Can you believe it?! It's hands-down the event of the year for human enthusiasts! I'm so excited!
The downtown convention center (an ample venue in and of itself) is teeming with hundreds, or possibly even thousands of human-crazed lunatics who showed up for HumieCon. You recognize an alarming number of Bob Legendmann cosplayers milling around the crowd. Seems that's very much the flavor-of-the-month when it comes to costume choices.
"Who knew our town was such a mecca for weirdness?" Beanie mutters.
"Well c'mon, you've been to Jeremy Human's, haven't you?" you answer with a good-natured smirk.
"Right. Fair point."
You're not the only "hairless ape" here: primate "humies" sporting awful shave jobs flex, pose, and dance for awestruck bystanders. Even more alarming are the clearly in-too-deep enthusiasts wrapped up in rubbery "skinsuits" of varying quality. Unfortunately for them, the uncanny valley effect is in full force: rather than resembling anything close to a human, most of these folks look like they cut open a blow-up doll and crammed themselves into it.
As a precaution to stave off unwanted attention (for your own safety, of course), you tore a page from the Bonita Rabbinson fashion catalog this morning. Your attire consists of baggy jeans and a thick hooded sweatshirt, which you've pulled over your head to cover most of your face. So far, so good. You're not sure what you're going to do when it's time to put on the Bob costume and walk around amongst these "degenerates" (as Fred might call them), but you figure you'll burn that bridge when you get there.
Right now, both you and Beanie are plodding along behind an overclocked Bonbon, who's eagerly skipping past the line up to the front of the building, earning your group plenty of scorn and derision from the other con-goers.
"Bonbon, you know the line starts at the other end of the block, right?" you call out, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the throng of excited, jittery animals waiting their turn in the queue. "Why are we moving in the opposite direction?"
"You'll see!" she shouts back as the three of you begin dragging your luggage up the steps leading to the convention center's entrance.
"Bonbon's not really about to cut in front of this crowd, is she?" you ask Beanie. "You know her better than I do, but that actually seems like something she'd try to pull."
"Beats me, but if she ends up making me turn around and walk all the way back to the end of that line, just so I can stand in the freaking December cold for hours, I'm going to slap the shit out of her."
Without even so much as an "excuse me", Bonbon shoves her way up to the check-in station. She enthusiastically slams the trio of tickets down on the counter, much to the consternation of the fans you skipped ahead of. Before anyone has the chance to lose their cool and do something regrettable, the con staff quickly intervenes, opening the front doors and ushering your small group inside with a smile.
"Platinum VIP passes," the energetic blue rabbit gleefully boasts as you all head inside the building. "The Day Owl really came through for us!"
"Hey, I ain't complaining," you holler back over the din inside the lobby. "I'm just grateful to be out of the cold and in here, where it's nice and warm."
While Bonbon's golden -- or rather, platinum tickets were enough to get you past the hours-long wait outside, the three of you still have to obtain your badges to move freely around the con proper. Fortunately, this line's far shorter and moving much more quickly, so it's only a few minutes before your turn comes up at the desk.
As Bonbon and Beanie go ahead of you through the turnstile, you make your way forward to the counter. A bright-eyed, exuberant male squirrel sits behind a folding table labeled "Badge Distribution". In one of his paws is a small yellow gadget that looks vaguely like a label maker, and in front of him in a large bin on the desk are lanyards and rows of plastic HumieCon-branded ID cards.
"Welcome to HumieCon," the squirrel shouts cheerfully over the noise as you sidle up to the table. "Can I get a name for your badge?"
"Mike Schmidt."
"Gotcha!"
He grabs one of the plastic badges and shoves it into a port on his device. The machine beeps and whirrs for a few seconds before ejecting your newly-printed ID, which he hands back to you along with a complimentary lanyard bearing HumieCon's logo. You accept both from him with a grateful nod, hooking your badge to the lanyard and slipping it around your neck.
"Next in line," he calls out, motioning you through the turnstile and into the main convention hall, where an amused Beanie and a very exuberant Bonbon await.
"All right, so let's--" Beanie stops mid-sentence, a smile creeping up her face as she looks at your chest. Leaning around Beanie, Bonbon breaks out laughing as she reads your badge.
"You, uh -- you actually look at that thing before you put it on?" Beanie asks.
"Why? What's wrong?" You take a hold of your badge, turning it around so you can read the label. "HumieCon VIP Guest, name... 'Eggs Benedict'? Oh, for cryin' out loud."
"Obviously he must've misheard you," Bonbon giggles.
"How?! That doesn't even sound like 'Mike Schmidt'!"
"Actually, if you say it fast, it kinda does," Beanie snorts.
Bonbon bites her lower lip in a desperate attempt to stem the tide of snickering. "Awww, don't look so glum. We're here to have a good time, Eggs!"
You give her a withering look, flipping your badge around to hide the name. Sure, you could go back through and get him to change it, but you're only here for a day or two. Besides, maybe it's a blessing in disguise; the last thing you want is any of the really obsessive goofballs here tracking you back to where you live and stalking you.
"Anyway, enough of that! I'm gonna drop off the bags in our suite, then hit up the dealers' room! Text me if you need me!" Rubbing her paws together excitedly, Bonbon slings her gym bag over her shoulder, setting off down the hall.
"Her con money's been burning a hole in her pocket for weeks," Beanie stage-whispers. "She's gonna blow it all at the first booth with Bob merch she sees."
"Oh, I'd guarantee it," you agree, the two of you watching her practically sprinting away.
The first thing you notice once you're in the hall proper with the rest of the con-goers is the overpowering smell.
It's not a horrible, rank stench -- you've long grown used to the scents of animal people -- but it's far from pleasant. If anything, you're reminded of the way pet supply stores smelled when you'd visit as a kid to pick up cat food for the neighborhood strays. It's a primal, earthy mix of musks and scents. You suppose geeks aren't exactly known for their hygiene.
"Two hundred bucks? For that thing? The one Mango made you looks ten times better," Beanie scoffs, sizing up a replica Bobulator at a nearby dealer's table, prominently-displayed like it's a high class work of art. "And she cobbled it together in her living room with a can of spray paint and some scraps."
"Yeah, she's really talented," you agree, eyeballing the cheap, consumer-grade toy. "That one just looks kind of sad, honestly."
The banners hanging from the ceiling of the convention hall proudly proclaim that HumieCon is home to the largest dealers' room of any humie enthusiast convention -- an overly narrow superlative if you've ever heard one. What they fail to mention is that the dealers' room also happens to be the majority of the convention itself. Nearly the entirety of the main hall seems to be dedicated exclusively to hosting booths for retailers and vendors to hawk their wares. Action figures, comic books, costume accessories, and other numerous pieces of humie-related paraphernalia clog the aisles, piled up on top of tables and hanging from display stands in veritable mountains of brightly-colored kitsch. With all the obsessed fans just begging to be parted from their money at the slightest show of pandering, it's no wonder this thing is so well funded. Every sponsor is probably making a mint exploiting this "fandom".
