Chapter Text
Once upon a time, things existed pretty normally around the Diamond house. Cater’s sisters were off getting to know their new home, the Kingdom of Heroes; his mom was at Pilates; and his dad was in his office, tearing his hair over the ninety-seven-thousandth call report of the quarter.
And Cater? Cater was staring out his bedroom window, forlornly and tenderly, gazing down at passersby. His green eyes held a yearning that had never been seen before then nor ever seen afterwards. A hand under his chin propped his head up on the windowsill, even as his vision was cast downward, hungrily drinking in the purpose and busyness of those treading the stone pathways of the bustling agora below.
It was a romantic sorta image, and Cater privately thought he looked way picturesque. OFC, he guessed, the scene lost all its romance when you realized that the tragic air he was exuding was all drama and no substance: he was only lost and inconsolable BC his phone had died and he was waiting for it to have enough juice to be usable again.
WHICH was actually a pretty depressing scenario, if you asked him.
(And, yes, he was interested in selling the movie rights to his very melancholic and upsetti-spaghetti life. /hj)
Y’know, though, what would alleviate his sadness?
Going to tonight’s Paeanetsia Ball.
Cater’d never been, but word on Spark Avenue was that a Paeanetsia Ball was the kinda event that epic poems—not just the who-wore-it-better columns or post-party Met-Gala-core hot takes on Magicam—were written about.
A quick Explore page search for “Paeanetsia Ball” depicted a hall gleaming with polished marble, tables filled with goblets overflowing with wines and nectars, ceilings carved to mimic a constellation-filled sky, and torches that cast a warm, golden light across the room. Statues of gods and heroes lined the walls, each one more imposing than the last, as if silently judging the partygoers below.
It was the place to be seen, and the soirée where memories were made. Plus, the Ball being an exclusive Kingdom of Heroes tradition ensured that it was hallowed flexing and FOMO-mongering grounds.
Too bad he’d already decided that he wasn’t going.
And not ‘cause of any reasonable reason, bee-tee-dubs. Cater had been unbelievably psyched at the whole concept of a Paeanetsia Ball—he was new to the Kingdom of Heroes, and this would be his first big party; he knew it’d be ‘cammable AF.
This was ‘specially true when you considered the fact that the Ball was always held in the columned confines of the home of the ginormous KoH royal family: Castle Olympus. Double the ‘cammability when you also considered the hordes of influencers, micro-celebs, CCs, and A-listers-maybe that’d no doubt treat the khoros (or at least that’s what he’d heard the dance floor was called) like a McFreakin’ runway.
Man, he got excited just thinking about the idea of getting all dressed up like that.
The only problem was the whole … getting dressed up thing.
Now, Cater knew the fashions, he knew the fads. He knew how to mix-and-match what was trending with his own personal style to create an outfit that would make him feel comfy in his own skin and do absolute numbers on the internetz.
Très unfortch that he couldn’t say the same for the rest of his family—a family, who, BTW, treated him like their very own living, breathing Barbie doll.
Which wasn't always the worst thing. Like, he wasn’t gonna claim that his sisters actually suuuuucked fashion-wise. When he was in the mood, he could pop on an outfit they’d selected for him and feel like he could conquer the world.
The issue came with the fact that their outfits just … weren’t really his vibe? The cutesiness, the pastels, the frills and ribbons—he could deal, he swore! But it could get to be a lot too fast, and most days, he preferred to do his own ‘fit-finding, TYVM.
And his sisters totally got that, they swore! Except they had a buttfuck-ton of trouble hiding that he’d hurt their feelings in declining their ensembles. They’d already hinted that they’d planned “something special” for his outfit for this Paeanetsia Ball, and, since he’d rather die than see what that entailed, he’d just … decided not to go altogether. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with potentially hurt feelings this way.
Besides, he guessed he was almost OK with the whole “not going” thing, though? Chillaxing at home wasn’t un-fun or anything—in fact, some days, it was all he wanted to do! But imagine being able to go LIVE at THE social event in the Kingdom of Heroes! FOMO was real, kids!
…
Yeah, fine, maybe he was a bit bummed.
From behind him, a faint ding sounded, signaling that his phone had finally turned back on. He yanked the charging cord closer to him and stared at his phone’s lock screen. The clock blinked at him. Only a couple more hours ‘til the Ball.
He pursed his lips. Longingly, he clicked open the general public evite that’d come straight from Castle Olympus itself.
Rumor had it that the king had been the sole designer of the evite and had written out all the details, and, though Cater had never met him, he could get a p’ good feel for his personality based on the graphics and tone of it all.
Like, a sky blue background, a border made of Doric columns, several scatterings of lightning bolt and cloud clip art, and the exclusive use of Herculanum font? No wonder the king was known more for his larger-than-life personality and lightning storms over his graphics abilities.
In violent yellow, the top of the evite read “You’re Invited To …”. Underneath, in equally violent yellow, was written “A Paeanetsia Ball!!” followed by location and datetime deets.
