Nov. 24, 2024: "Picture a grand masquerade ball, where a tiny man sneaks in to observe the extravagant lives of the wealthy and powerful. He’s drawn to a striking, mysterious woman towering above the crowd, her mask covering her face but not her charm."
The grand, sweeping steps before the mansion were no problem: all you had to do was climb through the tiers of decorative plants on either side.
No problem getting past the guard, when you can simply slip behind his heels as he checks the invitations of all the other guests, towering over you in old tuxes and rented ball gowns.
After that, you simply hug the wainscotting, time your sprints to run past staff members crossing paths (so they’re watching each other and not you), and then you’re in like Flynn.
Or like Felix, in this case. No one checked the tiny man’s outfit against the governor’s dress code, though he did bother to dress up for this occasion. When you’re going on a crime spree, culminating on B&E on the governor’s mansion, how much worse could it make things if you sneak into an anime fan’s apartment and raid her BJD’s wardrobe? Sure, he looked a little hokey, what with the frills spilling out of a sparkly velvet blazer, but the shoes fit well, which was the primary concern. And sure, he could’ve stayed in the apartment and scavenged some perfectly good pizza leftovers, but … some occasions called for transgression.
Governor McGowan had promised to institute protections for Anthropoles, codify their personhood, ratify their civil liberties, but after three years things had worsened, if anything. There were no punishments for repeat manslaughter by “accidental” footstep, and the cops claimed their manpower was stretched too thin to go after every streamer who made a snack of a helpless, screaming little person for Likes. Why not refer these cases to the FBI, then? That’s what he would’ve liked to ask the governor.
So in the grand view of things, not only was it no crime for Felix to barge into this end-of-year fundraiser and feast on some James Beard-level snack platters, he was basically entitled to it. Compensation, reparation, cosmic balance, whatever you wanted to call it.
The tiny man with the russet flat-top and scintillating green eyes paused at the T-intersection before the kitchen doors, ducking behind a dropped napkin, then sprinting to a planter. Good thing, too, because no sooner did the doors swing open than a stressed Mexican woman stooped to swipe the napkin away. It could easily have been his sparse little frame between her fingers, those long and tapering tan fingers, under those glistening, blood-red nails …
He wiped his mouth. A lonely little scavenger like him had appetites for things other than food, but first things first. Crouching under the curve of the planter’s base, he watched the double-doors to the kitchen swing wide, pause, and before they could close he had a fair inventory of the night’s repast. At $250 a head, they weren’t about to cut corners on the capital’s cuisine, not with the coffers to stock for next year’s elections. Shrimp toast, curry lamb skewers, looked like a vat of lobster bisque, caprese salad … standard stuff. He rubbed his jaw and figured better things were in store, to say nothing of what was waiting for him on the tables in the main room.
He glanced up at the polyester slacks stretched taut around the full hips of the napkin-snatcher as they rolled on into the ballroom. “Entonces vamos,” he murmured, sprinting after her.
The hallway, cavernous though it was, couldn’t compare to the vast, yawning space of the ballroom. It looked like heaven, and it felt like standing outside: the vaulted ceiling was covered in some pretentious mural that surely bore significance to the Normies of several decades ago. The area was packed with giants in fine dress, natty suits in conservative monochrome or daring, avant patterns, sparkling gowns like wedding cakes or Maxfield Parrish clouds. Men stalked and loomed; women spun and hovered. They were a sartorial forest of incalculable wealth, all here to share that wealth with the party that looked after their interests at the expense of everyone who was being kept out of here.
Felix sucked in a long breath through his nostrils, scoping out the room. To the left was the live chamber music, with several Normies drifting and swaying around there, and one of four open bars, so no food. The right half of this moneyed canyon of privilege and taste boasted long, creamy plateaus covered with all the succulent delicacies he could imagine and dozens he couldn’t. And the way to it was largely clear: the giants strode in, representatives chatting with retired military, lawyers re-establishing ties to a beleaguered-looking judge, all moving slowly enough for him to duck between, which he did. No one, literally no one was keeping their eyes down on the 18th-century Turkish rug to spot the glittering action figure leaping over the polished toe of someone’s Oxfords to duck-and-roll beside the breaks in the draping tablecloth.
Now that he was on the right side of the tracks, all he had to do was climb up there and gorge himself to illness. Luck was on his side as he checked out the lay one last time before ascension. All backs were turned to him, and the offerings must’ve been ready to be refilled because no one was lingering around the first appetizer spread, except one wallflower. Her shoes bore a subtle brocade that only revealed itself with the odd turn against the lighting, and her slim, turned ankles disappeared beneath layers of satin wimple, pinching and swooping their way up her long, long frame to her torso, a crowning structure of corsetry that glinted with beveled crystal and …
Felix’s cheeks burned as he just caught the bulge of mam’selle’s décolletage, all the way up at the top. Not that she was top-heavy, but it was likely she had a favorite tailor who enjoyed showing her off. After that, she was all bare arms, bare shoulders, honey-blonde hair pulled back in a bun, and then the maddening mystery of the silk-and-lace mask that obscured her features.
Someone had suggested that modern society didn’t know the value of a good Masquerade Ball anymore, and the assistant staff of everyone in attendance here flooded Google with queries as to what one wore, traditionally, to such a function. Everyone’s faces were covered here, whether the simple black Harlequin’s mask the staff wore, the full-face _kitsune_ mask rush-delivered from Tokyo, or the hauntingly precious Venetian velvet, leather, or ceramic mask popularized by these functions a long time ago. Not that it mattered to someone at Felix’s attitude: for the little busybody with huge eyes, Normies gave themselves away by their quirky socks, the scuff on one side of a loafer but not the other, or the way their foot stiffly rose on the metatarsals before they stepped forward.