Cosplayers wander about, snapping photos of themselves and each other. Most of the attendees are shopping to kill time while waiting for discussion panels, autograph signings, and other events of interest. Loud, colorful video games blare away on wall-mounted displays at the far end of the huge room; looks like some kind of competition or tech demo is going on. Several advertisers wander the crowd with bags and boxes of trinkets to pass out as freebies. Thinking quickly, Beanie grabs a pair of large plastic bags bearing cartoon logos from a nearby kiosk, handing one off to you.
"Swag bag, Eggs?"
You accept it from her with a roll of your eyes, sliding your arm through the handles.
"Don't mind if I do! If they're giving this crap away for free, who am I to decline?" You snag a couple of foam stress balls from a passing vendor's bowl, tossing one back to Beanie who dunks it into her bag with a flourish.
"Bitten by the humie bug already, huh?" Beanie jokes.
"Nah, I'm not interested in any of this stuff, I'm just here for the costume contest. But since Bonbon shared her tickets with us, I figure the least I can do is pad her haul a bit."
"Awww, that's sweet of you, Mike. She'll be thrilled," Beanie replies. "Hell, let's make a game of it. How about you and I split up and get as much free shit as we can, then meet at the food court at noon? Whoever brings back the least swag buys lunch."
"A good old-fashioned treasure hunt, huh? Works for me!"
You and Beanie exchange fistbumps before heading off in your separate directions to begin scavenging for loot.
Most of the advertisers are pretty friendly, and it's not long before you learn that you can wheedle extra freebies out of them if you're willing to spend the time to listen to their sales pitches. A short, chipper pig girl compliments your "look" as she hoofs over a comic book and a pair of 3D glasses. Shortly after, an over-caffeinated coyote in a business suit enthusiastically coughs up three keychains, thanking you for hearing out his startup's idea for a new online RPG. You're not the least bit picky about what you're taking, either. Sure, you doubt Bonbon'll be too thrilled about a package of crayons and a coloring book, but the three Legend of Bob sticker sheets you swiped should make up for it.
To your surprise, even some of the attendees in the crowd are pretty helpful. Apparently, con goodies are serious business, and there are a number of collectors willing to trade well, just because the freebie they wanted wasn't the one they got. You pawn off a mini poster to a rooster in a varsity jacket, in exchange for two duplicate comic books. You then swap one of the comics to a frazzled mother and her overjoyed fox cub for a pencil bag and a figurine as thanks for completing the boy's comic set.
Within a half-hour, you feel like you've begun mastering the art of swag hunting. Between shrewd trading and diligent scouring, you've already filled your first bag to maximum capacity, and you're well on your way to finishing a second one. You've hit up just about everyone in the center of the room, but there's still a little time left before you have to meet back up with Beanie. You decide to branch out to the back aisles of the convention hall, foraging for any last-minute giveaways that might be off the beaten path.
Once you manage to break loose of the pack, you quickly realize that you should have started at the edge of the room and worked your way inward, rather than going about it the other way around. There's even more stuff to be had on the outskirts, and far less competition for it due to the majority of attendees staying near the center of the hall.
"Oooh! Mr. Schmidt, is that you? Over here, when you have a moment!"
Hearing your name, you pause halfway through collecting a handful of small rubber pencil toppers from an unattended bowl, turning around to look for whoever's spotted you.
A tall, curvy lady bear with jet-black fur waves to you from a nearby booth loaded down with flyers and cheap, carnival-quality toys. Next to her is a portly individual wearing an ill-fitting marching band coat and a goofy, familiar-looking rubber human mask. You blanch as you recognize the gaudy yellow-and-purple marquee logo embellished with the cartoon version of Jeremy Human's smug, obnoxious face.
"Hi there, Nisha," you greet from across the aisle, discreetly stashing your latest conquests in your bag. Even though you know it's not the real thing, you're still at least a little unsettled by the Jeremy suit next to her -- if not for what it is, then at the very least for what it represents.
"Oooh, you were right! It was him," Nisha titters to her companion before turning her attention back to you. "Nice to see you! Ummm...! Are you having a good time, Mr. Schmidt?"
Scratching the back of your head with your free arm, you nod, keeping a wary eye on the mascot beside her.
"We just got here not too long ago, but so far it's been all right. And please, really, just Mike is fine."
"Force of habit," she smiles. "Ahhm, why not come on over here and get some goodies for your bag? We've got all kinds of fun stuff!"
As you make your way over to her booth, perhaps sensing your discomfort, the performer dressed as Jeremy quickly pops his mask off. You're surprised to see Peanut's tired, sweaty face underneath. Heavy bags hang under his watery eyes, and his cheeks are flushed red. The poor guy looks exhausted and miserable. Between his thick fur, the bright lights overhead, and the central heat in the building blazing away, he's got to be melting in that heavy costume.
"Oh, hey, Peanut! I wasn't expecting to see you at all!" you reply, shaking his sweaty paw.
"Awww, I'm just filling in for the guy who was supposed to come down here. He, uh, had to go to the hospital this morning, and ended up calling in short notice."
"Ouch. Come down with the flu or something?"
"Nah. Just taking some time off for physical therapy," the pudgy bear remarks, fanning himself with one of the coupon sheets. "Shouldn't be too long, though. The doctors said he'd be back to work in a month or so."
You're not really sure what you were expecting.
"S-so, uh, what're you two doing here, anyway?" you ask, trying not to dwell on what you've just heard. "Does Fred have you guys acting on some kind of marketing idea he came up with or something?"
"Not Mr. Fazbear, no," Nisha replies. "Ahhhhmm... corporate's running an advertising campaign for our new line of holiday pizzas, you know? So Peanut -- or should I say 'Jeremy' and I are doing just that! It really is amazing how these folks sure do love the whole human thing."
Now that you think about it, they still are a human-themed restaurant, after all. Hell, it's even part of the name.
"Have you guys been getting much interest?" you ask, looking their sparsely-decorated booth over.
"Two bites so far." Sighing, Peanut wipes the inside of the mask out with a paper towel. "We, uh, kind of got shoved back here out of the way, so there hasn't been a lotta traffic over here yet."
"That's the problem with making last-minute reservations," Nisha laments. She 'helps' Peanut tug his mask back on before turning back to you. "The prime real estate was reaaaally expensive. But oooh, please -- since you're here, Mike, why not take a coupon and a Jeremy mask?"
Glancing down at the table, you notice that this booth's giveaway items are a stack of plastic Jeremy masks, exactly like the ones that you and Beanie used. They didn't even bother having anything custom-made for the event. It figures that corporate would just cheap out and have them bring expendable, throwaway arcade prizes they already had. With a sigh, you pluck one from the table, tucking it and a coupon sheet into your bag so that you aren't rude.
"I guess I'd better get back to it then," Peanut sighs, picking up a stack of flyers from the table. "Kinda wish I was wearing my usual clothes. I feel silly in this getup."
"Oh, hush! You look cute," Nisha playfully huffs, patting his shoulder. "Honestly, Mike, I've been trying to get him to live it up a little, but he's Mr. All-Business. I guess that's Fred Fazbear's star pupil for you, though!"
You can practically see Peanut blushing through the rubber mask.
"Well, it was nice chatting with you guys, but I gotta get moving too since I'm kind of pressed for time today," you offer. "I'll see you back home, Peanut?"