The only other interesting thing about the evite was the fact that the entire foreground was taken up by some jarringly photorealistic drawing of a marble statue sculpted to look like some random male model. Although he was mind-numbingly good-looking, Cater only gave him a glance, since he assumed the model was s’posed to just catch your eye and promote Ball attendance. His social-media-savviness and marketing know-how meant he knew how it allllllll worked.
Wait, hold the phone! He squinted at the words under “A Paeanetsia Ball!!”: “Unlike my other Balls, this one’s theme is ‘Masquerade’, so make sure you’re masked!”
Masquer—masquerade ball? As in, a Ball where he could cover his face and have no one—*cough* *cough* his sisters—recognize him? Why did that sound so perfect? Natch, he’d never be able to post anything about it, since his entire family followed his public-facing Magicam account, but, like, he’d still get to go at least? And rock his own style?
OMG, imagine! He’d walk into the Paeanetsia Ball, his outfit on point, his mask matching to perfection, and the crowd’d be all, like, “Sevens, who’s that sexy stranger with the fly, fly mask? If we knew who he was, we’d so like and subscribe!”
ASDFGHJKL! This really would be the perfect way to wear whatever he wanted and go to the party and sidestep drama with his sisters. Hm … he’d just need to avoid them at the Ball … aaaand before it.
This was kinda problematic ’cause he’d already announced at the dinner table and in the family GC that his plans for Paeanetsia night were to vibe alone at home and maybe catch up on his homework (LOL!). If his family caught him rocking anything other than loungewear tonight, they’d be mega sus. Or at least expect an explanation of some kind.
He’d just have to be slick and arrive solo at the Ball fashionably late. Getting dressed after his family had left’d be his best bet—not to mention that it’d be more relaxing, siiiiince being alone meant that he could borrow his sisters’ hair straightener in peace. (It was only fair, since they “secretly” nabbed his eyeshadow ALL THE TIME. Like, who were they trying to fool? He barely used the pastel shades in his fave palette—and he was already hitting pan? 🤨 Make it make sense.)
But waiting for his parents and sisters to leave for the Ball proved harder than he’d thought. “All good things …” and that stuff notwithstanding, WHY did his entire family have to be so sloooooow at dressing up? The doors to Castle Olympus opened at eight. It was seven fifty-six, and his dad was still deliberating on which tie he should choose!!!!!!!! As if the answer wasn’t already obvious, considering he was wearing a navy suit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It took everything in Cater not to start pregaming his usual GRWM regimen just to get a headstart. Unfortunately, his hawk-eyed sisters knew him too well; they’d immediately recognize his routine and wonder where he was going. He could always lie and-slash-or make up an excuse, OFC. But, eh. Tonight, it really wasn’t worth the effort.
When his family had finally piled into their suburban and driven away—but NOT before his mom had given him forty-thousand instructions and phone numbers to memorize ICE—Cater sighed in relief.
And then bolted upstairs to do his skin prep.
KK, so hair and makeup? After he’d finished applying sunscreen + primer, he had that in the bag. And outfit? See: hair and makeup. Actually, he had his outfit so in the bag that, while he’d been waiting for his turtle-like family to get ready, he’d planned out more than one. More than two, actually. Or three. Or four.
… He had a big wardrobe, okay?
Assistance was gonna be required in the face of this much fashion, so he did the only thing that ever worked in this kinda dilemma.
“I’m him, and he’s them! Split Card!” He waved his magic pen and three plumes of smoke filled the room. “Hiya, mes!” he greeted his Clones. Caters A, B, and C grinned back at him. “Wanna help a guy out?”
Cater A, who usually ended up being the most chatty of this particular trio, airily replied, “OFC, fam! What’re we gonna start with first—the mid mane or the #flop faceup?”
Pink flooded his face. “Um, neither?” Cray-cray Clone alert. He scooted aside to show the seven outfits he’d laid out on his bed. “I meant ‘I need help choosing one of these to wear to tonight’s Ball!’”
“Hm, ‘Ball’?” asked Cater B, rubbing the fabric of one of the pants he’d picked out between his fingers. “You mean the ‘Paeanetsia’ thing, right? Aren’t those so modernized ATP that they’re pretty much like a mega-glam party and not really a ‘ball’?” He then gestured toward the floor-length, gown-adjacent, avant-garde dress-thing Cater had laid out. “This one’d probs be super outta place?”
Cater A nodded. “Cater B’s right: partywear’s totes in, formalwear’s out!”
“Yay, me, glad we agree.” Cater B continued to inspect the outfits. “Y’know what? Can I rec something? This is a Kingdom of Heroes Ball, right? None of these clothes really draw inspo from KoH culture—which, let’s be honest, a lotta people are gonna be rocking. Maybe I should try to do that too?”
Oh, hm … Most of the people in the Kingdom of Heroes wore fancy ‘fits called “chitons”, although a few guys rocked these things he’d heard referred to as “yogurts”. Er … “togurts” … togas.
Honestly, they were pretty 🔥🔥🔥, and Cater was defo usually a “when in Rome …” kinda guy, but he hadn’t gotten his hands on either one of them yet. They weren’t trending ATM nor were they one-hundo percent his style, and, ‘sides, there were enough foreign fashions in the KoH that W/E he wore, he didn’t look too out of place.
