D.J. Augustin opened his eyes and knew immediately that something was wrong. His surroundings were completely unfamiliar, and a man wearing a mask and robe was standing above him. His form was illuminated dimly by flickering candles which ringed the stone dais upon which D.J. lay.
“You were not supposed to awaken,” the man said in a clear voice that echoed through the small stone chamber. “The elixir must have been prepared by a novice apothecarist. No matter. The ritual will proceed as planned.”
D.J. didn’t like this talk of a “ritual”, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he found that he had no voice. When he attempted to move his limbs, there was no movement, as if the connection between mind and body had been severed. Whatever elixir he had been given, it had at least succeeded in doing those things.
In the back of the chamber, another man stood. He was, in contrast to the man standing above the dais, wearing street clothes, and seemed to be sullen about something. What role did he play in this mystery? D.J. didn’t know.
The masked man spoke words in what sounded like Latin, and, suddenly, the other man collapsed to the ground, shivering. A glowing green aura lifted above him, then began to drift towards D.J. The phosphorescent cloud hung over him as he shivered with a sudden chill, then enveloped him and dispersed.
“The nickname transferal is complete,” the masked man intoned, not paying attention to the unconscious body that was behind him. “By my expert sorcery, D.J. Wilson now is known only by his birth name, and you, D.J. Augustin, are granted the nickname ‘Deej’. Wear this name with pride.”
When D.J. next blinked, he was back in his locker room, but his sudden reappearance caused no stir. It was like he had never been gone at all.
“Deej,” he whispered.