it, handwritten in elegant script: "Bring what you owe."

'Because that's not ominous at all,' he thought, sliding the card into his pocket as the handsome escort from earlier approached with the car.

The drive back felt surreal, the city lights blurring past as his mind raced. 'Okay, let's review: I'm in debt to a god, just talked myself into probably more debt using basic profit-loss projection logic, and now I'm invited to what's either a very fancy party or my own ritual murder. And the worst part is, I can't even put any of this on my taxes.'

When he finally reached his hotel room, Sarah was waiting, pacing like a caged tiger. She spun around as he entered.

"Well?" she demanded.

Alex pulled out the invitation card. "Good news: I bought us some time. Bad news: I think I just leveraged a divine debt instrument using theoretical future returns as collateral." He paused. "You know, normal Tuesday night stuff."