But still, he would have to admit that Cater B had a point. There was smartness in not standing out too much by dressing in something extremely experimental. Wearing cultural fashions—in an appreciative not appropriating way—was definitely one way to ensure you looked good and not garner a million strange looks.
“Cater C, you’re being super weird and quiet over there,” Cater A noted. “Got any insight on what the other me should wear?”
Cater C, who’d squeaked and whose eyes had widened in terror at being addressed, mumbled, “Uh … no, not really.”
“Aw, come on!” Cater A pouted, his bottom lip sticking out more than it should’ve for any self-respecting eighteen-year-old. “Woman up and choose!”
Sighing, Cater C gave the clothes on the bed a onceover, before he shook his head and made his way over to the wardrobe. UM, rude! What was wrong with the outfits Cater had already chosen? He rifled for a sec before pulling out a pair of vermillion-and-black plaid pants and an old screen tee with a very tacky “he was a sk8ter boi 🤘😔🧢↺ …” print on it.
“You’ve gotta be joking …” muttered Cater A under his breath.
Cater’s own mouth dropped open. “PA—JAMAS?”
Setting his slightly-trembling jaw, Cater C said, “Yep. I vote for staying home in PJs and watching RPDR.” He shrugged. “Or Mainstream Anime 6. Pick your poison.”
Cater A mimed vomiting. “Blech, better poof Cater C away, me,” he warned, mid-gag. “That me’s obvs a manifestation of my more introverted side, and it’s so not gonna be any help RN.”
Cater let out a small sigh. Ugh, Cater A was right. Kinda didn’t make sense to call forth a Clone that didn’t even wanna go to the Paeanetsia Ball in the first place.
“Sorry, me,” he apologized as he waved his magic pen, causing Cater C to disappear in smoke. “But a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”
Staring at him knowingly, Cater B said, “Bet you’ve had to poof away that Clone more times than you’d liked to.” The word “you” instead of “me” or “I” hung heavily in the air.
Cater rolled his eyes and shushed him. Introvert Cater might’ve been majorly unnecessary for this situation, but he was beginning to wonder how Perceptive People-and-Room-Reader Cater was any better.
He ignored that for now and summoned another Clone. Cater D poofed into existence. And then immediately poofed out of it, ‘cause Cater recognized Cater D as the Clone that was coolness incarnate and, uh, sorta simultaneously the one responsible for the “he was a sk8ter boi 🤘😔🧢↺ …” shirt. He had a very specific Clone he was looking for, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to expend the energy to maintain more than three.
Another wave of his magic pen produced Cater E.
“OMG, slay!” cheered Cater A, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This is the me that’s kinda Vil-Schoenheit-coded, right? At least in the fashion department?”
Cater E grinned cheerfully and popped a peace sign. (So definitely just Vil-Schoenheit-coded in the fashion department, then.) “Vil’s an icon and is totes one of my style idols!” He glanced at the array of outfits and dry heaved. “But, um, lowkey—he’d just unalive himself right here and now if he saw these ensembles. Like,” he held up a pair of crystalline heels Cater had carefully chosen, “what even? Glass slippers? As if!”
“Hey!” protested Cater A and Cater. Cater took over and continued, “I happen to think those look hella good, TYVM!”
After scrunching his nose and scrutinizing them for a second, Cater E shrugged in concession. “Fineeee, I guess they’re not that bad. But c’mon, bestie, I know I can do better!” He considered the rest of the clothes again. “TLDR please: what’re all these for, anyway?”
As a trio, Cater and his Clones chorused, “Tonight’s Paeanetsia Ball!”
Cater E’s eyes widened to the size of teacup saucers. “Be SO FR RN—I got invited to that?!”
“Um, it’s a public invitation,” pointed out Cater B.
The scream that came out of Cater E’s mouth made Cater wanna double-check that it wasn’t 2012 again. ‘Cause that kinda volume was only appropriate when the world was ending. Or when you were at a rave.
“Omgomgomgomg!” He chanced another glance at the outfits on the bed and wrinkled his nose.
Cater couldn’t help but feel a bit miffed at the reaction. They were not that bad. “Sevens, dude, c’mon; I need you to chill. What’s up?”
As Cater and the rest of his Clones exchanged confused glances, Cater E ran over to Cater, plucked out his phone from his hand, and opened the Ball evite.
He pointed to the screen accusingly. “Ignore the ‘gRaPhIc DeSiGn Is My PaSsIoN’ vibes. See the problem?” Then, he glared daggers at the outfits.
Cater A stared at the screen for a second before nodding matter-of-factly. “You’re so right, me. The Ball’s s’posed to be a masquerade, but none of these ‘fits have a matching mask. Not having one would be weird AF.”