"See ya later, Mike," Peanut says as he trudges off with the flyers.
With a polite nod to you, Nisha settles into her seat, straightening up the stack of coupons on her table as attendees begin to trickle down the aisle.
"Oooh! Mr. Schmi-- ahhhn, Mike! One more thing if you would," she suddenly calls out as you start to head to the next vendor's table. "If you don't mind, can you pass a message on to Ms. Rabbinson to let her know I'll be stopping by in the next few days? Corporate asked me to drop off some paperwork for her to sign."
"Ms. Rabbinson?" you reply. "Oh, you mean Bean-- uh, Bonita?"
"That's right. Peanut said she's staying with you, I believe?"
"Yeah, she is," you answer agreeably. "I'll let her know."
"Thank you! Enjoy the rest of the convention!"
As soon as you're around the corner and out of eyesight, you fish out the Jeremy mask and advertising materials, tossing them into a wastebin without a second's hesitation.
"Aaaaaand this HumieCon memo pad makes one hundred and thirty-seven!" Beanie begins scooping her haul back into her bags. "I believe that's just barely enough to put me over the top."
"Sure enough," you reply, looking at the scrap of notebook paper that's served as your score sheet.
In the end, it was close, but you lost by one item. Both of you are loaded down with three huge plastic loot bags each. The dealers on the outskirts of the hall were exceedingly generous; prizes you would've had to work for early on were practically being thrown at you by comparison. Unfortunately for your wallet, Beanie figured that angle out sooner than you did.
"Man, I even traded with people too, just to get ahead," you comment, conceding defeat with a grin. "Still, a deal's a deal."
"Ahh, shit! You did like a swap meet kinda thing? Ugh! I didn't even think about doing that!" she groans, yanking at her ears in frustration. "I just played stupid with all the male vendors and they were foisting stuff on me like they were going out of business. I'm surprised you didn't use your 'look' to milk these loonies."
"I won't lie, I thought long and hard about it. There was an indie artist who thought I was kind of cute," you confess, thinking back to the pig girl who gave you one of her comic books. "But I didn't want to have an unfair advantage."
Nor did you want a bunch of crazed fanboys and fangirls pawing at you, either.
"That's sporting of you. Guess I'll text Bonbon to reel her in," Beanie comments, licking her lips. "They have some pretty good looking bulgogi hot dogs at a stand over there, and all this running around's worked up a mighty appetite in me."
"Bulgogi?" you ask.
"Korean beef," she grins. "Think like a chili dog, but so much better. The smell alone had my mouth watering."
"Huh. Fair enough. But if I'm paying, you're fetching," you reply, handing her a few bills from your wallet.
"I can live with that."
Eventually, Bonbon manages to find your table in the crowded dining area. She arrives loaded down with plenty of purchases, covered head-to-toe in convention exclusive merchandise, toting armfuls of stuffed toys and action figures. You can barely see her buried beneath everything she's carrying.
"Someone's been busy," Beanie remarks dryly as the blue rabbit flops onto the bench next to her, plushies spilling across the table.
"Oh my god, Beanie, there's so much great stuff here!!" Bonbon chitters excitedly, eyeing your own loot bags. "I see you've been making out like bandits, too! How much did all that stuff cost?"
"Not a cent. Besides, it's all yours anyway," you reply, tossing your bags next to her spoils. "We figured we'd just go around and gather it up for you."
"Se-seriously? You're sharing your stuff with me?" she asks, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "Awwww, wow! You guys are the freakin' best!"
"Don't worry about it," Beanie says.
The purple rabbit starts to slip out of her seat at the table to go stand in line for food, but she only makes it about half a step before being tugged back by Bonbon, who enthusiastically draws the two of you into a rib-crackingly tight hug. You're seeing stars as she applies pressure to your still-sore chest, but you grin and bear it for the sake of her feelings. She's genuinely touched, and you don't want to ruin the moment over something as trivial as debilitating, crippling pain.
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity of being squeezed like a ketchup bottle, the dynamo of a rabbit lets you two loose, her smile spanning ear to ear.
"Man, guys, I don't know what to say!"
"Well, I do. And since Cheeky's not here, I'll say it for her: let's eat!" Beanie quips, giving you a sympathetic look as you struggle to regain your breath. "Bonbon, why don't you set all that crap aside and come stand in line with me while Mike rests a bit? He can watch it for you."
"Oh, okay," Bonbon says as she stands up. "Really -- I can't thank you enough for everything, guys. I'm so glad you both tagged along with me."
"Not a problem," you respond as both girls head off to wait their turn in line.
You shakily reach into your hoodie pocket, furtively rummaging around for your pain pills. You really should wait until after you've eaten, but you're in too much pain. After downing your medication, you gather all of Bonbon's stuff together to carry back to your suite after lunch. No sense dragging it all around in such a huge crowd.
Once you've got everything in a neat pile on the bench next to you, you relax and begin to let your meds work their magic on your throbbing ribcage. The queue outside must be moving, because the convention hall is really beginning to get busy. Attendees are bumping into each other, fighting for supremacy at displays and booths, crowding around points of interest. An army of hungry fans in search of a hot lunch pour into the food court, sizing the kiosks up. More than a few pushy folks try to sit at your table, only for you to have to shoo them away, insisting (much to their chagrin) that the seats are taken.
Beanie and Bonbon are still a few people away from being served, so to kill time (and avoid eye contact with interlopers trying to stake a claim at your table) you busy yourself with spectating some of the cosplayers. As you saw outside, a few Bob Legendmanns are roaming around in here now, all of which pale in comparison to your own costume.
It's a rather uncanny feeling, seeing so many weird animal folks dressing up as -- well, like normal people. Surging throngs of upright animal people in costume just to look like ordinary humans. While observing the con-goer costumes, you notice several exotic and imaginative cosplay designs such as "ordinary businessman wearing a tie", "Italian chef with a huge mustache", and "literally just some guy in an a-shirt".
Of course, they're not all mundane, either. More of the frightening "skinsuits" are beginning to show up, stumbling around like weird vinyl zombies. It's bizarre and more than a little terrifying to see something with a mostly-humanoid face draped over the frame of an elephant or a zebra. The thought comes at an especially appropriate time, as another con-goer of indeterminate species shuffles past you in a grotesquely lumpy skinsuit and a party hat, making quiet, strained noises with every step.
Surprisingly, for a convention devoted to "celebrating human culture", there are a large number of non-human costumes roving the halls. You suppose it never really occured to you that some of these cartoons and games would have animal people in them as supporting characters, but it makes sense that they would have to be somewhat grounded in reality. Even if said "reality" is one where purple rabbits and orange hens are run-of-the-mill.
Speaking of purple rabbits...
"Whew. This place sure filled up fast, didn't it," Beanie observes as she eyes the ever-widening influx of people, lowering a plastic tray full of hot dogs and chips onto the table.
"You ain't kidding," you respond, taking a hot dog from the tray as Bonbon settles in next to her, passing out soft drinks.
"So what is this stuff we got, anyway?" Bonbon asks. "Is it like a chili dog?"
