Page 10 of My Cosplay Escape
Comic-Con is massive, and the scale of it hits you first in your ears. It is loud. The roar of humanity deafens. I swear, and not of the Shirley Temple variety, but no one hears me. It’s that loud.
Gwen laughs and tugs me into step beside her. “This is amazing. Look at all the nerds!” She has to shout for me to hear her.
“You’re one of them now,” I yell back.
“Don’t be silly. This is just camouflage,” she says, gesturing to her green leotard.
I scoff, and my ankle wobbles in my boot.
Gwen takes my arm, smiles, and waves at an entire group of digital SLR-wearing fanatics. One even carries a separate flash. Gwen pulls me into a pose beside her. “Wearing leopard print doesn’t make you a leopard.”
My vinyl catsuit makes an odd crinkling sound as I walk that I’m sure only I can hear. It was little sensory details like this that got me into cosplay. What does it feel like to smile when wearing a Cicada Nymph face mask? Tight, and it totally squashes your nose flat. Can you really dance with a broadsword down the back of your blue dress? Not comfortably. “There are other places to people-watch,” I shout.
We shuffle past a group of cosplayers. I have to duck to avoid someone’s wings. Queen Cockatoo, I think. The level of extra in these costumes is inspiring. Or it would be if this wasn’t my cosplay farewell.
“Like where?” Gwen’s green fishnets glow in the San Diego sunshine that streams through the walls of windows.
“The beach. The zoo.”
“I’ve been to the beach. I’ve been to the zoo. This is more fun.” Gwen pulls out her badge and waves it in front of security. “Besides. You needed an excuse to wear your catsuit.”
“Not really.” In fact, I was determined never to wear it ever. I pull out my badge for the security check. They’re being really tight this year, checking badges on every floor and hall. “That ship sailed off to China, where it teaches English to all the adorable and Instagram-worthy schoolchildren before it wanders into the mountains, where it will hopefully die of exposure, never to return.” But instead, Daniel’s Instagram posts just keep coming. And always with captions about how hard, but so very important, it is to take time to find your true self, even if it takes you to the other side of the world. You know, in case months spent hiking the PCT wasn’t enough.
Gwen lets out an exasperated moan. “Where is the AC, people? I don’t want to sweat off my glitter.”
Gwen is right. The convention center feels like a greenhouse. We wander the halls until we are in the middle of one of the vending galas, and then it’s worse than ladies’ night at… Well, the theoretical ladies’ nights I envision in my head when I’m too tired to brood or work out.
“Me-ow!”
I turn with clawed hands up and a hiss to a smattering of applause.
“Easy, boys.” Gwen sashays into the fray, and if I don’t follow, I’ll probably never see her again.
“Hemlock! Poison Hemlock, can I get a picture?” a group of Space Monk-dressed boys asks.
Gwen tosses her hair behind her shoulder, and for a moment, I imagine the wordflipfaintly penciled in around her as emanata radiate off the Space Monks. “How about the two of us?” She drapes herself around the two cutest monks.
“Crowd in, boys.” My voice has become a rough, velvety purr. I arch my back as a Space Monk rests his hand just above my waist.
We make our way to the main ballroom with the most impressive displays and vendors. “Those Space Monks were definitely not of the pious, entropy-fearing order,” I hiss.
Gwen’s eyes light up at the nearest vendor booth. “Ponies! I need all of them!” She stuffs merch into a conveniently-placed shopping basket. “Why didn’t we dress up as ponies? OMG. There’s a pink one? With red hair?” Gwen is ecstatic. “Next year, we’re coming as ponies.” Gwen shoves her way, merch first, into the crowd of shoppers.
“How did you score badges for this year?” I trace my name on my badge with one clawed finger before sliding it back in my thigh pocket with my phone.
Gwen smiles and wrinkles her nose. “The internet is a magical place. Particularly when you have a Venmo account ready and waiting.”
“I’m sure your picture didn’t hurt either,” I say, and goldfish, I’m using my Catstrike voice again.
We edge our way to the front of the queue.
“Do you want a commemorative shopping bag?” the cashier asks, gesturing to the display of reusable totes plastered with images of ponies.
“Honey, of course I do!”
The cashier struggles to fit all of Gwen’s purchases into the bag.
Gwen checks her phone before dropping it down the front of her bustier. “Now what am I supposed to do with all these goodies? I’m not carrying them around all day.”
