In addition to the standard "horrible twisted shit from the depths of Feo's mind, viewer discretion is advised" warning, I must also give a "psychedelic trip inspired by Satoshi Kon, will probably confuse the hell out of you at first" warning. (If you don't know who Kon is, I'll compare it to
Inception
instead.) Anyways, if I've done my job right, it should start making sense by the end of the first chapter. As always, comments and criticism are welcome.
Chapter 1: The Illusionist
Sandra watches herself in the mirror as she pulls the mask from her face. Her reflection is beautiful, stunningly so, and she blows a kiss at it before she hides it again. But this is a lie.
She takes the mask away again, and her reflection shows empty blackness, no face to be found. In this manner, she's intimidated more than a few criminals. This, too, is a lie.
Once more she unmasks, as she does every night, forcing herself to confront the truth. She runs her hand across the scarred ruin . . .
-- -- -- --
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP! The alarm radio jolted Sandra awake.
"The Crimson Five have gone missing after a confrontation with an unknown foe. As yet, it is uncertain whether they are still alive . . ."
As if by habit, Sandra reached out and felt for a mask on her bedtime table. It was only after she failed to find one that she realized she'd been dreaming.
I need to stop listening to the news,
she thought, punctuating her resolution by hitting "snooze" harder than was strictly necessary.
It hadn't taken long after the dreams began for her to move a mirror to the wall beside the bed. She checked it now, proving to herself that her face was the same as ever.
Pretty as a mask
, she caught herself thinking,
and it's all mine. Not a blemish to be found. It's no wonder I'm so scared of burns . . .
She shut herself up and lay back in bed, resting until the alarm went off again.
-- -- -- --
Sandra's inheritance had been sizable enough that, so long as she lived cheaply, she'd never have to work. She'd long ago done the math, concluding that marrying and raising children would not mean living cheaply, but thanks to two modern miracles--nightclubs and birth control pills--that did not preclude her current lifestyle.
She always slept until two in the afternoon, but she waited for the clock to strike six before she made her grand entrance. By then, the dance floor was already crowded, couples shifting and breaking apart minute by minute as she watched.
A leggy blond girl had briefly separated from the boy she'd come in with. "Might I have this dance?" Sandra asked loudly, and more quietly she followed up with, "Don't ruin the moment." She led the confused blond through a slow, romantic dance, and she finished with a kiss before releasing her.
A little girl-on-girl should draw men's eyes quite nicely
, she thought.
She wasn't sure what made her pick him out from the crowd, standing alone at the edge of the dance floor and quietly sipping a drink. He was handsome, after a certain fashion, with pale grey eyes and the figure of a runner, but it seemed that no one other than her had given him a second look. For just a moment, his eyes met hers, but something in them forced her to look away.
I'll make him my target for tonight,
she decided.
She danced with quite a few good-looking boys and girls before she made her way over to him, but he didn't seem at all surprised to be chosen over them. He'd already set his drink aside, and he didn't seem so much as buzzed as he introduced her to a dance she didn't recognize. "Was that good enough for you?" he asked once the song had ended.
"You move as smoothly as you dress," she replied. "There's something about you that really draws a girl in--I still haven't figured out what. Perhaps I could solve your mystery more easily in a more private setting." (This was not as great a risk as might be assumed--were he to try something untoward where no prying eyes could see, he would find that she was stronger and more vicious than she looked.)
"I doubt you could solve
all
my mysteries," he said, and she suspected he wasn't joking. "But you're right, this place is a little loud. You seem like a lovely girl, and I'll gladly follow where you lead."
-- -- -- --
Back at her condo, she decided their conversation would go best accompanied by light music (lighter than the dance tunes at the club, at least.) Unfortunately, her antique record player had finally given up the ghost, and the first thing she found on the alarm radio was the news. "Tonight's retrospective on the missing Crimson Five will begin with the Enchantress. This mysterious illusionist has seldom been seen without a comedy mask, and is the only one of the Five whose true name and face are still unknown . . ."
She was a little too hasty to turn off the radio. "You don't like supers?" the grey-eyed man asked.
"Every time I hear about them, I have strange dreams," she replied. "What's it matter to you? Are you--" A metaphorical light bulb shone over her head. "You are, aren't you? People only notice you when you want them to."
"I've never been the type for tights," he told her. "I am merely a sort of weaver. I assure you that my threads cannot control your actions, only draw your interest." There was a hint of levity to his smile. "I didn't even need them to draw it now."
"What's your story, then? How'd you get to be this way?"
To her surprise, he answered. He described a life spent in loneliness, always wondering what other people truly thought. He told her what it felt like when he first made his way into someone's mind--how it hurt to learn how much she hated him. He spoke of the search he'd undertaken to find and help others like himself.
"You interest me, Sandra," he finished. "I've watched you, both awake and in your dreams, and I've seen how deep your pain goes. I wasn't expecting to reveal myself this early, but I'd rather make the offer now than lie to you. Sandra, how'd you like for me to make your sorrow go away?"
"How would you do that?" she asked, her tone lascivious.
"It begins like this," he replied, kissing her square on the lips.
It would not be true to say that the sensation was indescribable--it was quite similar to what she associated with a tongue across her breasts. To have that same feeling on her lips, though, was as strange as it was wonderful. He changed focus to her cheek, then down to the hollow of her neck, and wherever he touched, pleasure followed.
Her dress hit the floor, soon followed by what little she wore underneath. He knelt as his tongue trailed down her body, stopping in a familiar place and circling counterclockwise. "Keep doing that," she sputtered between gasps, "and I might collapse."
He pulled his tongue away and looked up at her, his grey eyes merry. "Do you want me to go?"
"If you've got anything I'd rather not catch, now's the time to tell me. Otherwise, get those pants off and hop into bed."
As she lay back, he paused at her entrance. "Tell me about your dreams," he said. "Keep talking as long as you can."
"There's this girl," she began, "who used to be pretty. She was caught in a fire" (at that, he entered her), "and she wasn't so pretty anymore. People saw her as pretty--that should not feel this good--but it didn't always work--that
really
should not feel this good--so she put on a mask--" With that, her words became unintelligible.
They lay motionless together, him on top of her. "What were you afraid of?" he asked.
She racked her brain. "I don't remember. I was telling you about something, just a moment ago, wasn't I? Something I'm better off not remembering."
"I'm happy to have helped you," he told her as he withdrew. "I'm afraid there are other places I need to be, but I'll be back as soon as I can."
