Page 11 of My Cosplay Escape
A Dragon Wolf cosplayer slides up his helmet. “There’s a coat check on the first floor.”
Gwen winks at Dragon Wolf. “Care to show us?”
He grins before a Fascination cosplayer tugs him away.
“I’m not walking back to the front.” I point to my boots. “I can’t.” I haven’t worn heels in years.
“I promised not to leave you alone.” Gwen looks dismayed. She hefts the bag of bulging pony paraphernalia onto her shoulder.
“I’ll be fine.” I shoo her toward the escalators.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t wander too far.”
Not a problem. It is physically impossible to wander far in these boots.
I make it exactly two steps before Cicada-bro and MJ ask for a photo. I make it another couple of feet before a group of preppy wizards stops me for pictures. After that, I am inundated with a group that is either Dr. Leto or Sherlock Holmes. It’s hard to tell, what with the overpowering smell of bodies needing to shower. Holy sweaty socks, Nightbat. I will sign that petition floating around the forums for public showers at all Comic-Con International conventions when this is over. I hope the smell doesn’t linger on me.
Selfie sticks are banned at Comic-Con, but somehow props like faux spears, axes, and any kind of wizarding staff are fair play? Maybe I should have brought my whip after all.
After my fourth photo op with yet another Nightbat, I have to sit down. My boots send spikes of pain up my ankles and lay waste to my spine. I may never run again. I’ll have to take up swimming, or worse—surfing like Brent. Hours bobbing up and down in the seaweed. Not even breaking a sweat.
“How about a picture, sweetheart?” A jerk grabs my wrist.
I nearly lose my balance as I wrench my hand free. “I’m fine, thanks,” I snarl.
“Come on,” he moans. “Don’t be like that.”
He reaches for my waist this time, but I grab my phone and snap a picture of his sorry mug. The flash makes him blink.
“I said no. Now back off. I’m out of your league, and I’m this close to sharing your picture with security.”
“Sorry,” the idiot slurs, skulking away.
He earned a major eye roll, and again, I hear phones click. People really need to work on their cosplay etiquette.
Calls of approval and questions about the costume follow me as I search for someplace to just chill until Gwen returns. Past Sarah would have been cooler with the attention, maybe even flattered. Oh, who am I kidding? Past Sarah would be enamored of the idea that behind every cowl could be an equally passionate, attractive, kindred überfan searching for a soulmate to validate the importance of comics (for both their artistry and storytelling) and argue over who was the best Nightbat, all while making heart eyes at each other. Now, I can’t stop thinking about facial recognition software that may flag me in my mom’s Facebook feed or if my platform boots are going to permanently throw off my running. I am all too aware of the crazies who come out to cosplay to indulge in any of my cosplay comic book fantasies.
“Need an escape?”
I turn around, bracing myself for another photo request. Instead, I’m blindsided by a wide smile belonging to a guy in a white T-shirt. I literally sigh out loud, because after posing for a billion Snapchats with a bunch of other cosplayers, a plain old tee is the breath of normal I need.
The guy is probably mid-twenties, in jeans that are as Normal Guy as the shirt. He’s taller than me, but only by about an inch or so, with me in the RuPaul heels. And he is delicious, but not in the overt, Ralph-Winston-sans-red-cape, good-looks way. He has that I-do-yoga-and-am-completely-comfortable-in-my-own-skin type of vibe, but judging by the veins that wrap around his wrists and the muscles I can count in his forearms, he does more than yoga. And that confidence sans costume in this place makes me curious. Interested.
Like a breaking wave that sweeps up the shore, I feel it. The cosplay is taking control. My head cocks. Suddenly, my boots don’t feel so painful. Fudge brownies, are his eyes blue?
“What’ve you got?” I purr. Cosplay all of a sudden feels a lot more fun.
Burst lines, the gorgeous ones that need both ink and a colorist, radiate from his smile. He proffers a box to me. “Open it.”
I take the box carefully, because of my cosplay claws. It is covered in the type of switches and buttons that would have fit in on an old-school Starship Cruiser set. “Why?” I ask.
He laughs, and that ASMR buzz comes creeping back up my spine. “Most people ask how.”
I shift languidly in my boots. “I’m not most people.”
“Clearly.” His grin turns cheeky for a fleeting moment. His chest swells with a deep inhale. “It’s an escape box. You open it. You get a prize.”
I look past him to see a couple in Mask Master T-shirts and a father-and-son pair, each with a similar box. I lean a shoulder against the obliging pillar. My feet ache. I pass the box back to Handsome T-shirt Guy. “Show me.”