"Sort of. It's marinated beef draped over a hot dog. So yeah, close enough to a chili dog, kinda," Beanie says, brushing her ears back as she picks one up for herself. "Oh, man -- it tastes even better than I imagined. You gotta try this."
Sinking your teeth into it, you can't help but be inclined to agree. "Damn, this is tasty."
"Good, because they were like eight bucks each," Beanie cracks. "I hope you weren't expecting any change back."
Looks like your ribs weren't the only part of you that just got squeezed.
"Ah well. I'll make it back in spades later."
"That's the spirit!" she says. "Oh, and -- thanks for lunch, Mike."
"Yeah, thank you!" Bonbon pipes up. "So, funny story: while I was out shopping, I saw a Bobulator on one of the tables. You know how much they wanted for it?"
"Two hundred," you reply, cutting her off. "Beanie and I already saw that overpriced thing earlier."
"What a ripoff, am I right?! I mean, I love the show and all, but you could tell it was obviously a bootleg," she says, taking a sip of her soda through her commemorative HumieCon straw. "Some people will waste money on anything."
After lunch, it's Beanie's turn to part ways with the group, citing interest in attending a panel on tabletop gaming. You and Bonbon use the opportunity to haul her merch back to the hotel suite, dumping it all off next to your luggage.
"So, now what?" you ask, flipping your hood back and running your hands through your sweaty mohawk. "Surely you aren't going to buy any more stuff."
"Not until the end of the day, when they start putting it on sale," she replies, washing her paws in the bathroom sink. "There are two times to buy: as soon as you get to the convention so you have your pick of the rarest items, and then again at the end when the dealers are torn between taking a hit and hauling home all the crap they couldn't sell!"
"Pretty smart. That still gives us a lot of time to kill, though. Heck, I might just take a nap."
"Ahahaha!! Oh, you kidder," Bonbon squeals, grabbing you by your arm and yanking you towards the door. "There's no way in heck I'd let you sleep through the best freakin' part of the convention!"
"The costume contest isn't until this afternoon, though. I've got plenty of time to snooze, shower, get dressed and fix my hair before--"
"Never mind all that! You and I are heading over to the Legend of Bob panel where they're going to live-screen the new episode! Even some of the dub voice actors are gonna be there and you know I guess that's cool and all for the nerds who prefer the dub but I mean new episode!!" she shrieks, half-dragging you out of the suite and slamming the door shut before you have a chance to protest. "It starts in twenty minutes so we'd better hurry if we want decent seats! Frickin' everyone is gonna be there!"
"Bonbon, I--"
"NEW EPISODE!!"
Sighing, you take off with the cackling, gleeful march hare into the convention hall, hustling past the horde of guests to make it to the screening panel. Once Bonbon gets something in her mind, she's pretty much unstoppable. She's charging ahead like a locomotive at full steam, nearly knocking several people over in her frenzied rush. Try as you might, you can't really keep up with her, and in no time at all Bonbon's disappeared into the crowd, leaving you behind.
With no other options, you decide to flag down a staff member to see where exactly the screening's supposed to take place. After a few minutes of wandering around in the crowd trying to spot someone who looks official, you figure you might have an easier time asking a Bob cosplayer -- after all, true fans wouldn't want to miss a new episode, would they? Unfortunately, the problem with your plan quickly makes itself apparent: most Bob cosplayers are "true fans", and thus they're already at the screening panel. You don't see a single mohawk in the vicinity at all, neon blue or otherwise.
Stepping over to the back wall of a booth selling tee shirts, you pause for a moment to catch your breath and massage your leg, which is starting to ache from so much walking around. It's been nice to get some exercise, but you're still recovering from your wounds inflicted upon you at Jeremy's. As you slump to the floor to rest, something bright flickers at the very edge of your peripheral vision, causing you to jerk your head up involuntarily. You'd recognize that unsettling shade of yellow anywhere.
Or to be more precise, gold.
Suddenly focused, you catch a glimpse of a large, bulky golden-furred figure rounding the corner at the end of the vendors' aisle. Though you didn't get a good look at him from the front, you've got a sneaking suspicion you already know who it is. Forcing yourself to your feet, you stumble after him, panic rising in your chest. Seeing Goldie outside of his "natural habitat" of Fred's apartment doesn't bode well for you; up until now, these visions/hallucinations/whatever have remained thoroughly isolated. Today, however, it looks like the game has changed.
You have to find him.
You break out into a dead run to the end of the aisle in pursuit of your quarry, shoving past people with no regard for anything but chasing the truth. On approaching the edge of the walkway you overhear him musing to himself, giving you brief pause.
"Yeah, this'll work. Well, not looking like this, but I'll work something out," he states in an unfamiliar, yet still chilling tone.
As you cautiously turn the corner, your target comes into full view. Towering over most of the nearby attendees is indeed a yellow-furred bear sporting a top hat -- just not the one you're looking for. As you wander up, he turns to face you, and in so doing you realize that not only is he not who you were looking for, he's not even organic at all.
Or at least the shell he's wearing isn't, anyway.
You stare up at a vaguely bear-like costume, made out of metal plates covered in yellow fake fur with visible gaps to allow the wearer freedom of movement. A few stray strands of wire dangle limply from an exposed joint in the head -- looks like he lost one of his ears and had to do a hasty patch job, covering it over with a small black hat. Even still, the head has some impressive mechanical elements for something clearly cobbled together by an amateur in his garage. You can't even make out his eyes in the costume.
Stepping back, you exhale in relief. Not Goldie, just another cosplayer with an unfortunate choice in attire. Your sanity lives to fight another day.
"Oh. You okay? You're not about to pass out on me now, are you?" he asks, straightening his necktie as you lean against a nearby supporting pillar to shift your weight off of your throbbing leg. "That'd be bad, and you're looking kinda--"
"I'm fine," you interrupt, shaking your head as the chill passes. "Sorry, you looked like someone I, uh -- kind of like someone I know."
"Oh, yeah, I get that a lot," he chuckles, waving you off. "Welp, I've got things to do, so -- have yourself a good time now."
"Thanks. You too."
Turning around, you begin limping back down the aisle the way you came, head low to the ground. Time to find Bonbon.
As soon as you make it to the screening room, Bonbon frantically motions you over. Looks like she's camped out in the front row.
"Where were you, Mike?" she asks, yanking you into your seat. "I never thought you were gonna show up!"
"Sorry. I got separated from you and ended up having to track convention staff down for directions. Took me forever to find someone. Did I miss much?"
You glance over at the panel of guests, all of whom look like pretty average joes. Most of them are felines -- a snow leopard and a couple of other cats of indeterminate species -- but to your surprise there's a single primate at the end of the table with his name on a placard, written in characters from a language you can't hope to read. Apparently these people are really famous to the audience, though, since there are plenty of attendees in the room lined up to ask them questions and have autographs signed.
"Thankfully it hasn't started yet, they're running a bit behind. I came in during the tail end of the last panel and just never left, and I ended up getting the best spots in the house -- everyone's been fighting me for your seat!"
"Tell me about it. Well, I'm here now," you reply. "You looking forward to this?"
"Oh, hell yeah," she grins, throwing her arm around your shoulders and snuggling in close.
