Alan felt like an idiot. That wasn't uncommon, but his skin crawled at going somewhere on the back of someone else's name. Imagine if he walked into a place that he wasn't supposed to be, said that he had someone vouching for him, and no one had ever heard of that person? He hadn't even done it yet, and it still felt like something that he'd be remembering for years in those deep hours of the night just before sleep took hold.
Like the murder.
Just because the memories were vivid didn't necessarily mean they were true. Hell, with every passing moment, Alan had more and more evidence against their reality. After all, if he'd killed someone, wouldn't police start showing up? Like a murderer would just be allowed to roam the halls of a convention center! He tried to laugh at the idea, and failed.
It would have been more convincing if you laughed, he thought.
While the Sheraton Hotel contained a part of the convention, the Hynes Convention Center held the majority of it, and navigating its eccentricities was a skill that had long since become second nature to Alan. Each of its three floors had its own flavor, and each had interconnecting components – a mastery of which allowed Alan and his friends the ability to sneak into lines they really had no business in after attending panels on the other end of the convention hall. Connecting all three floors were four main conduits of vertical movement: At the front of the building, well-trafficked, was a latticework of escalators crisscrossing a cylindrical void. Railings kept overly-enthusiastic nerds on the first and second floors from falling into the abyss, but architectural elements – pillars, walls, that sort of thing – blocked almost all access to the void from the third floor. Almost. There was a cute little window alcove Alan once ate a finger sandwich in once while waiting for Steve to lose a gaming tournament. On the opposite end of the building was a much more conventional arrangement of stairs and escalators, that on the third floor was augmented by a fanciful “grand staircase” – you know, like the one on the Titanic. This, too, was around an architectural void, albeit a much smaller one, ringed on the second and third floor by conference rooms.
Then, there were Alan and company's little secrets – in the back corners of the convention hall, closer to the mall and hotel, were two neglected stairwells that ran from the first floor all the way up to the third. The majority of con-goers never knew they existed, and they, along with the network of back hallways attached to them, was where Alan defaulted to in case of emergency. Admittedly, there hadn't been one of those since a particularly hectic incident relating to a cosplay pro wrestling tournament back in 2006, but Alan kept the knowledge in his back pocket, so to speak.
Then, there were the main conduits of the convention hall. On the street-side, on each of the three floors, there were massive hallways lined in floor-to-ceiling glass windows, peering out onto the Boston streets. Again, on all three floors, these front hallways were lined with presentation rooms, and on each floor, there were little flourishes that were worth noting – a restaurant on one end of the first floor, a flower-box and sitting area that always seemed to attract cosplay photoshoots on the second, the grand staircase from the second to the third, and on the third, the room responsible for processing all new attendees and giving them ID badges. On the mall/hotel side, floors 1 and 2 had another conduit hallway running parallel to the streetside one, directing people to the biggest and most expensive rooms of the convention – the opening ceremonies were held in one of these – and the third floor had one perpendicular to the others.
Alan had worked his way through some of those back stairwells and hallways to make it back to the hotel while avoiding badge checks, crowds, and any chance of running into a mirror and having to see his stupid face. And, hopefully, without seeing his friends. Even Steve would find this setup sketchy. An elevator ride and several corridors later, however, he was outside of room 431 in the Sheraton hotel, and he knocked on the door before he could convince himself that he shouldn't.
He heard the occupant shuffle up to the door, and after a long pause, the door slammed open, hitting the safety stop after maybe three inches of travel. Just enough for a sliver of a face to be visible, a single blue eye squinting skeptically.
"What the fuck do you want?" they asked.
Alan swallowed. "Uh... Sawyer sent me."
The occupant's expression softened from anger to mere confusion. "You're the guy?" They unhooked the safety latch, and welcomed Alan in, though they gave Alan a strangely wide berth. The room, as it revealed itself to Alan, had twin queen-sized beds, one of which was piled with costume clothing, while spilled out onto the floor and out to the corners of the room. Fancy dresses laid flat, foamcore armor, painted immaculately to take on the sheen of well-used plate, cosplay weapons of all varieties, it all came together to make a variety of colors, shapes, and textures that overwhelmed Alan's senses in an effect not unlike dazzle camouflage. The bureaus and TV stand were covered in makeup kits and mirrors, starting with more pedestrian varieties that you could find in a CVS, and ending with fake blood, horn polish, and enough skin paint and sealant to make an army of Smurfs.
