"That's not how it happened," I say, shaking my head and taking a sip of wine. "I don't know where you're getting these ideas or why you decided to make it sound like a hostage situation, but I assure you that-"
"Oh shut up!" Maudlin says, smiling with every single one of his needle-point teeth and waving me off. "Listen, if yer not gonna tell the stories right, someone's gotta. Since I'm yer date, figure that responsibility falls to me, right? Right. So why dontcha wander off, talk with someone a little less furry, drink a few too many, and have a nice night with them?"
Any other being that addressed me like that would receive a flaying at the very least. Instead I throw back my head and laugh, luxuriating in the fact that I have a friend close enough to insult me. My amusement doesn't get more than a quirked eyebrow from most of the overdressed upper-crusters around us, but a few of the more anxious ones jump, bringing my score up to seven for the night. Is it cruel to prey on the nerves of wealthy has-beens with no idea what they're getting into? Maybe, but I need to entertain myself at these galas somehow, and after the first parahuman party crasher lost a hand they've been quiet as a grave ever since.
When I'm done expressing my mirth, I shake my head and spread my arms at the small circle of people, smiling under my mask and forming an inoffensive grin on top of it.
"Well then, I'll leave you all to it. Remember," I point to Maudlin and meet his eyes, "We're gone by nine even if I have to drag you out by force." Maudlin cackles, shaking his purple mane and giving me a thumbs up, the black pad on the end of the digit standing out against the pale lavender.
"Gotcha boss-girl." I start walking away from the group as the Case-53 raises his voice and further butchers a story about one of my fights with the Teeth.
The first time Maudlin told me that he was a people person, I took one look at his toothy maw and politely suppressed my disbelief. Then he sat down at a table with three capes who all hated each other, talked to them for four hours, and got my shop and the three surrounding blocks declared a neutral zone. After that, I offered him a hundred thousand dollars a year and my aegis of protection to work for me. My pieces sell out maybe a week after I make them now, with a sizable increase in price and dramatically fewer complaints from the customers.
After weaving between groups and nodding politely to some of the more important guests, I step out of the main hall and heave a sigh of relief behind my mask. I hate these social events with a passion, but making art also means showing up to exhibits and art shows. Networking is as much a part of the process as creation, and at the end of the day I do have to show up, even if all that means is drinking four glasses of overpriced liquor and harassing the other guests for the entire night.
I shake my head and turn into another wing to get away from everyone else. I've gotten better at playing the game, but that doesn't mean I like it.
I leave the main party behind and wander among the different wings. The gala is being thrown in honor of a number of different parahuman artists, one of which is me. That's all well and good, and if Maudlin doesn't come away with three new commissions I'll eat my mask, but on the other hand there's a more interesting collection of art inspired by parahumans in the museum proper, and that I actually do want to see. After consulting a map and a few more minutes of walking, I find the exhibit. It doesn't disappoint.
Scion's a popular subject. Naked or in his traditional white bodysuit, moments of stillness or simple golden blurs rendered in oil, I count at least a dozen with him as the sole focus. Maybe more impressively, they're all positive. Not one shows Scion helping a cat out of a tree while Leviathan sinks Kyushu, or stopping to fix a twisted ankle while a magnitude 7.4 earthquake destroys the city just behind him. No one wants to tear down the only hero that does unambiguous good.
Not so with the art depicting the Protectorate. Heroes are shown at their highest, yes, (a stained-glass window of Chevalier receiving an honorary-if-fictional knighting being the standout piece), but also when they fail. There's a larger-than-life full color photo of someone in Valiant's gold astronaut costume at the witness stand, with the names of his victims overlaid in black. He was one of the few truly black sheep among the heroes, and ever since they've become even more careful about recruiting Strangers. A short film showing a number of accidental casualties, from Blaster projectiles that weren't properly aimed to hostage situations gone wrong. All censored, but no less powerful for it. A constant reminder that mistakes happen, and that sometimes they're preventable.
And then I see the sculpture.
A biped dragon cast in metal, with a flickering red-orange light positively erupting from the rents in it's scales. Another figure, a woman in some sort of armor, is clutched in its hand, forcing an arm down the beast's throat. Spikes emerge from the nostrils and eyes of the dragon, and the monster's tail is curled in anger, free hand clawing at the air.
The plaque reads 'Dragonslayer.'