You blush a little as she does; mostly out of surprise rather than discomfort. You suppose you don't mind, though. Not like she's hurting anything. Wrapping your arm around her waist, you pull her close to you as she rests her head on your shoulder, her eartips brushing against the back of your hood.
"Thank you for your patience! The show will begin momentarily; everyone, please stay in your seats," one of the voice actresses at the panel announces over the microphone system. Everyone at the desk quickly disperses, heading back to where they were sitting.
Finally feeling some semblance of comfort, you settle in and prepare yourself for what's to come. Even though you're not some devoted humie the way literally everyone else here is, you're kind of looking forward to this. If nothing else, watching a cartoon with a buddy will be a nice breather and a way to shake the constant nagging reminders of Jeremy's loose from your mind.
Or maybe Beanie had Foxglove dose her before coming in. That might explain why her head hasn't exploded yet.
The lights in the panel room dim slightly as the Legend of Bob theme song begins playing over the speakers. The voice actors begin hastily gathering their notes, all the while smiling for the cameraphones being held up like lighters at a rock concert. The large wall-mounted screens flicker to life, displaying the cartoon's animated opening sequence (which always looks better than the show itself does).
"We're going to do something a little special for this event," the leopard actress announces over the PA system, an odd reverence in her voice as the room begins to sing along to the insufferable theme. "Since the subtitles won't be available online until later tonight, we'll be reading translations in-character as Legend of Bob airs in real time overseas. We probably won't be able to do every line, but we'll try to get the gist for you. Please bear with us!"
"This is so cool!" Bonbon excitedly murmurs in your ear. "There's been a lot of speculation circulating on the 'net that today's episode's a shocker!"
"Neat," you reply.
The episode opens up about where the last one left off: with Bob and his sidekick infiltrating the villain's secret mountain base. The entirety of season two has presented itself thus far as some kind of "revenge arc" for the main hero, though it's not exactly clear what he's been trying to get revenge for. Regardless of what Bonbon says, though, it's a kid's cartoon. You don't expect Emmy-winning writing from it.
According to the very thin translation the voice actors are providing (they almost seem more caught up in the show than the fans are), in this episode Bob is trying to make it to the "mountain control room" to stop the volcano from erupting. Seems volcanoes in the world of Legend of Bob come equipped with a handy on/off switch.
However, the first several minutes of the episode are nothing but the Balloon Boy sidekick inadvertently botching the hero's plans to sneak further into the villain's lair. Every time Bob goes to crawl through a vent or lockpick a door, Balloon Boy only ends up drawing the attention of guards or accidentally destroying the vital tool Bob needs to save the day.
"Bob, we have to get to the control panel!" the voice actor playing Balloon Boy shrieks for what has to be the sixth or seventh time by now.
"Good work, Balloon Boy," Bob's actor replies in a stalwart, heroic tone, right as the cartoon version slips on a banana peel Balloon Boy has "helpfully" discarded. It's painfully obvious to you that they're relying on guesswork here. Between that and the nervous glances they're sharing, you wonder if there's something wrong with their notes.
"Bob! We have to get to the control panel," Balloon Boy's actor agrees nervously, making a show of shuffling his papers around.
Despite the character's utterly bizarre ineptitude and the panel's complete lack of competence, the audience is enraptured by watching Balloon Boy on the screen, as if he's somehow the one they really showed up to root for. For whatever reason, he's a total dark horse. The crowd's eating him up even as he continuously screws Bob over every chance he gets.
"I can't believe they like this guy," you mutter to Bonbon.
"God, I know," she hisses back, jerking a thumb at a Balloon Boy cosplayer two seats over from her. "I hate this show's fandom so much. Bob's the real hero."
"Yeah, he's pretty patie-- ow!" You feel a jolt as you suddenly take a rough elbow to your shoulder from a bull sitting next to you.
"Hush!" he snorts. "Your chatter's ruining it for the rest of us!"
Halfway through the episode, Bob Legendmann comes across a ravine (inside a lair that doubles as a laboratory built into a mountain that's also a volcano) that he can't cross. It's not even a particularly wide ravine, either. Hell, you could probably leap across it if you had enough of a head start.
"Running jump?" Bonbon whispers to you.
"Can't he fly?" you whisper back, glaring at the bull defiantly as if daring him to shove you again.
Scrunching up her face, Bonbon huffs. "...shit, I don't remember."
Apparently Bob doesn't remember if he can fly either, because he turns to Balloon Boy for assistance in making it across the chasm.
"Balloon Boy, only you can help us now," Bob's actor declares triumphantly, even as the character on-screen looks like he's pleading with his recalcitrant sidekick.
"Bob, we have to get to the control -- wait, wrong line, uh..." Flipping through his notes, the feline voicing Balloon Boy looks up sheepishly. "Um, I'll sell you one of my balloons, Bob!"
Dropping to his knees, Bob grips both of Balloon Boy's shoulders.
"Now's not the time to be stingy!" he argues.
"Balloon Boy will provide the life-saving balloon they need to cross the uncrossable gap," the lead actress clumsily declares, as an over-complicated diagram pops up on the screen, showing a pie chart and about twelve paragraphs of unnecessary data. "For the life-saving balloon, it'll cost Bob exactly 4000 Humyen -- which is about thirty-eight dollars and forty cents of our real world money!"
"You've got to be shitting me," you groan.
Defeated, Bob pulls out a wad of cash and presses it into Balloon Boy's hand, who greedily pockets the money before producing a comically small balloon from a pouch on his waist. Once fully inflated, the balloon's not more than the size of a basketball, but somehow a grown man and a -- whatever the hell Balloon Boy is -- are able to use it to cross the gap with ease. The panel and the fans erupt into cheers at this laughably asinine display as the heroes continue on their journey.
"This might be the worst episode ever," Bonbon grumbles, slinking into her seat like she's embarrassed to be here.
Eventually, in spite of his sidekick, Bob manages to make it to the objective they've spent the majority of the episode looking for. Before he can be sabotaged any further, he performs a tactical roll up to the controls, yanking the switch to activate the emergency stop for the volcano. The moment he disarms the system, klaxons and warning lights begin going off inside the control room.
"The control panel was a trap, Bob!" the actor for Balloon Boy squeaks. You're impressed -- he actually manages to sound surprised, like he didn't know it was coming.
A skylight in the center of the room opens up, revealing a shadowy feminine figure against the backdrop of the sky. You're not entirely sure why there's a skylight in the middle of a volcano. Nor do you have any idea of how it has such a perfect view of the clear sky overhead, despite the fact they should be buried under literal miles of rock. You're just glad to see something other than Bob's moron of a sidekick torpedoing their mission. Anything to advance the plot can only be good in your eyes.
"Suddenly, the mastermind appears!" the leopard actress breathes in a hushed tone, before covering her mic with a paw. "Wait, is, is this, uh -- is this one supposed to be me? Am I supposed to play her? Is it even a her?"
"That's definitely a dude. You can tell by the long, flowing tassels and the ultra-manly ballet tutu," Bob's actor quips out-of-character, raising a laugh from everyone in the room.