Cater E’s eyebrow started twitching in annoyance, but, luckily, Cater B swooped in with a “Don’t be cray. That me’s obvs talking about the fact that the freaking crown prince of the Island of Woe’s gonna be at the party. Look.” Cater B pointed to a blurb of tiny text under the image of the statue. He gasped and pressed a hand over his mouth as his eyes continued to scan the evite. “Sevens, I didn’t read the rest of it: ‘My nephew, the crown prince of the Island of Woe, will be the star guest of this Paeanetsia Ball,’ blah, blah, blah, oh, here! ‘And he’s looking to catch a couple of Cupid’s Arrows in the tush, if you catch my drift. All genders welcome!’” The color drained from his face. “Yeah, I’ve gotta look hot.”
Cater’s heart skipped a beat. Whoa, not only would he be rubbing elbows with famous people galore, but a real, live prince as well? The Ball was already gonna be ‘cammable to the max, but this new piece of info took it up a notch, if that was even possible. … Not that he’d be able to post any pictures, but still … the memories!
He took a closer look at the evite, finally paying actual attention to the statue of the male model that was at the forefront. All Cater could discern from the pure white marble image was that the person it was trying to represent had long, flowy hair and broody features. Noooooot to mention the figure of a stalk of asparagus.
All the saliva in Cater’s mouth evaporated as he took in the asparag—er, statue. “Whoa … he’s Hot with a capital ‘H’”. He really couldn’t believe he was only just noticing the extent of the statue’s hotness. Even though he lacked colors, he was just Cater’s type. “That’s the prince? I had no idea … he was giving male model, I swear.” (Clearly his subconscious had recognized him as the prince, though.)
Cater E simply stared at him for all of five seconds, before he shook his head. “TBH, I’ve always thought I looked cute when I was clueless, but now I’m not super sure? N—E-ways … totally lost my point, but here we go again: I need to look fire tonight. I mean, the evite says there’s gonna be a whole prince at the Ball! Who is LEGITERALLY trying to find love.” He made a heart with his hands. “Read: moi. I’d look way good with a crown on. Doubly-good if Island of Woe royalty wears those laurel ones that the Kingdom of Heroes guys do …”
One thing that was so fascinating about having Clones that were fragments of your personality was that when they were all split up like this, Cater was forced to reckon with parts of himself that he hadn’t even known existed.
Like the part that, apparently, really wanted to date the prince.
If he was being honest, although the allure of the Ball for him was the society of it all, Cater wasn’t gonna lie and say that the fact that the whole event was for people to try and win a prince’s heart wasn’t tempting.
Especially if it was that prince …
“… And that’s that on that, period,” finished Cater E, who’d been talking this whole time. Caters A and B had been watching him, enraptured. For some reason. “So, who’s with me in majorly bibbidi-bobbidi-boo-ing these mid ‘fits and creating something actually Ball-worthy aaaand prince-eye-catching-worthy?”
The two other Clones cheered in unison, but Cater huffed indignantly at the thought of all his selected outfits being dismantled. “Hold up a sec, I actually curated—”
Cater E smiled irritably, before he grabbed Cater’s shoulders and yanked him close to him. His breath burned against his cheek, and it had to be the warmth of it that was causing Cater’s face to heat up. A hot shiver tingled down his spine. “Listen to me, me. I’m gonna meet a prince. Am I gonna wanna give run-of-the-mill Shaftlands-pretty-boy with a rat-face and straggot-ass tux who’s succumbing to an early twink death, or am I gonna wanna mog?”
Cater was breathless for a whole minute. Wow, were his eyes always this green? And did his heart always beat this fast? He found his gaze accidentally raking the sharp line of his Clone’s jaw. Damn.
“Mog,” he finally whimpered, somewhat dazed as he averted his gaze. “I’m gonna wanna mog.”
Cater E released him, and he felt like he could breathe again. “Then let me cook.”
For his part, Cater E did cook. Whenever Cater himself tried to put together outfits, they’d come out amaaaaze—facts. However, when Cater E, the side of him that was pure fashion knowledge, assembled an outfit without the other facets of his personality vying for attention, as they often did when the real Cater had to do anything, the results were nothing short of legendary.
Even with the limited (so basically none) Kingdom of Heroes pieces in Cater’s wardrobe, Cater E had still managed to curate something that gave faint KoH vibes (“but, like, chthonic-core since the prince is from the Island of Woe”), while still staying peak runway material.
Was the final outfit as trendy as it would’ve been if Cater A was in charge, or as deliberately manufactured to match the vibe of the room, as it was guaranteed to be if Cater B had gotten his hands on it? Heck nope.
But holy fuck, did it eat.
After the Clones had helped him into the clothes and had plopped a half-mask onto his face, they stood back to admire Cater E’s handiwork.
“They hate me because I eat and leave no crumbs,” Cater A sniffled, wiping away a tear. It might’ve even been real.
Cater E nodded in approval. “Now that’s the kinda outfit that’d attract a prince.”
“A perfect blend of culture and fashion. Maximum slayage achieved, I fear,” concluded Cater B.
Cater performed the most scrutinous of ‘fit checks in his full-length mirror and finally grinned. Cater E seriously knew what he was doing. Khoros, here I come. “KK, pookies, wish me luck! I’m OMW to a Ball!”
But when he grabbed his car keys off his dresser, Cater B stopped him. He winked. “Not so fast! My Chariot awaits!”