"Cool, innit?" I spin around to see a small someone behind me. They've got a hoodie up, with a strange face that's curiously devoid of masculine or feminine traits. "I mean, I've worked on some stuff before for other heroes but it's always been a little weird trying to hit the balance between getting it juuust right and doing my own thing, ya'know?" They step past me, looking up at the dragon with a smile on their face. "I liked how you started doing art as well as all the normal superhero stuff and figured 'hey, why not give something back?' So, I looked into your past and started feeling around for ideas. I didn't want to do anything at an Endbringer fight 'cause those are way to big for one cape, but then I found an old newspaper clipping and boom!" They put both hands to the side of their head, then throw them wide and spread their fingers. "Inspiration. Easy to get the stuff when your subject's interesting." After a moment their arms drop to their sides and they hunch their shoulders. "Aaand I just admitted to low-key stalking you. Uh, sorry about that."
I take a breath, then let it out. "Poor phrasing," I say slowly, "but I doubt there was any malice behind it."
An awkward silence descends. I go back to looking at the sculpture.
"The dragon is a little odd," I say. No wings for one, and I don't recall Lung having a tail.
"Yeah, trying to find accurate reports about Lung is a bit like trying to determine the existence of Bigfoot," the artist says, shrugging one shoulder. "I got some of the basics down and went from there. Didn't know that his face was all funky until I was, like, 90% done with the build, so the slit in his mouth" — they point to a small gap in the lower jaw and a groove in the palate — "got added in at the last minute. Also, since you switch out masks basically at random and no one has any footage of the fight between the two of you I decided to go with a minimalist version. I sketched out, like, nine other versions but none of them really screamed 'what the fuck?' like this one."
"'What the fuck?'" I say, the celtic knots on my face shifting up as I look down at the smaller person. I can't quite figure them out, but so far they don't seem hostile or pushy. The artist nods and returns my gaze undaunted.
"Yeah. I mean, it was your first night out, right? New cape on the scene and BAM! Dragon-pimp-gangster to the face. I mean, maybe you were a stone-cold badass even then but..." their eyes drift away, returning to the mask of the woman. "It didn't feel right."
I turn back to the sculpture and appraise the mask. At first glance it looks robotic. Flat. The lack of detail makes it look almost unfinished, and I turn to comment on it before pausing. The person is staring at the piece, eyes far more serious than when they were talking to me. I follow their gaze to the dragon, where I can make out minute scales in the less-illuminated sections. Clearly the artist has the talent to do small touches.
So why leave the mask blank?
I look a little more closely.
The lower lids are slightly convex. A wince, maybe a grimace? Something that speaks of pain and pushing through it. I drop my focus to the other hand, the one clutching at the dragon's claws, trying to force them away. To her knees and feet, complete with the little barbs that still sometimes come out when I really lose sight of myself. Then back to the mask, where I can see flickering shadows creating the illusion of eyebrows drawn together, in focus or in agony.
It's not a perfect rendition of that night. It's not an accurate one either. It might be more honest though.
"I like it," I say quietly. I hear a snort of amusement and once again turn to look down at the person beside me. They've got a good-natured smirk on their face and their hands laced behind their head.
"'Course you do. Everyone loves stuff that's about them. Even if you've got more reason to be proud than most." I roll my eyes and gesture to a water color depiction of a cape destroying the top half of a building.
"Think Shine appreciates being known for knocking over apartment buildings?" Criticism and satire tend to go over poorly with the particular types of crazy that your average parahuman is. The person shrugs nonchalantly in response, turning around and walking back towards the main hall. I follow.
"No publicity is bad publicity, right? And most of the art in there that's not-so-nice is about people who got 'caged or killed, so they're not really a problem." We start going up stairs, back towards the party, and I slow my pace to match theirs. "I also don't think too many people are worried about capes going after them for making art. I mean, I know I've done stuff for a lot of crazy, crazy capes, and one time some of it came out a little more," — they fumble with their hands for a minute before giving up and making an ambiguous gesture — "hot than I initially intended." Oh. I stop walking at stare at the artist. They keep moving though. "Turned out alright in the end," they add, seemingly unaware of my shock. "I did some other stuff for them that was a little more safe for work and they stopped threatening to put my head on a pike almost immediately."
"Who did you draw? And what did you draw?" I ask. Capes tend to range from 'totally apathetic' to 'murderously possessive' when it comes to their personal images. Off the top of my head, I can think of half a dozen parahumans who'd respond to risque art with violence and bloody murder.
"Mairon in a sexy Santa outfit, why?" they say, turning around and tilting their head, looking down at me. I go still.
"Mairon," I say quietly, looking at the apparently insane artist in front of me. "You made fetish art of the Ringmaker." Mairon, one of the top five Trumps in the world, leader of a team of capes that have yet to suffer a serious defeat. A cape that has personally killed at least half a dozen similarly scary parahumans in one-on-one combat and done so without remorse.
"It wasn't fetish art!" the artist denies, crossing their arms and glaring at me. "Just a low neckline and little bit of thigh!" I continue to stare at them. Then I think about the other artists I know.
