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“Hey.”
Fig jumps out of her skin, hands convulsing involuntarily. The felt-tip eyeliner applicator she was holding milliseconds ago clatters to the ground, flecking her boots with red specks and leaving a jagged streak all the way up to her eyebrow.
“Holy fuck, Mary Ann, what the fuck! You can’t just do that to somebody, Cass’ sake.” Fig throws one hand over her heart as she waits for it to settle, scrabbling for the countertop beside her with the other.
Mary Ann’s Quokki Pet game chimes in her hands. She shrugs without bothering to look up.
“You got eyeliner on your face.”
Fig’s heart rate, which has just begun to slow after her scare, picks right back up. “Oh, gee, I wonder how that happened.”
Mary Ann doesn’t so much as flinch at the proverbial smoke curling out of Fig’s nostrils. In fact, she doesn’t do anything at all, seemingly content just to stand in Fig’s space and play her infantile strawberry-shaped game. It beeps, then jingles a pair of discordant musical notes. She shakes it a little bit. It emits a loud trill, then a squawk, lights flashing red and green along its edge. Fig’s eye twitches.
“Why are you even back here? How did you even get back here?”
Admittedly, she’s kind of slacked on employing any real level of security outside her dressing room, given she and Gorgug are the talent in question. They usually don’t even have to defend themselves; so far, having an Oracle for a friend is kind of like having the world’s best advanced warning system on call. The only time she’s really had to step it up was when a fan’s pet giant fire beetle slipped its leash. It had made for an incredible bass line; the crowd ate it up. Absentmindedly, she touches the burn scar on her forearm and makes a mental note to prioritise finding some actual security guards.
“Gorgug let me in.” The pink light of the Quokki Pets home screen washes over the scales on Mary Ann’s thumbs. An ache builds in Fig’s jaw as she grinds her teeth.
“Gorgug let you into my dressing room? Specifically mine?”
“No. I opened your door.”
“But he let you, like… wander around backstage? He said ‘yeah, sure Mary Ann, go explore, please! Hang out around all our equipment and tech right before our big show! Have fun!’” Her voice rises hysterically in pitch.
Mary Ann’s fingers fly over buttons on her console. She turns it upside down. “I got bored.”
Fig makes a conscious effort to unclench her fingers from where she’s been white-knuckling the countertop. She fishes into a drawer in the set behind her for a makeup wipe, then turns back to the mirror.
“Sure. Great. Fine. Are you less bored now?” She begins working at the errant makeup under her eyebrow, trying to get it to move with stubborn swipes of the wipe.
“I guess.” Mary Ann’s voice comes from the countertop beside her. Fig only barely stifles her jump. They should’ve made this girl a Rogue, what the actual fuck is wrong with her? “Why doesn’t someone else do that?”
The question takes her aback. “What, my makeup?”
Mary Ann shrugs again, which Fig is quickly learning is her way of saying yes. Or sometimes no. Fig kinda wants to strangle her, but in a begrudgingly respectful sort of way.
“Uh, it seemed like a stupid use of money, I guess,” Fig says, frowning thoughtfully at her makeup wipe. It was the type of thing Lola would’ve organised for her, back before Fig created her own studio. Honestly, in the midst of everything else going on this year, she had forgotten how much her old manager handled. Now, right before her comeback show with Gorgug—the one where she’ll finally perform Dawn of Justice live for the first time, no pressure—she’s kicking herself for not thinking of it. Not that Mary Ann has to know that. “I’m not broke, it just wasn’t a priority,” she tacks on hastily.
Mary Ann snorts decisively. Fig feels distinctly laughed at.
“I know how to do my own makeup, anyways.” It comes out more defensive than she means it to.
Mary Ann finally looks up at her. “You have something.” She lifts one clawed finger to her own eye, then flicks it in a wide circle, indicating the entire left side of her face.
Fig deflates, looking back in the mirror. It’s true. She’s smudged red liner over her eyelid and cheek all the way up to her eyebrow, and it’s taken most of her eyeshadow along with it. She throws the wipe down into the bin at her feet with disgust. At this rate, it’s going to take her forever to be stage-ready. She considers cancelling the show for a brief, rage-filled moment before deciding not to be stupid. Fig fights bad guys for a living. She can handle some solo concert prep.
Her nails close around her eyeshadow palette, the shimmer of the packed-down pigments catching the row of lights around her mirror. She pulls it towards herself, watching the tiny brush it comes with rattle around in its plastic prison. She opens it up, takes a deep breath, and packs one of her nicer brushes full of color. Fig looks up and catches herself in the mirror again.
Her collapse over the counter is involuntary. She just needs to rest her head against this cool, cool surface for a minute. She thunks her forehead into it once, twice.
“Fuck,” she says, pretending her voice doesn’t catch on the syllable.
Mary Ann’s Quokki pet whistles, but Fig doesn’t hear the distinct sound of claws on plastic buttons in response. Instead, she feels tugging at the makeup brush clutched loosely in her fist. She makes no effort to unclench her fingers from where they rest limply atop the countertop, but Mary Ann is plenty strong enough for it not to matter. Fig hears rustling to her side. She decides she doesn’t care, actually. She’s given up. It’s her time. She will become one with this beautiful plastic-coated counter for the rest of her life, and then she’ll die. She rolls her face against its surface from her forehead to her cheek.
