Original Content

On the borderlands between the second and third floors of the Hynes, there was a completely unnecessary grand staircase – Flowing forward and back, with a shape best described as “What if you took that one staircase from the Titanic and gave it one-fifth the space and one-hundredth the budget”, which, as the math worked out, still looked pretty nice. On top of the pleasant shape, the marble stairs, the brass railing that you could hold while leaning against it to look just the right amount of casually badass, there was the lighting. Opposite the stairs, on the outer wall of the building, were windows that ran straight from below the first floor all the way up to the lofty ceiling of the third, and light, in this one spot, was immaculate.

It wasn't a particularly cinematic spot, but it was good enough for cosplayers to flock to it en masse. There were several spots like that throughout the convention – On the second and third floor, on the far end of the hall, there were areas where the glass walls made up two of the walls instead of just one, and people congregated there sometimes, and just outside the food court, there was an open square, with a tree in the middle, that was just right for large group photoshoots, the kind where a hundred Naruto cosplayers could all fit into the shot comfortably. The Cosplay Stairs were more of an ideal spot for individuals, shot with digital SLR cameras (the only way to go for professional-quality photography in those days) and small groups, and Alan, collapsed at their base, panting, tried to stay out of the way.

His part of the stairs pointed back into the convention hall, and most photoshoots were half a floor above, where the stairs doubled back and faced the outside light, though he'd have to move if a larger group came by. But that was a concern for later. Now, he had to engage in the long, laborious task of catching his breath. Which, for the record, was ragged to the point that there was that slight taste of copper, or maybe iron, in his mouth, blood being aerosolized from his lungs, with little bits of phlegm, and he couldn't even think. If he looked up and saw her standing above him with a bloody knitting needle, there wasn't shit he could do, and he'd just have to live with it.

“Hey-”

Alan flinched so hard and fast that he flailed his way onto the floor, cane flying out of his hand, hat rolling on its brim down the hallway. Jeff caught the cane, and Steve scrambled to grab the hat.

He didn't know what the trigger was, he didn't know what set it off, but Alan started crying, and he didn't know where the off switch was.

While, dear reader, your time may be different, at the time, there was a fairly strict code of “Acceptable masculine activity”, and how to deal with these situations, and in accordance with this, Steve and Jeff simply acted as if their best friend wasn't openly weeping in front of them. This wasn't entirely a callous thing – The reasoning, at least as they understood it, was that by acting normal, it would help Alan return to normal as soon as possible, which would be the most emotionally comfortable for him. It was a callous-seeming action, coming from a well-meaning place.

“Christ, Alan, have you seen these Gurren Lagann cosplayers?” Steve said. “I don't know who the character designer was, but if we ever find ourselves in Japan, remind me to buy him a drink.”

“Atsushi Nishigori,” Jeff added, before stealing a nervous glance down at Alan. “Seriously, though, you're missing a hell of a show if you're as half as into redheads as I think you are.”

“With big tits,” Steve said, helpfully. He winked at a pair of Yoko cosplayers, wearing little more than a flame-patterned bikini, unbuttoned booty shorts, and go-go boots. They didn't seem to notice, but Steve didn't seem to mind. One of the Yokos stopped halfway up the stairs, posing for a few shots, while the other joined a massive group photoshoot just down the hall, and Steve's eyes ricocheted around with this embarrassment of riches.

With no response yet from Alan, Jeff turned to Steve. “Honestly, you focus too much on that. Have you seen the design of Nia Teppelin, or Kiyal?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “but they don't work great as cosplay.”

Jeff sighed. “I'll give you that, but it's all about the attempt, and about the feeling.”

Steve cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is it?”

Jeff froze. “What are you implying?”

“Oh, I dunno, what do those two characters have in common with each other, and with just about every character you like?”

“Hey!” Jeff jammed a finger into Steve's chest. “There's a clear and safe line between flat-chested characters and p-” He coughed. “Lolicon.”

“And what side of the line is Nia on?”

“I appreciate her design for being cute, not for any other reason.”

Steve snorted. “I've seen your shared folder, dude.”

“Well,” Jeff huffed, “Yoko's fourteen, so you have no room to argue-”

“There's no way that's true, someone made that up, look at the cosplayers here, do they look 14?”

This debate was not unusual. The bits of it that Alan caught between being wracked with the convulsions of a good cry were where this usually went. Accusations, unconvincing refutations, counter-accusations, and while there was probably some kind of philosophical and psychological bottom to it, frankly, Alan didn't usually care. He'd watch what he wanted, read what he wanted, and damn whatever impact it had on him or the world. As long as he wasn't hurting anyone directly – and speaking of that, the conversation was reaching its usual conclusion.

“And Kiyal? Really?” Steve said.

“What about her?” Jeff was steaming. “She's a safer choice of waifu than a hell of a lot of shit I've seen you lust after-”

Steve was grinning, ear to ear. “Oh no no no, Jeff, that's not the point,” he said, wagging a finger. “She's mischevious, she's a bit of a dweeb, she's hot-” he let that last one hang for a moment, letting Jeff feel a beat of alarm, “and she's… what, exactly, to Kittan?”

“Shut up,” Jeff said.