Dropping down from the sky, the villain -- or villainess, you suppose -- alights on the control room floor in an elegant three-point landing, revealing herself with a haughty smile and an obnoxious "oh-hoh hoh hoh" noblewoman's laugh. Like Bob, she's a human herself, though not quite "on-model", as you've come to expect by now.
Her skin is solid porcelain white, wrapped in impossibly tight-fitting clothes that look like a leather ballet outfit with way, way too many belt buckles. Her proportions seem improbable even by animation standards: her legs are freakishly long, and she boasts a literal hourglass figure with breasts and hips that seem to imply a total lack of a ribcage. Her violet hair's pulled up into a tight, embellished bun, whereas her face is mostly obscured by a frilly, feathery mask like the kind you might see a performer wear at an opera or fancy party.
It's clear the studio saved their animation budget exclusively for this moment as she pulls herself to standing, surrounded by conspicuous amounts of lens flare and other visual effects. Staring down Bob with a cocky smile, she breaks into a rambling, lengthy diatribe that nobody in the crowd seems able to understand. The actors at the panel exchange nervous glances with each other before the leopard finally takes the reins.
"So you've made it to my lair at last, Bob Legendmann!" Yeah, you're pretty sure that's a completely accurate translation.
"Yeah, that's right, I have made it here," Bob's actor stammers, right as Balloon Boy starts talking on-screen.
They're completely off the rails at this point. Glancing over at the primate gentleman at the far end of the desk, you notice he's fallen asleep. Meanwhile, everyone else in the auditorium is on the edge of their seat with anticipation. Even the snarky bull who was chiding you for being "loud" earlier is glued to the screen. You're pretty sure a bomb could go off in here and nobody'd notice it.
Pointing his Bobulator at the ballerina, Bob opens fire with a huge particle beam that blows a tractor-sized hole in the wall behind her, filling the room with smoke from the debris. As the dust clears, however, you notice the villainess doesn't even seem fazed by it, folding her arms triumphantly. The actors aren't even bothering to keep up at this point, focusing exclusively on the developing confrontation. Bonbon's plush feet are thumping overtime against the floor like a jackhammer, her nose twitching in excitement.
You're surprised to find even yourself tensing up a bit.
Balloon Boy starts to draw his own weapon, but before he can even unholster it, the villainess's mask splits open to reveal mechanical parts and circuitry embedded in her face.
You lean toward Bonbon. "Wait, is she a cyborg?"
"Shhhh!" the nearby viewers return instantly.
With a flash from her "eyes", she fires a volley of lasers directly at Balloon Boy. He staggers backwards before collapsing in slow-motion. The animators clearly wanted this to be a "wham shot", as you get to see it three times from multiple angles. Finally, he crashes to the ground.
For a long moment, nobody seems to react. The show has no shortage of random energy blasts of indeterminate power, and one more doesn't seem remarkable enough to warrant so many replays.
...until you notice the blood.
The diminutive sidekick's not just hurt: he's dying. Bob's on him in seconds trying to revive him, but it does no good. The screen fades to monochrome as Balloon Boy gasps for breath. And just in case there was any ambiguity left, another sudden volley of lasers comes from offscreen, interrupting the "emotional" scene with almost comedic timing. Balloon Boy's head explodes in a shower of gore that's frankly jarring for the tone of the entire series. Bob clutches the air with bloodstained hands and lets out a mournful wail just as the "TO BE CONTINUED" stinger cuts the scene into freeze-frame while the credits quickly roll.
"Oh my god," Bonbon gasps as she stands up, yanking at both of her ears in ecstatic surprise. "Oh my god, oh my GOD!!"
"Holy shit!" you join in, pushing yourself out of your seat to high-five Bonbon.
"He's dead!" she gestures excitedly.
"FINALLY!"
"HELL YEAH!" Jumping up and down like she's on a pogo stick, Bonbon performs a celebratory jig. "I've been waiting for months to see him finally get his! Kickass! Best episode ever!"
"My thoughts exactly!" you cheer. "That ballerina cyborg lady with the laser eyes? Best character! Ten out of ten!"
As you turn to look at the audience to gauge their reaction, there's not a single dry eye in the room. The fans are awash with mixtures of sadness and anger, burning holes into both of you with their glares. Even the panel's guests are all frowning or otherwise upset.
Clearly, the two of you have ruined the precious moment.
Balloon Boy's voice actor wipes his tears and leans forward into his microphone, still sniffling as he pulls it close to his mouth.
"Security?" he rasps.
"So wait. You guys actually got thrown out of the panel," Beanie deadpans, continuing to work the sticky blue gel into your hair, teasing what's left of it into thick spikes. "You're joking."
"The guy that does the voice for Balloon Boy was the one that blew the whistle on us," you reply, shifting in your chair so that she can get the back of your head. "He seemed pretty pissed off."
"Well, of course he was pissed off. He'd just found out he was out of a job."
"You had to see it, Beanie!" Bonbon gushes as she bounces up and down on the bed. "She nuked him with lasers from her eyes! It was so freakin' cool!"
"You two're gonna have to show me a replay when we get home, that does sound awesome." Shaking her head, Beanie rips off her rubber gloves and heads to the suite's bathroom to wash her paws. "All right, Mike. You're all finished over here."
As you turn around to look at yourself in the mirror, you can't help but pose heroically, admiring your completed costume. You were already aware that the Mangles did a great job on it, but after seeing the quality of some of the competitors roaming the convention hall, there's no way you're anything other than an absolute shoe-in. Between Foxglove's custom embroidery on the jumpsuit sleeves and Mango's brilliant paint application to the Bobulator to give it a "battle-scarred" look, you could practically be starring in a studio-quality film production. Their skills are wasted on online retail and babysitting -- they need to be working for Hollywood.
"Thanks, Beanie, you did a fantastic job on the mohawk!" You heft your Bobulator from the table, slinging it over your shoulder dramatically. "I guess I'm ready to go whenever you two are, then. I figure it's better that we're a bit early than late, right?"
"Hey, before you go?" Bonbon whips out her phone with a grin, motioning for you to turn around. "Could I get a few pics of that pose you were doing just now? You know, for posterior's sake?"
"Oh, I think you've got plenty of that already. Besides, don't you mean 'posterity's sake'?" you ask with a smirk, puffing up your chest.
"Ha ha, ha, uh, whaaaaat?" the blue bunny croaks, tugging at her shirt's collar.
You lean in, giving her a knowing smile. "You must not know Em as well as I do."
She stammers in your face for a second, eyes wide as dinnerplates as sweat pours down her face. "M-M-Mike, uh--"
"Save it for the runway, you two," Beanie interjects, poking her head out of the bathroom and pointing to her watch. "The contest starts soon and Mike's still gotta get registered."
"R-right!" Chuckling shakily, Bonbon pockets her phone.
"Aw, don't look so nervous, I'm sure Mike'll do great." Opening the door, Beanie ushers the two of you outside and into the hallway. "Let's get going."
"Would you look at this guy? Looks just like a real human," a donkey covered in plastic wrap next to you jealously remarks.
"That's because he is a real human!" one of the audience members spectating from the front row shouts back at her.