"Are you a friend of Sawyer's?" Alan asked, as the occupant rifled through a closet, pulling out and sizing up black pleated pants. He couldn't quite figure out a gender to use for them - the lines of their face seemed neither particularly masculine nor feminine, their hair was short, but with a nearly-shaved bottom half and a floofy top-half that could have been anywhere between butch girl or femme guy, and their clothes didn't help. They were wearing a strange skin-tight getup, like a modernized version of the spandex shorts-leotards of masculine aerobics instructors of the 1980s. It made their hips seem a bit too curvy for a guy, but also emphasized their shoulders a bit much for a girl, and their chest could have equally been small-ish breasts held down by a binder, or a surprisingly welcoming pair of mildly-toned pectoral muscles.
Alan decided to stick with "they".
"You could say that," they said. "So, she said you needed a formal outfit for the ball tonight. How do you feel about Black Butler?"
Alan groaned, and the occupant smiled. "Yeah, I figured. You don't have the right feel for a Sebastian, anyway. What's that outfit, Gendo Ikari?"
Alan nodded.
"More of an old-school type, then? Hm... Give me a minute." They grabbed a few pieces out of the closet, laid them on the bed, and then began darting around the room, comparing gloves and jackets and hats from steamer trunks and clothing racks and god knows what else.
Alan just watched, bewildered. "These aren't all yours, are they?"
They laughed. "They are."
"You can't tell me you're cosplaying with all of this this weekend. I can't even imagine traveling with all this, let alone using it."
"I like to have options," they said, and let Alan be further bewildered for a moment before elaborating. "But I'm more of a consultant. Cosplay is fun, but making the costumes and wearing them are two separate skill-sets. I have both, of course, but you wouldn't expect an actor to design their own costumes for a movie. So people come to me with requests, I charge a consulting fee, and I rent them an outfit or two for the weekend. It's dreadfully fun."
They dashed up to Alan with a measuring tape, and took swift possession of his limbs, stretching them out for proper measurement. "Uh, am I being charged for this?" Alan had brought quite a bit of cash for the convention, but he had plans to buy merch and other nonsense with it, and he had no idea how much his new advisor charged.
They laughed. "No, no, no, I also do this for free for my friends and a few special individuals."
Alan couldn't help himself. "Which does Sawyer count as?"
"I'll let Sawyer talk about her own life. She's a... private person. Now, change into these."
They turned Alan around, and on the bed, a full outfit had been laid out before him, one that looked formal enough for a meeting with the Queen, though Alan didn't quite recognize the character yet. He supposed he'd get it when he put it on.
Alan waited for the cosplay advisor to give him some privacy, but instead, they just stared expectantly at him. "Come on, don't be ashamed. I have no interest in your body except as far as how well it fits into my choice of outfits."
Alan shrugged, and stripped, throwing his old outfit in a pile by the headboard. The cosplay artist showed them the correct order of operations, what items to put on first, how the mask and other accessories were meant to sit, and an attempt was made to teach Alan how to tie a bow-tie. This attempt was ultimately ruled a failure after about five minutes of instruction and repetition, and Alan was outfitted with a false one, basically just a pre-tied bow-tie front sewn into a stretchy collar that could fit under the collar of a dress shirt.
"So, what do you think?" they said, and wheeled a floor-length mirror out of the closet for Alan.
Alan looked a bit like the conductor of an orchestra. It was a tuxedo, with a bit of extra flair - the shirt had mild ruffles running down the front of it, he was wearing white gloves and a white waistcoat, the top was a tailcoat with large gold buttons running down the front, and he had a two-tone cape flowing all the way down to his calves - black on the outside, red on the inside, buttoned to the top of his tailcoat. Tucked into an inside pocket on the tailcoat was a supply of compressible stage roses. And then, on his head, was the piece that made it all come together - a white domino mask, and a black top hat.
"Tuxedo Mask?" Alan said. He was never particularly into Sailor Moon, but it was impossible to not have a cultural awareness of one of the most popular anime of the past two decades. Sure, as a guy, he had complicated feelings about the hyper-femme series, which served as the on-ramp to anime for countless teen and pre-teen girls, but he had to at least respect it. Even if Tuxedo Mask was a bit of a useless character, always outshone by the Sailor Scouts, he was a heartthrob.
"Yes, I think it suits you," the costumer said. They looked proud. "Do you like it?"
"Do you think Sawyer will like it?" Alan said.
They snorted. "I wouldn't have picked it out if she wouldn't have."
"Then yes," Alan said. "But uh... what now?"
The costumer smiled. "Come back to me at the end of the convention to pick up your costume. I'll keep it as collateral for now, to make sure you give this back. And don't forget this," they said, handing Alan a long, stage-magician cane. A standard accessory of, and signature weapon of, Tuxedo Mask.
"Won't this be a pain to carry around the whole time?" Alan said.
"Sawyer will want you to have it. Now get the hell out of my room," they said, and shoved Alan out.