“His little sister,” Steve continued. “Now, I can't blame you,”

“Stop.”

“Cause yours is pretty fuckin' fine,” Steve said, and then the rest was mudslinging and yelling for, if it was like the usual, the next ten minutes or so.

While Alan was being completely neglected, just having the same old arguments between his friends near him was… comforting, in a way. He could still barely see through his tears, and his face was a mess of snot, but he'd snatched back a sliver of control.

A flash of red vinyl walked past him, and his head whipped around.

With blonde bob-cut hair, cyberpunk wraparound sunglasses, a cropped jacket, short shorts, and a hot pink pistol, a Naomi Armitage cosplayer had taken over the chief posing spot on the Cosplay Stairs.

Alan, still having a hard time with words, thwacked Jeff in the leg with his wrist.

“Alan?” The argument faced an immediate cease-fire.

Naomi Armitage was the main character of the show that really got him into anime. Sure, there were things like Pokemon and Sailor Moon and Cardcaptors and all the other morning cartoons brought over from Japan, and shows like Robotech before that, but a key part of every anime nerd's development was the first time they explicitly saw a show as being “an anime”, and not just something else on television. Alan had seen this strange show about the trials of a humanoid killer robot on Mars one morning on the Sci-Fi Channel, and it had kick-started his journey into anime. There were some real complicated questions in there, buried between the action scenes and robot combat, ruminating on just what made a human, how women can be reduced to political bargaining chips through considering pregnancy more important than the person made pregnant, and some things Alan still couldn't unpack for the life of him. What he did know for certain was that he loved the show, still harbored a hell of a crush for the main character, and hadn't seen anyone cosplay her in the last five years.

And he probably wouldn't see anyone cosplay her again.

Alan struggled to his feet. His ankles were still wobbly, but Steve swept under his arm to keep him upright. Jeff grabbed a couple of tissues out of his backpack, and grabbed Alan by the chin, before cleaning up his face. “What do you need, Alan?” Jeff asked.

“Armitage cosplayer,” Alan said, struggling to string words together. “I gotta get a picture.” He started grasping at his pockets. He didn't have a camera on him, but his phone would have to do. “Megapixels” weren't measured in plural with it, but…

Jeff rifled through his pockets, and pulled it out before slapping it into Alan's palm. Meanwhile, Steve had moved into action, positioning himself between the cosplayer and the stairs going further up, being as much in the way as possible without disrupting her personal shoot. He made frequent eye contact with Jeff, monitoring the situation with Alan.

Jeff slid out from under Alan once Alan seemed mostly steady on his feet. “You want me to talk to her?” he asked.

“Nah,” Alan mumbled, “I'm fine.” He flipped his phone open, and struggled to open the camera function.

“You're not,” Jeff said, “But whatever Rich hooked you up with, we'll get through this, okay?” He clapped Alan on the back, right between the shoulder blades, and gave Steve a thumbs-up.

Steve sidled over to the cosplayer. “Hey, I love your cosplay – can I get a quick pic of you?”

She smiled. “Thanks, and sure!” She waved her photographer off, and Steve made a quick pantomime out of searching his pockets for a camera. Of course, he had one, and it was already full of pictures of only the most scantily-clad cosplayers, but that wasn't the point.

“Ah, shit,” he said. “Alan, I forgot my camera, can you come up and take her picture for me real quick?” He winced apologetically at the cosplayer. “Sorry about that, it'll just be a sec.”

Alan's legs still weren't entirely in working order, but he made his way up the stairs, till he was next to Steve. It took a supreme effort, but he pulled a moment of lucidity out of his ass. “Love what you're doing, incredible cosplay,” he said, snapping a casual picture of her. “Can you do a cheeky pose with the handcuff?” There was, of course, a handcuff accessory to the cosplay, and she twirled it around a finger.

“Big fan of the show?” she asked.

“One of my favorites,” Alan said.

“Me too,” she said, smiling. “Any other requests, before I go back to…” she trailed off, and nodded in the direction of her professional photographer.

Alan hardly had to think. “Can I get one of you pointing your pistol at the camera?”

“Of course.”

The shot looked perfect, and he thanked her for her time before trotting down the stairs. At the bottom, Steve and Jeff were waiting for him.

Alan stared at the picture, and down the plastic barrel of the costume gun, with its peacebound trigger. If that was the last thing he saw, he wouldn't mind too much. He could almost hear the click.

“Hey, Alan?” It was the third time in a row Steve had said his name. “You back in the world of the living?”

Alan felt his eyes getting sucked into the photo. He snapped the phone shut, and shoved it back in his pocket. “Uh, yeah.”

Steve grabbed him by the face, pulling at his cheeks, his eyelids, checking him out. There was such skepticism in his eyes, until suddenly, Steve saw whatever he had needed to see, and then, everything was back to normal. “Good!”

“Good?” Alan said.

“What, can't I be happy that my friend's feeling fine?”

Alan furrowed his brow. “Uh, I know you too well for that, remember?”

Steve looked to Jeff, and shrugged. “Well, shit, you got me there. We need your help.”

“What for?” Alan asked.

“Don't you remember?”

Alan did not, and shook his head.

“The motherfucking Masquerade, my dude!”