"Yeah, I wish!" Shaking her head, the donkey looks you up and down approvingly, ogling you like you're a choice cut of meat in a butcher's display case. You wonder if she's even aware of your sentience based on the way she's talking about you. "No, he's gotta be a monkey with the best plastic surgeon ever. Right...?"
"Gotta be. I mean, humans aren't real -- yet," a male contestant of some indeterminate species pipes up from the very end of the front row. "Imagine that, though. Humans in our lifetime."
"Mmn. What a time to be alive."
You're starting to empathize with Peanut more and more by the second. Up on the center stage, under bright lights and intense scrutiny from the onlookers that have amassed to observe the contest, you feel like you're an ant under a magnifying glass on a hot summer day. The audience seems enamored with your likeness as well, snapping off photos and video left and right. You're not too surprised, since the contest you're competing in is "Most Realistic Human".
Even the other contestants are turned to gawk, marveling at your "pro makeup job" and "amazing dedication" to your "craft". You've had to politely ask the skinsuit-clad canine behind you to stop touching your arms at least three times now, but for whatever reason she just can't seem to take the hint that you don't want to be fondled.
So far, you've breezed through all of the preliminary rounds as you'd expect. The rules are simple: for all of the prelims, the audience votes for their favorite participant via a mobile app, and the winners of each bracket go on to the next round. The winner of the final round is decided by a panel of judges, with the first place finisher taking home the grand prize of a thousand dollars.
To avoid allegations of judge favoritism or specism, the participants were divided into arbitrary categories based on their costume's genre. Because of your Bob costume, you were placed in the "action/superhero" genre bracket. So far, you've won four rounds in your division, and based on the overhead display behind you, you're set to win this one as well.
"Hey, Eggs," a shaved gorilla in front of you calls out, turning in place to make eye contact. "That's your name, right? Eggs?"
The poor guy's had to slather himself in makeup to hide the waxing rash on his neck and face. You can tell that at one time he must've been purple, because he's still got a few patches of fur he didn't quite manage to get rid of near the back. You can only imagine how sore he's going to be after today.
"Uh, nickname, but yeah," you respond, reaching over to shake his hand. "And you are...?"
"Wilson," he replies, offering a nearly crushing handshake. "Wilson Munch. I have to hand it to you, man, you look real great."
"Thanks, Wilson. I appreciate it. I had a lot of help from my friends for this."
"I can see that. You've got the look down pat, dude." Wilson nods as he admires the paint work on your Bobulator, scratching at one of his wrists. "Honestly, I'm surprised at how accurate your costume is, considering the obvious limitations."
"Limitations?"
"Oh, you know," he comments idly. "The lack of a tail, for one."
Tail?
The plastic-wrapped donkey crosses her arms in irritation. "Bob Legendmann doesn't have a tail...!"
"Yeah, but humans do. If he's going for accuracy, that overrides canon," Wilson calmly explains, nodding to you like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
"Strongholds and Sapiens didn't invent humans, though," she argues, visibly growing flustered. "They're not some -- monster or species that was made up for the sake of pop culture. They're-- they're ancient folklore, with a tenuously-defined description at best! There's no proof they ever were intended to have tails!"
"Ahhhh, you're one of those old mythology lore types," he patronizingly replies. "Look, even if S&S didn't depict humans as having tails, there are just as many ancient occidental depictions and illustrations showing them with tails as there are without."
"Hey, I gotta know," the dog in the skinsuit asks, interrupting their nerd duel. "Were you with that bunny over at the Legend of Bob panel that got escorted out? That was you, right?"
"Guilty as charged," you admit to her, struggling not to laugh. "There's no love lost for that balloon guy in our camp."
"Man, don't be sorry. I'll never understand why idiot fans latch onto a series' worst character and parade 'em around like they're the greatest thing since sliced bananas," Wilson says with an easygoing grin, ignoring the frustrated donkey next to you. "Anyway, enjoy your victory, my brother. I'm real shaggy, so going 'smooth-style' was a personal sacrifice. Against anyone else, I'd be livid after all the work I put into my costume; losing to a fellow primate makes it easier, though."
Primate solidarity, huh? In a way, it's almost kind of charming.
"Thanks for being gracious about it," you reply earnestly, flashing him a thumbs-up.
Seconds later the round timer buzzes on the scoreboard, and you've once again defeated everyone standing on the stage, guaranteeing yourself a spot in the finals. As the group disperses to make way for the next set of challengers (but not before the skinsuit dog has a chance to grope your flesh one more time), you make your way down the staircase and over to the side to visit with your friends.
"You're killin' it, Mike!" Bonbon whoops from behind the partition set up between the stage and the spectators. You're willing to bet that if she had a set of pom-poms, she'd be doing actual cheerleading for you right now.
"Thanks, Bonbon," you reply, approaching the divider to give her a high-five. "Where'd Beanie go?"
"Uh, food court I think -- but never mind her! Dude, you're so close to the finish line! Oooooh, I'm so freakin' excited! How're you feel-- mmphh!"
Cutting her off mid-sentence, an eager mob of avian humies swarms past her, trying to get to you. Leading their group seems to be a young hen with brilliant white feathers and a thick mop of salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in pigtails. You're surprised to see a bird with hair of really any kind, until you get close enough to realize it's a costume wig. Half of the "hair strands" are actually just shiny silver tinsel. The chicken in question places both of her wings on the rail, standing on the tips of her toes.
You ignore her at first, leaning over the rail to reach out to Bonbon, but you quickly lose sight of her in the mass of technicolor feathers and fur. Claws, wings, paws, and hooves from other sweaty, smelly guests begin to poke, grope, and rub against your flesh. Everyone wants a piece of you. You're forced to quickly jerk away from them to avoid being mauled.
"I've been watching you this entire time, Eggs, and -- haha, oh wow! Your costume? On point!" the white hen continues to babble, vaulting over the partition to get up-close and personal. "You've got to tell me your secrets!"
Bonbon's been shoved further and further back by other interested fans hoping to check you out; all you can make out of her are the tips of her long blue ears.
"Uhhh, thanks," you answer, raising a hand to shield yourself from the phones being thrust into your face. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but--"
"Oh, you're not being rude at all, Eggs," the hen replies, tossing a wing around your shoulders. "I'm Helen, you're Eggs, that means we're friends now! Friends, see? So look, Eggs -- Eggy? Can I call you Eggy for short?"
For short? Isn't that actually more to say than just 'Eggs'?
"Anyways Eggy, I just want you to know that I'm a big fan of the skinsuit you've got," Helen blithely chitters. "It's so realistiiii--"
As her wingtips begin to tease your exposed skin, Helen's pupils shrink to pinpricks. She jolts her head back in surprise, her beak dangling open in shock like a largemouth bass. Even the other birds standing near her quit trying to swipe at you with their wings upon seeing their leader's face.
"Holy shit. This is real," she breathes.
All at once, her enthusiasm renews itself tenfold as she's gripping your hands with surprising strength, pinching and feeling your skin. You've grown so accustomed to the way the hens you know "feel" using their feathers, that you're surprised to find out it freaking hurts to be pinched by a chicken.
"Ow! Little rough there, Helen!"