Baffled, Cater followed his Clones as they raced to his bedroom window and peered downward. There, by the front door, idled a golden car-motorcycle-combo-esque vehicle. Cater had seen a buncha people riding around the Kingdom of Heroes in them; they were called Chariots, he thought? Apparently, they were these alternatives to cars that were technomantically-powered and self-driving; all you had to do was maneuver the steering wheel. Super extra, hethinks, but extremely cool.
“You guys know I have a car, right? And a skateboard?” Cater asked, despite practically flying down the stairs to check out the Chariot.
“OFC! We’re literally you! Buuuuut as the other me was helping you tie your griddle—”
“Girdle—” corrected Cater E.
“—I figured that if I was gonna arrive fashionably late, I might as well have a fashionable ride to go along with it! So I called I-DCCC-RENT-A-CHARIOT and voilà!” Cater A gestured loftily toward the Chariot. “Cay-Cay sweep, save your applause ‘til the end, KTHX?”
As Cater situated himself in the Chariot, Cater B asked, “You know what time to be home by, right?”
Cater groaned. “Ugh, I’m getting curfew-ed? Lame.”
Scrunching his nose in distaste, Cater E scoffed, “Curf—? No, you goof! C’mon, I know my attention span is cooked, but we gotta reeeead! That evite said the Ball’s over at one in the morning, right? Probs about half the party’ll leave thirty minutes before then, meaning the roads are gonna be packed. If I wanna get home before the fam, I’m gonna have to leave by midnight.”
“Nooooot to mention that I only used my KoHEx card to rent the Chariot for, like, two hours.” Cater A grinned and flashed Cater’s card, which he snatched back immediately. GAH, how long had he been sans plastic?! “At twelve-thirty, it’s gonna auto-pilot back to its hangar, whether you’ve gotten home safely or not.”
Wow. Um, hard stop time aside, his Clones really had thought of everything, hadn’t they? He grinned. Man, could a guy get any luckier?
“Ooooh, gotcha—I’ll defo make sure to be home by then. And also?” Cater fitted the included helmet on his head. It was optional, but he thought he looked really cool with it on. “Thanks, mes. Like, SRSLY. For real and for true.”
“OFC, bestie! Just make sure I have fun!”
“And flaunt my outfit, natch.”
“Try to meet some new people, too!”
The Chariot whirred to life, and Cater flashed his Clones a shaka sign. He pressed one hand to the steering wheel, typed in “Castle Olympus” on the massive dashboard screen, and began to fiddle with the stereo. As the Chariot began propelling forward toward the coordinates of the Castle, Cater gasped. “Oops, almost forgot!” With a wave of his magic pen, the three Clones poofed away.
💀💀💀
One of the best things about videogames, as far as Idia was concerned, was the ability to just decline things.
“Hercatron12 is asking for a rematch?” Well, dream on, sunspot, Gloomurai had no time for plebs like you.
“_painic is sending you a friend request?” Um, yeah, no. The guy seemed like someone who’d worship the ground Idia walked on BC of his whale status, and he did not have the time for that, 4head.
“meGOATera wants to trade?” Like he’d ever say “yes” to that. Bet they didn’t even have anything valuable!
If only declining invites was that EZPZ IRL. Something these 3D posers didn’t get was that, sometimes, people didn’t freaking wanna go to their stupid functions, especially if the whole point of the shebang would be to socialize!
Case in point: his uncle—who was the rinky-dink king supreme of the whole Kingdom of Heroes map—had just gotten his Adonis-statted-up son hitched to some girl he met at this ball he’d hosted, and now his eyes were on Idia.
In the worst way possible.
FLASHBACK SCENE, GO!
“Idia, my boy,” his uncle said, his boisterous voice reverberating against literally everything. “You’re set to rule your parents’ little underwater island, aren’t you? I hear the economy’s on the up-and-up—you’ll need someone to lead by your side, whether it be man, woman, or child.” He blanched. “Well, not actually a child, mind you. I’ll tell the poets to transcribe that I said ‘nonbinary person’, since I should’ve said that in the first place—ah, not that I think enbies are childish. In any case, you’ll need a partner!”
Idia always lost his nerve when it came to his uncle—mainly ‘cause he was the size of a mountain, if a mountain had more muscles than the weight room of a gumnasion. “N—no thanks. I’m, uh, I’m all good.”
Yeah, no, he wasn’t just ALL good, he was BEYOND good. He was p’ sure romance wasn’t in the sybil’s hexameters for him, and there was no way he was gonna let his UNCLE set him up. And although he’d read dozens of arranged-marriage-turned-romantic web novels, he would never delude himself into thinking that he was sigma enough to have that kinda fate.
“Nonsense!” his uncle boomed. “If my son can find his true love at one of my Paeanetsia Balls, then so can you.” LAWL. Finding any similarities between Idia and his moxie-brains-and-spunk-pilled cousin was a task nothing short of Herculean, and he was p’ sure that his uncle was just looking for an excuse to throw another party. He had to be, if he was willing to spout that kinda BS.