“Up,” Mary Ann says, tapping the back of Fig’s head none-too-gently.
“Noooooo,” Fig protests, too exhausted to pretend she’s not whining. “You can’t make me.”
Fig’s head swims at the speed at which Mary Ann yanks her up by her horns, lights flashing in her eyes. “Wha—?”
“Stay.” Mary Ann is crouched fully on the countertop before her, scrutinising her face intently. She pushes on Fig’s horn, tilting her head back further.
Fig has less than a second to scrunch her eyes shut before the brush descends at incredible velocity towards her face. “Do you actually know how to do this?” She winces as the brush comes down with more force.
“Yes.”
Fig waits for elaboration. None comes. Instead it feels like the side of her face is getting sandpapered off.
“Uh,” she says, trying to lean away from the sensation, “fucking—ow, jeez—how? The fuck?”
“Did Ivy’s a bunch.”
Fig tries to pretend she can’t feel Mary Ann’s breath on her cheeks. It smells like strawberries and sulfur. Her nose scrunches involuntarily.
“Stop moving.”
“Sorry,” Fig says perfunctorily. “But I thought she did her own. Doesn’t seem like the type’a girl to like giving up control, if you know what I mean.” Her eyebrow wiggle would probably be more effective with her eyes open. Or if she could see Mary Ann’s reaction.
She doesn’t take the bait. “When she’s drunk I fix it.”
“Oh.” That makes more sense. Fig kind of feels sad imagining it, Ivy wasted at a house party somewhere, trying to drown out a semester of rage and death while Mary Ann tags along in the background. She pictures Mary Ann crouched on top of linoleum counters in shitty-smelling bathrooms, trying to hold a swaying Ivy’s face in place long enough to reapply her mascara. Fig wonders how many times it has to have happened for Mary Ann to have the motions down to an art like this.
“So,” she tries to think of any other topic of conversation, clearing her throat, “um… you and Gorgug, huh?”
Mary Ann snorts again. A blast of warm air washes over her face. Fig tries to recoil, but is held firmly in place. “He likes benches. So do I.”
Ohhhkay. “…Yeah, sure. Uh, and you’re both on the Bloodrush team, right? Which is… exciting.”
“You’re trying too hard.”
It’s not like Mary Ann is making it easy. The ache is building back up in Fig’s jaw. “I just want to know my friend’s girlfriend. Is that too much to ask?”
There’s a long silence. Fig might be imagining it, but it seems like the brush might be less painful now. “I like Quokki pets. And mangoes.”
“Cool,” Fig says, when she realises nothing more is forthcoming. “I like my steed, Gerard Neigh. He’s kinda like my pet. And I think pears are pretty good.”
Mary Ann has switched implements of torture on Fig’s face. Now she’s being poked by something else. She does her best not to wince as it comes precariously close to finding its way into her eye.
“Quokki pets are different. They don’t poop on your carpet.”
Fig fights the urge to tell her that Gerard Neigh has never once pooped in her home, let alone been inside it. “Oh. What’s it like instead, then?”
“It’s cool. It’s like, you have a pet in your video game. And you feed it and walk it and stuff. And you can teach it tricks, and it competes and wins you ribbons.” Mary Ann tilts Fig’s face to one side, then the other.
“Sounds awesome. What tricks can you teach it?”
“Different ones every level. Jumps. Singing. Juggling. Mine can hula hoop and skateboard at the same time.”
Fig wonders if she can hula hoop and skateboard at the same time. Something burns in her chest, kind of like jealousy. Probably just heartburn.
“Woah, that’s awesome. Do you think, you know, no biggie, but—you think I could try sometime?”
There’s a long silence. Nothing pokes or stabs at Fig’s face. She blinks her eyes open, tentative.
Mary Ann is back to squinting at her intently. “All done. And yeah, whatever.” She passes Fig her console. “Don’t break it. I’ll kill you.”
“Oh, I didn’t really mean—right now? I kinda—“ Fig catches sight of herself in the mirror and stops short. It looks good. Fig can’t even tell where all that stuff she smeared everywhere went. She turns her head side-to-side, admiring. “Dude, you fucking crushed it. This looks awesome.”
Mary Ann’s expression doesn’t change. “Told you I could do it.” She hops down off the counter, hands in her hoodie pocket. Fig wonders, briefly, if she owns any other articles of clothing.
“I wasn’t doubting you! But hey, thanks. This is so sick. You ever want a job, you know where to find me.”
Mary Ann is already at the door. She pauses while Fig speaks, but doesn’t turn back around. “Gimme back my game after the show. I’m gonna go kiss my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, sure. Um, bye?”
The door closes with a snick. Fig stares at it, Quokki pet console still clasped loosely in her hand. She looks down at it. A pixelated, anthropomorphised strawberry bounces up and down on the screen, skateboard under its feet.
“Sure. Why not. Nothing to lose, I guess.”
She presses the button closest to her thumb. The strawberry falls off the skateboard. GAME OVER flashes across the screen.
“Ugh, whatever!” Fig shoves it into her pocket, scooping up her bass and slinging it over her shoulder. Despite her defeat, a smile creeps onto her lips. She’ll have to ask Mary Ann to show her some tips tomorrow. Somehow, the idea doesn’t seem quite so horrible.