But it wasn’t the gait of attorneys and business magnates that he was interested in now. It was that haunting, lithe figure who meandered by the pupusas, thoughtfully running her fingertip over the rim of her Nick and Nora glass. The slits in her mask gave nothing away, but her posture told a story. Perhaps her husband was out back, sharing stogies with the power-brokers, or maybe he was stroking his ego for a group of, well, anyone in a skirt.
Yes, she told a sad story, but it would be even sadder if she wouldn’t just fucking drift away from the snack table, already. Pursing his lips, Felix tucked himself beneath the tablecloth’s hem and trotted down the length of the table, in relative peace and quiet. Tall enameled steel legs hoisted the table like a ceiling far above him, and he had all the time in the world to make his way down. He tracked the seam of light on his left, watching for any shadow coming and going, in case staff were bringing a new hot tray and attracting a bunch of tastefully appointed vultures.
The light dimmed in one spot without movement. It was the mournful lady, holding position. As long as she didn’t make any sudden movements … Shaking his head, Felix deviated from the mission and crept closer to where she cast a shadow. He knelt on the carpet and carefully lifted the hem of the skirting.
Her right foot was parked just in front of him. What he hadn’t noticed, by the way she’d been turned, was these were peep-toe stilettos. He blinked rapidly, feeling one of his two hungers flaring inside himself. No, he told himself, that would be particularly stupid right now. Grab a spare rib and then we’ll think about …
The giantess shifted her weight. Her long skirt hissed against the tablecloth, her ankle bent slightly, and her cute, round toe tips lifted and settled down again in their close confines. And the way her pearlescent nails caught the light …
Felix gritted his teeth and stepped back into the shadows. Normally he gave himself some latitude for truly stupid decisions, but not tonight. Maybe later, when the band packed it up, the DJ plugged in, and everyone was heavily buzzed on cocktails they thought would impress other people. Resolutely he turned on his tiny heel and ran over to the next curtain of tablecloth, where this empty table joined another, some distance from the lissome goddess who found solace in the remnants of the feast.
It was no trick at all to dig his fine nails into the cloth, pulling himself up behind the table. Just before he crested the surface, he spotted a carafe and a tray of glasses, perfect for hiding behind. Now he was about hip-height to all these decadent giants and giantesses, but they were busy mingling and schmoozing and escaping the doldrums of their professional lives, giving him a moment to check out this spread. It was more hopeful, an array of bon-bons and chocolates, something to boost his carb intake and bolster him for a better haul.
And yet, he just had to turn back and look at the thoughtful woman. He leaned against the warm, insulated shell of the coffee carafe and peeked up at her. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she was emoting like a motherfucker. There was nothing he could do about either of these things, but she was also standing by a new tray of samosas that no one had noticed yet. They radiated heat and spices, and his stomach gurgled with need.
Okay, maybe one stupid stunt for the evening, he told himself, and then all business for the rest of the night. Keeping an eye on the giant lady, he hopped back to the first table, crouched behind a stack of rolled napkins, and estimated the odds. There was one samosa very nearby, but it was pinned beneath two others, and these were fresh and hot, so he didn’t want to struggle with one longer than he had to. There was another, isolated, but a little further away. He cursed his luck, but as long as Miss Melancholia remained wrapped up in herself, it wasn’t a totally haphazard venture.
The chamber music ended one tune, started up another, and the lady lifted her huge head and turned away to look at the musicians. Perhaps this was a piece she liked. Now was Felix’s chance, and in three long strides he cleared the distance to the lonely samosa, gripped one toasted corner, and was making good work hauling it over the lip of its tray when a shadow passed over him.
He looked up, ready to roll away, but her hand was already upon him. Without looking, and guided by all the stupid luck, she reached back for a snack and her fingers wrapped around the pocket of spicy meat that he’d been making off with. Her palm squashed him gently into the puff, his clothes immediately soaked up hot canola oil, and her fingers wrapped around them both in a trice.
At times like these, like when you see the truck barreling toward you or the wings snap off your plane, you don’t think “fuck, fuck, fuck.” There’s no internal screaming, you don’t even void your bowels in a defensive posture. You simply … go blank. Your eyes still see, but they don’t register anything. Your heart isn’t hammering in your chest. It’s like you’ve been overwhelmed by fate, and now you’re the sole person in the theater, watching the movie of these last moments playing on the screen, watching as though it has little to do with you.
The lady’s fingers held him fast, jerking only slightly when she realized she’d grabbed more than a samosa. With her back turned to the would-be donors, unfaithful husbands, and social-climbing women, she set down her cocktail glass and cupped the snacks in her palms. There lay one perfectly golden, swollen pocket of Kenyan spices and beef, laying atop the leg of a strange little man dressed like a concert pianist for action figures.
She stared down at him, and he stared up at her. Her palm was soft and warm against his back, and the realization of his situation was beginning to gnaw at the edges of conscious thought. His sinuses were overwhelmed by the taste of Kenya, and something heavy lay on one of his legs.
The woman’s mask canted slightly as her rose lips parked in a cute smirk in one cheek. “Looks like I’ve got a date for the night after all,” she murmured, pocketing the tiny man in her décolletage. She turned, munching the samosa thoughtfully, wearing her first smile of the night.