Then his tiny blue eyes lit up, and Idia’s heart dropped to his sandals. Whenever his uncle got that look in his eyes, not even a screen full of warning messages could stop him. “I’ve just had one of my thundering-good ideas! I’ll host another Ball, and you’ll be the star! People’ll come from all over the kingdom for a chance to be with you.” He gave Idia a onceover. “You won’t be dressed in that, I’m sure, so you can take my word for it.”
“I—I don’t think that’s—”
But OFC, Idia’s pitiful dissents were dwarfed by his uncle’s jovial, “I must say, I think I’ve really outdone myself with this one. Why, I’ll go get my party-planning son on his feet—we’ll have to host your bacchanal as soon as possible! And—tell you what—I know you’ve got the jitters when it comes to talking to people, so why don’t I set the ball’s theme to ‘Masquerade’?” Without waiting for Idia to answer, he stomped away, muttering, “Tomorrow’s no good for a Ball—I’ve got a thunderbolt-polishing session at six, but maybe the weekend?”
Idia simply blinked dumbly after him.
FLASHBACK SCENE, END!
All he’d been able to do back then was wonder: NANI TF HAD JUST HAPPENED????
He absolutely could believe the way he’d been steamrolled. He’d allocated all his manna toward Intelligence stats and had completely neglected the Confidence-Charisma bundle, meaning he was about as intimidating as a Lv 1. Creeper when you were at endgame. His uncle had the opposite stat distribution, meaning Idia was always in for the worst matchup of his stupid baka life when going against him.
BUT STILL, that didn’t mean Idia hadn’t been able to feel his hair growing fiery hot at the sheer AUDACITY of his uncle.
BECAUSE, NO, chat, be so FR RN: what sorta Gigantamax ego did you have to have equipped to think you could just waltz into people’s lives and tell them what to do like that? Roll 100 for massive brain damage, much? Troglodyte normie or not, that bulldozery was straight outta one of those city destroyer games that you played when you were twelve and uncultured that gave you points for how destructive you could be.
Idia was NGL: he was thisclose to dropping all pretenses of politeness to ragequit this whole “visit your relatives in the Kingdom of Heroes because your hulked-up Wonderbread of a cousin was getting married there” sidequest and head back home to the Island of Woe.
But obviously his parents, who knew better than to get on his uncle’s stormy side, would make him stay and go to the fricking Paeanetsia Ball.
And, JTLYK, that wasn’t him lip-servicing into the void—he was literally, at that very moment, standing outside one of the ballrooms in his uncle’s castle, an admittedly-cool mask that he’d designed and 3D-printed himself perched on his head.
The Ball was still lagging on the “START” screen, but Idia could already spot a ginormous crowd in the ballroom. Which he was not inside of, because he would rather peace out for all of eternity than fraternize with normies. Standing in the hallway and feeling the bile rise in his throat was infinitely more exciting.
“Brother, there you are!” a voice called from down the hall, momentarily interrupting his Sulkfest. “Uncle’s about to announce your grand entrance—oh, wow. She really made you look fancy, didn’t she?”
Idia sighed at the young humanoid hovering next to him, his artificial, blue, flamelike hair matching his own to a tee. His younger brother, Ortho, who’d somehow inherited ALL their mom’s more extroverted qualities but still managed to be chill and understand his practically-asocial brother, stared at him in concern.
He tugged anxiously on the hem of his chiton. Idia still had no idea why his uncle insisted on dressing all “traditional” to these Balls. One of his cousins—the “she” in question, BTW—who’d been assigned to help him get ready for this thing, had assured him that he’d been styled so that he wouldn’t look like he’d just walked outta a three-thousand-year-old mosaic, but still. Talk about antiquated.
Obsesser-overer of all things love and beauty that she was, his cousin had also spent way too long on his character creation screen and done everything she could to make him look “presentable” for “his” Paeanetsia Ball. This was, apparently, an S-rank difficulty mission, even though he begged her a thousand times to simply click “skip” so they could be done with it all.
But nooo, she just had to spend hours twisting and spraying his hair into some fancy COILED updo. So, after she’d finished with his hair, he may not have looked like an ancient mosaic, but, hey! Now he could impersonate a freaking old-timey marble bust straight outta a mouseion and nobody’d be any the wiser!
He’d also told her not to bother with his face, since he’d be wearing a mask XXIV/VII, but she’d threatened to put sparkly lip gloss on him if he didn’t; so he let her smear crap on his eyes and cheeks to her clearly-nonexistent heart’s content. Luckily, he had been able to zone out from all the hair-twisting and crap-smearing by gambling away his allowance in Some Gacha Game. The .6% five-star drop rate had done nothing to alleviate his torture.
“Yeah. She did,” he finally grumbled to Ortho. “I was literally about to procc my Last Ditch Survival Soul Trait.”
Momentarily pressing “pause” on his misery, Idia’s voice took on a mocking tone as he posed with his hand on his hip. Imitating all the vapid and chronically online (but not in a gigachad way, like he was) influencers that he’d already spied circulating the khoros, he pretended to flip his hair. “But, hey, Ortho, don’t you think I, like,” another pretend hair flip because it’d been kinda fun the first time, “totally ate with this ‘fit and left no crumbs?”
