I think quickly, adding the clues together like materials. The film crew. The fact that Irma showed up personally. The huge crowd, the cheering, and the staged production. Controverse has a twist this year, all right, and the twist is that Quals has gone from being a con sideshow to the main freaking event.
“So this is what that release form was for,” May whispers as I think, So this is what Luca meant. She elbows me, and I remember that no matter what surprises we’re thrown, we’re here to win.
“One.”
I’m ready.
We enter, confident this time, moving across a wide stage. Cameras are trained on our every move. On instinct, I find myself posing. May follows my lead.
The crowd screams until a voice booms over the racket: “Good. Now approach the judges.”
The judges—new judges—are seated on a raised platform at the end of the stage, watching us with blank faces. And I realize that the performance portion of Quals has started. It’s happening right now. And if they’re doing all this for Quals, what are they planning for tomorrow’s Primes? I shut down my apprehension, determined to make it through Quals so I can find out.
“You ready?” I say.
“Fucking Controverse,” May says back, but with a tone of resolve that I know means she’s ready to rock this.
Just like we rehearsed, we drop into a low hunch, then stagger upright suddenly so we look contorted by the corruption eating our skin. While May hisses and jabs at the crowd, I reach inside my robe for our secret weapon, a totally awesome prop I’ve been saving for the Quals show. It’s a hanging incense burner like a priest might use in a real temple, except I’ve fashioned this one to look like a hanging orchid plant on chains wound with ivy. As I swing it, the small vaporizer I’ve installed starts up, and we’re surrounded by undulating vapor and floating petals. In the lights, it’s nothing short of pure magic.
Our illusion grips the crowd by the throat. They’re cheering “DEEP AUTUMN!” as we hit the raised platform, and the judges are grinning with appreciation. I’ve never felt cooler.
We bow, letting them know that we’re done with our antics. Things quiet down. For a moment, I think we’re in trouble, and then that voice returns.
“Good. Thanks. Person in the monster outfit, take two steps to your right, and then cheat left so we can see the wings. No, your other left.”
Somewhere among the cameras, someone is directing us. They make a few more minor adjustments to where we’re standing, and the room goes quiet as we wait. Someone is giving notes to the crowd, instructing people to turn and face the front, rearranging so that certain faces are in the shot as the cameras zoom in on our outfits.
Finally, finally, the judges come to life. It happens all at once at an invisible cue, like animatronics at a theme park. They beam and cackle at one another like old friends, and I’m able to see them clearly for the first time as the lights find them. They aren’t the people from prejudging. These are new, camera-ready judges, and I realize I recognize several of them from the cosplay big leagues.
“This? We haven’t seen this yet today. This is fun,” says a man with bright blue hair and bright blue nails. They click as he flutters a hand up and down. “This is everything we come to this competition to see, am I right?”
He’s Waldorf Waldorf, a famous designer. I recognize his inch-long nails, and the iconic contrast of his electric-blue hair, crowning the cool brown of his face. I just watched him get those nails applied on Instagram a day ago. He was in LA then. Why is he here? How is this real?
“But is it fun enough?” asks a lady in thick-rimmed glasses. When she talks, she cocks her head to the right so that she’s looking at us down the angle of her pale, wide cheekbone. Her frizzy bangs bounce as she shakes her head critically. “Can you be an expert in fun? We’re looking for experts here. The best. And while I appreciate camp—Waldorf, you know I love camp—can this be considered fun next to some of the cosplays we just saw? I’m still thinking about that Bambi look. How can I care about this when I’ve seen that? That was fun.”
“I’m not sure how you can care about anything other than finding scissors to cut off those bangs, but okay,” Waldorf Waldorf shoots back. The crowd whoops as the lady leans over, swatting at him. I expect her to karate chop his throat, but she’s laughing. They’re friends.
“Raphael, which one are you, under all that makeup?”
This is from the second-to-last judge, an older woman with warm, tan skin, who is in an outfit seemingly made entirely of loops and loops of crochet. Her hands gleam with rings as she points at me, her eyes on her tablet. I think her name is Yvonne. She’s got a super popular crafting channel on Ion.
“I’m Raffy,” I say. I suppress the urge to curtsy.
“And you’re the mastermind behind this look?”
I glance at May, inscrutable behind her helmet.
“We both designed it.”
“You both did?” She looks at her tablet again, frowning. “Designing isn’t executing. Who built it for you, then?”
“Raffy built most of it,” May jumps in, but her voice is barely audible.
“I love it,” says the last judge, a man with the least amount of neck I have ever seen on a person. His head is mostly embedded in the mass of muscle that makes up his hulking back. Next to the lady with the rings and crocheted outfit, he looks like an interloper from an entirely different universe.
And I know exactly who he is: Marcus the Master. He’s a famous cosplayer specializing in metalwork and armor builds. He’s known for winning Controverse years ago with a Viking-inspired reimagining of Optimus Prime, and he makes a living running armor workshops at cons.
“Still there, Raffy? What about the moss? You’ve done a good job of distressing it, but it looks a little muddy from far away. Some of that lovely, rich green is getting lost,” says the lady with the glasses. “There are higher-quality materials you could have used, I think.”
I point at the moss on May’s shoulder armor. “Hypnum cupressiforme, a sheet moss.” Like we rehearsed, May drops into a perfect hunch and holds it as I go through the blooms rustling on her back.
“Asiatic lily. Celosia. Alstroemeria. A few varieties of roses. Yarrow. Gypsophila. They’re all fall-blooming flowers. We planted them in the spring. The moss was easier—you can blend it up and paint it onto the fabric, and then it grows under the right conditions. We thought about airbrushing it for a better green, but we liked the idea of keeping it real.”
“You grew those flowers?”
“Not all of them. Some are made of satin that we airbrushed.”
May strides to the edge of their platform to give them a good look, saying, “We grew the fungus, too. The itch is very authentic. Want to touch?” The tension of the room breaks into laughter, which breaks into applause. In a flash, Waldorf Waldorf has descended from the judging table, spinning me around to inspect the blossoms on my shoulder.