Jeremy is absurdly frugal. He has enough money to buy anything he wants, but still lives in the cheapest apartment in the safest environment, eats two meals of the cheapest produce he can find when he can't find something in a dumpster, and drives his spray paint to the workshop in a Toyota Corolla that he maintains using stuff from scrap yards and duct tape. Kasansa carries three knives in plain view everywhere she goes and regularly tries to invite me to fight clubs when she comes over to do flower arrangements. Not because she wants me in the ring, but because she wants me to give her advice on how to battle capes.
Now that I think about it, the people running the store aren't much better. Alex and Alice swap clothes all the time to confuse everyone, Callie manages to communicate almost entirely in rhyme, and Tiffany is a six three war vet missing an eye and three fingers who knits on break.
Do I actually have anyone on my payroll that isn't a little crazy?
"Anyway, I've got another thing in the works for you," the artist says, turning back around and walking back towards the main hall. After a moment, I follow them. "It'll be a solo sculpture this time. No idea what the mask is going to look like, but I was wondering if you could help me figure that out over a couple of drinks? My name's Felix, by the way," they add, pointing to themselves. "Not my real name, but I learned that lesson a while ago. Anyway, I think the bar's that way. What say we get some alcoholic beverages and sex out I MEAN SKETCH OUT some ideas?" Felix waves their hands across the front of their body, androgynous eyes slightly dilated and cheeks impressively unflushed. I give them a brief once over. Below the hoodie they've got some nice muscular legs in hotpants, and I can't say that I mind the middle ground their face strikes between-
Wait.
I run through Amy's list of Common Signs of Flirtation. Attention to personal history? Check. Empathy and complimentary language? Check. Freudian slips?
In the back of my head I hear Amy's laugh. I've gone and misread the signals again, haven't I?
"Are you hitting on me?" I ask. This time I'm the one receiving a flat gaze.
"I mean, kinda?" Felix says, holding up both hands helplessly as we enter the main room, angling for the bar. It's a little less crowded now that some of the guests have departed for the night. "It's more like I want to do a model of you and it's hard to ask someone to strip down and let you paint them like a French girl if you're not either Leonardo DiCaprio or fairly drunk. Hey, can I get two rum and coconut coffees?"
"Naked," I repeat flatly, walking up next to them. One of the bartenders recognizes me and promptly starts mixing together an Old Fashioned. Plain, yes, but I've gotten used to them and I don't want to bother learning the subtleties of a new drink. Felix shakes their head as another bartender pushes a tall glass filled with some brown amalgamation towards them.
"I mean, do you actually wear anything under that?" they ask, motioning up and down at me. I can practically feel the sudden spike of interest from the surrounding guests, even if Felix doesn't seem to care. Watch yourself, artist. "Anyway, I'm not asking for a ton of skin or anything, but like, half plate maybe. Show the difference between battle mode and relaxation. I'll try to find an old bathtub, warm it up, get you nice and relaxed, then have you slowly shed plates."
"That sounds suspiciously like a date," I say, taking a sip and bracing myself against the sting even as Felix quaffs their beverage. "Also, I'm not naked under this." After getting hit the stomach by a rifle powerful enough to blow through my armor, I invested in a bullet resistant bodysuit. Sure it's a pain to squeeze into in the mornings, but it's better than trying to recover from getting shot by illegally-powerful guns.
"Well there goes my fantasy," Felix says and I nearly choke. What? "On the other hand, that wasn't a no. Who do I talk to in order to get a proper date?" They smile innocently, far too innocently for the image that just entered my mind, all pale legs and mischievous grins.
"That would be me," Maudlin says. Further contemplation is cut off as an arm appears around my shoulders and the purple-furred canine crossbreed interjects himself into the conversation. "I heard you hitting on my client?"
"Employer," I snap back automatically. "And they were wondering if I wanted to model for them."
"She's free Sunday afternoon," Maudlin says, grabbing the second of Felix's drinks and sniffing it twice, snout crinkling momentarily. "Rum, coconut, brown sugar, and coffee, right?"
"Yup! This ones a little weak though," Felix says, tapping the side of the glass and swallowing down the rest of it. "I'll have to ask them to up the rum next time."
"Don't I get a say in this?" I ask, shaking my head and downing more of my drink. I mean, now that I know it's not straight-up nude this actually sounds kind of interesting. If the sculpture is anything to go by, Felix clearly knows what they're doing, and I'm not getting any sketchy feelings from the short interaction I've had with them.
"You can say yes," Maudlin says, lapping at the top of the rum and coconut drink before lifting it up. "To business?"
"To art," I correct, lifting what remains of my own drink and making eye contact with Felix. They smile back and lift a newly-refilled glass.
"To art," they respond, and our three glasses gently clink together.