He hastily shushed the indulgent “Yes, brother, slay!” that he could tell was already queued in Ortho’s oral chip.
The little robot took the hint and sighed. “You must’ve had such a hard time with her. I’m so, so sorry.” He perked up a second later. “Do you want me to blast her? I just put through your upgrades, and I’ve been wanting to test out the enhanced turbo laser really badly!”
“Nope, nope, nope,” replied Idia quickly, very aware of his brother’s trigger-happiness when it came to firing on people he disliked. “I’ll just, uh … throw up a white flag on this instance and take the ‘L’. What’s done is done.”
“Aw, okay.” Ortho pouted. “Do you want me to blast uncle, then? Like I said two minutes and forty-five seconds ago, he’s waiting for you.”
Ugh. Ughughughughugh. Sudoku! I choose you!
Idia rolled his eyes, knowing that even death was a futile strat against his uncle’s iron will. “Nah, I’d rather neither of us go back home with third-degree lightning-bolt-burns, THX. But maybe you can tell him where he can shove it?”
“If you really need me to, I can,” Ortho replied, his voice turning steely. “Actually, if you prefer, I can tell him that you’re feeling really sick and can’t come because of all the Cool Ranch More-itos you ate this morning.” Gleefully, he suggested, “Or I can even create some realistic-looking medical reports to convince him that you’re unable to attend because you caught a disease.” Becoming inspired, he added, “Which do you want? The plague? Rabies? Hanahaki—”
“N—no, I’m good, Ortho, I swear! Just drop me an ‘F’ in the chat, and let’s get this over with.” Idia adjusted his mask and let his brother lead the way.
Ortho glanced at him from the corner of his eye as he hovered to the main entrance of the ballroom. “I’m shocked, brother. My projections predicted more of a tantrum, but you’re surprisingly calm.” His eyes widened in excitement. “Mom and dad will be so proud! You’ve finally maxed your maturity stat!”
“Pshh, don’t count on that happening any time soon,” scoffed Idia. Wait, that sounded wrong. NVM. “And I can afford to be this calm, ‘cause, whee hee hee, I’ve got a plan.”
“Uh-oh.” Ortho short-circuited. “Plan?”
“Yep. Check it: I’ll la-dee-dah waltz into the Paeanetsia Ball wearing this bad boy.” He tapped on his mask. It was badass AF and complemented the blacks and navies and grays of his outfit perfectly. The best part, though? It covered his whoooole face. A monitor may have been the perfect way to shield himself in the virtual world, but when it came to the RL? There was no substitute for a big-ass mask.
“Then,” he continued, “I’ll sneak out into the halls and chillax from there. Like I’m doing RN.” His expression turned sour. “I’d rather tactically retreat to my room, but, even though I doubt any of the normies at the Ball would notice I’m missing, just in case uncle does, it’s much easier to explain that I’m in the hallway ‘getting some air’ versus that I’m in my room and why I’m even there.”
“That’s … actually not a bad plan, brother. Calculated probability of success: eighty-three percent.”
“Fwee hee hee, OFC it is,” Idia replied, cackling. “C’mon, Ortho. Don’t tell me you forgot that your big brother is a top-tier genius.” But then, all the genius saliva in his genius mouth evaporated as he noticed that they were finally drawing near to the double doors that led into the ballroom. Man, if he could only retain his confidence in multiplayer settings.
“Who’s a top-tier genius?” boomed the voice that haunted Idia in his nightmares.
Idia squeaked in response.
Ortho, after greeting their uncle, whispered in his ear, “Sorry, brother, I hate to leave you, but you’re on your own for now. Dad just sent me a message that there are some lighting difficulties in the courtyard, and people are getting spooked by the statue of one of our cousins—the one with the gorgon head shield. I think I’m going to have to complete an aerial diagnostic and recalibrate the overhead voltage regulators.” His eyes were filled with pity as Idia gaped mutely after him. “Good luck!”
“No, Ortho! Don’t leave me!” Idia whisper-shouted. “Come back here!” Desperately, he threatened, “I’m not letting you win in That One TCG anymore!”
But Ortho had already hovered away.
Trying not to shake, Idia glumly turned back to his uncle. He gave Idia a pleased but appraising look, lingering inquisitively on his face. “What’s with the oversized mask, kiddo? Gotta pimple you’re trying to cover up? Don’t worry, your granola aunt makes this all-natural, completely organic, herbal zit cream that’ll clear that right on—”
“Er, n—no, uncle,” Idia stammered, adjusting his mask as he tried to think of a response other than “NOYB.” “These masks are just the style nowadays. All the, uh … cool kids are wearing th—them.” That was the dumbest dialogue option he could’ve chosen. No way would anyone believe that Idia was one of the … “cool kids.”
But, luckily, the lie pandered to his uncle’s “How do you do, fellow kids?” side, so he coughed awkwardly and tried to look knowledgeable. “O—of course, I knew that. Just testing you, my boy. In fact, I remember seeing two teenagers yesterday at the bank wearing that exact one!” More quietly, he added, “Or were those ski masks? Hard to say …”
It was all Idia could do not to facepalm. What is bro onnn?
“Anyways,” his uncle barreled, “you remember what to do, right? It’ll be just like we rehearsed it.”
YES, before you wondered: there had been a whole REHEARSAL for Idia ENTERING THE FREAKING BALL. Because he couldn’t be trusted to figure out what to do by himself, apparently. (Which wasfair.)
The gist was that his uncle would get the entire room’s attention, he would announce Idia’s name and his role as the Ball’s “Guest of Honor”, Idia would melt into a humiliated puddle, and somehow, he would have to drag his melted body down the stairs in the most dignified, most pompous way possible. Idia hadn’t totally figured out the logistics of the post-melting part, but he supposed he’d do that one on the fly.
When he nodded, reluctance stitched in every fiber of his being, the bile in his throat tripled in rancidity. All this ‘cause his “Say ‘no’” button to his uncle had been grayed out.
Just imagine you’ve just completed the “Brush Teeth” interaction in TS4 and now have a +2 Confidence Moodlet, he told himself as he waited on the upper floor while his uncle strolled into the ballroom to get everyone’s attention. It won’t be so bad, it won’t be so bad.
And, as it turned out, it wasn’t!
It was so.
Much.
WORSE!!!!!!!
As soon as he crossed the threshold into the ballroom after his uncle introduced him, the entire room had gone silent. Whispers flocked from every corner, and the spotlight on him, he was certain, was three-hundred lumens brighter than normal. With each step he stumbled down the stairs, an angel lost its wings. He’d even tripped on the last one, and, even though it was imperceptible, everyone TOTALLY must’ve noticed.
The moment the spotlight switched off, Idia bolted. Years of being socially anxious had taught him the most covert way to escape unwanted situations, and even though he was supposed to be the “main event” of the Ball, he managed to sneak out to the hall without anyone following him. Thank the gods that this being a masquerade event made it even harder for people to keep tabs on anyone. He’d already spotted a couple of others with dark masks like his.
No one else’s was as cool, though, LOL.
Idia felt his breath coming out in heaves as the ballroom door swung closed behind him. He leaned against the far wall, allowing himself to slide down it. As his butt hit the unyielding tile, Idia could feel relief rain over him like soothing brimstone.
Two more minutes in that crowded ballroom, and he might’ve had a meltdown. He slid out his phone. A single coil from his hair unraveled and twisted down his back, as he scrolled mindlessly, his thoughts racing.
His first instinct was to be furious at his uncle, yet again, for forcing him into such an attention-filled social situation. Well-meaning or not, the thing did not mean well for Idia.
But his spark had effectively burned out, and apathy was the only thing that circulated in his veins.
Well, mostly apathy. There was a part of him that wanted to scoff, as he remembered the words his uncle had told him: “If my son can find his true love at one of my Paeanetsia Balls, then so can you.”
Laughable. It was laughable.
Love was in this weird territory for him, reserved solely for heroes and freaks with a future. Sure, his uncle had been interested in getting him hitched the same way he’d done with his son, but, this whole time, Idia hadn’t even entertained that idea, ‘cause, well … it’d been laughable.
He wasn’t his Type A, biceps-for-brains cousin. He didn’t drip charisma and didn’t spend twenty-five hours of the day saving people like a wannabe Clark Kent. His servants back at home referred to him as “Your Lugubriousness”, and he’d known since birth that he was doom-and-gloom incarnate. When he woke up every afternoon to his “Bleach Ending 01” alarm, his bones creaked as he got out of bed. His mile-run speed was thirty minutes.
Yep, romance was laughable—a Cloud IX for those who’d made out with Lady Luck and had lived to to tell the tale. And his uncle thought he was gonna find it tonight? Dream on. Not even if the planets aligned or some superstitious mumbo-jumbo like that.
And besides, he’d had bigger things to worry about, TBQH, during these past few days. With all the stress and anxiety that came with having a Ball planned in his honor, romance had been the last thing on his mind. Well, not the last thing, but even on a good day, thoughts of romance duo-ed with thoughts of INTENSE bitterness and reminders to leave that stuff to anime protags.
He continued his spaced-out scrolling, barely even registering the Bluedit posts that flashed across his vision.
The sound of someone’s sandals flying down the hallway forced him to pause. The speed at which he whipped his head up would give Sonic a run for his rings. Who was it now?! He hadn’t heard the ballroom door opening, so it must’ve been someone from outside coming in. Idia froze where he was, wondering if he could find some way to hide behind the columns and busts that ornamented the hallway. But he was too late.
A second later, in ran a handsome dude with orangey hair, a chiton so stylized that he didn’t know if he’d really call it a chiton anymore, a matching half-mask, and an incredibly annoying aura.
Despite Idia’s fervent prayers, he spotted Idia, and when he did, he stopped short. Sounding slightly out of breath, he held his hand out against a column and panted, “Hey there, fam! D’you happen to know where the Paeanetsia Ball’s being held? I’m sorta already late, and I need to clock out in about two hours, so I’ve gotta make the most of the time I have.”