"Oh. My. GOD. This isn't a skinsuit! This is actually your real skin!" She wrenches your arm up at an unnatural angle, pushing your sleeve aside to get a better look at your flesh. "No stubble. No rash at all. Some baby-fine fur here and there, but that can be overlooked."
"Gee, thanks," you grunt, trying to pull out of her grip.
"What is it? What's your secret?! Laser fur removal? Cream? Because this is way too good for a simple shave or wax. I gotta know, how'd you manage it?"
Jerking your arm away from the crazed fetishist, you tug your sleeve back down as you take a wary step back.
"Could you please not? And no, it's just a skin condition!"
"Skin condition my feathered ass, this is positively flawless!"
Not taking no for an answer, Helen lunges forward, gripping your collar and leaning close into your face. She's examining your skin so intensely that you can feel the tips of her eyelashes fluttering against your cheek, her beak jabbing against your neck.
"I've been thinking about plucking, but screw that. Whatever you've got going here? I want to try it first."
"Helen, I'm really not comfortable with any of this," you respond more forcefully, shoving away from her as security finally manages to make it over to you, apparently having taken their sweet time.
"Please refrain from making unwanted contact with other attendees, ma'am," one of the two guards insists as he escorts her across the barrier. "Sir, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," you gasp, nodding to Helen as she's forcefully dragged backwards away from you. "Guys, be gentle! Don't hurt her, she's just... curious. I think."
"Hit me up after you win, Eggy!" Helen screeches as she's pushed back into the audience to share her experience with her friends.
As you head to the stage for the final round, you finally catch sight of Bonbon standing in the audience, having been pushed all the way over to the side. You give her a grin and a wave as you climb the steps.
She doesn't wave back.
"And the winner of this year's 'Most Realistic Human' trophy and $1,000 cash prize is..."
As you wait for your "name" to be called, you offer the starry field of camera flashes in front of you yet another heroic pose. You won every round you competed in up to this point with ease, thanks to the audience vote, and now it's the judges' turn to select an overall winner based on the final lineup. You're not sure why they did it this way -- it seems a little unusual that they wouldn't just let the audience vote all the way through. Or, at the very least, why not have the judge involvement be early on, rather than late-game? Still, you're pretty sure it won't affect anything either way--
"...contestant #18, Ms. Dolli Dimples!"
With your grinning expression frozen on your face, you slowly turn to look at the announcer. That's funny, that didn't sound at all like "Eggs Benedict".
"Hell no! Are you kidding me?!" a guy in the front row howls. "I call shenanigans!"
"Yeah, he deserved to win! Screw you guys!"
"The judges do this every year! Every FREAKIN' year!!"
The audience erupts into a chorus of boos and infuriated jeering as a hefty, busty hippo lady giddily clomps past you to claim her reward. Her "human" look is borderline insulting, and the spectators aren't struggling at all to make their feelings heard about it. It's obvious that she just drenched herself in vaguely flesh-toned bodypaint and tossed a wig on. Even the remaining competitors next to you seem puzzled by your abrupt loss.
"Freakin' sham contest," a pint-sized wolf in some kind of medieval outfit huffs as he awkwardly nudges your side. "Sorry, man. I know you musta put a lot of work into that look. You'da got my vote."
The ignominy of being an actual human losing at a contest for the "most realistic human" in a building full of animals... well, you're not sure whether to shout or laugh out loud. Sighing, you meet somewhere in the middle and give the wolf an appreciative smile, trying not to let your dejection show through.
"The second and third place winners will receive $250 and $100 respectively, in the form of merchandise vouchers to be redeemed in our impressive dealers' room," one of the judges announces over the speakers. "Contestants #3 and #6, congratulations! Please come accept your prizes."
Looking down at the sheet of paper hanging from your shirt with the number five printed on it, you shoot the oblivious judges a glare as a giraffe and a mouse wander off the stage to go collect their vouchers, each of them giving you a sheepish, apologetic nod.
Unbelievable. After going through all this trouble, you can't help but feel like you've been robbed. Attending a con you otherwise would have ignored in the first place, making a public spectacle of yourself, being borderline molested by half the people you've seen, even shaving your head into an idiotic haircut -- and all of it for nothing.
Tired, stiff, and achy from your injuries as well as walking around all day, you accept the setback with all the grace you can muster. Might as well go change back into your day clothes, find the girls, and soothe your brutalized ego with some overpriced junk food before calling it a night.
As you exit the stage and begin to work your way through the crowd, Helen immediately comes running up to you.
"Hold up, Eggy! The judges had this for you. All of the runners-up still get something!" she trills, foisting a gift bag into your hands. "I wouldn't get too excited about it, though. Looks like only the top three got any kind of monetary comp -- voucher or otherwise."
"Thanks, Helen. Anything's better than nothing," you answer cautiously, accepting your consolation prize.
Her wide eyes go even wider and she claps her wings to her face in excitement. "You remembered my name!"
"Yeah, I-- sorry, I really need to get back to my suite. It was, uh -- interesting meeting you."
"Hey, that's fine, I'll join you," she smoothly replies. "It'd be a perfect opportunity for us to exchange some techniques, too."
With absolutely no forewarning, something grips your bicep hard enough to nearly rip the stitching in your sleeve. Even Helen steps back a little in surprise as Bonbon surges forward. She's got a crazed, vehement look in her eyes like you've never seen before. Her fur's bristling from ear to toe. The arm she's not using to clutch you is visibly shaking, her free paw clenched into a tight fist.
"Bonbon, you okay?" you inquire, slyly positioning yourself between them.
"Forget the stupid contest. We're leaving," Bonbon snarls, glaring at Helen the entire time from behind you. "You -- beat it."
"Ex-cuse me?" Helen scoffs, scooting closer as she leans over you to leer down at Bonbon. "And who the hell are you, kiddo? Can't you see Eggs and I were in the middle of having an adult conversation?"
"I'm not a kid, and that's my friend you're just casually feather-dusting," the rabbit heatedly retorts. "Keep your grubby wings to yourself."
"Oh, sorry. I just assumed you were a child." Helen tucks a wing underneath her chest, tauntingly pushing her chicken breasts up for emphasis. "Considering you're built like one and acting like one."
"Oh yeah?! You can pose all you want, but at the end of the day, you're going home alone and he's going home with me!" Bonbon snaps, yanking you away with her and flipping the bird the -- well, the bird. Even in this bizarre world, some things remain truly universal. "That's right, lady! I'm LIVING THE DREAM!!"
Helen watches you head off, shaking with impotent rage. The last you see of the hen, she's ripping her wig off and throwing it angrily to the floor. You offer a final, contrite nod to the furious chicken before Bonbon forcibly disappears the two of you into the crowd, beating a hasty retreat to the safety of your room.
Once you're back in your suite, Bonbon animatedly unzips her duffel bag. She begins picking up her con purchases, violently slamming them into her luggage. Her heaping pile of stuffed toys is far too huge to fit into a single bag that's already almost full, and she's growing more frustrated by the second trying to force them in.
"Bonbon?" you venture carefully, having just finished changing out of your Bob costume and back into your street clothes. "Can we just slow down a sec here and talk?"
"What's there to talk about? Everything's just frickin' fine," Bonbon huffs, squeezing one of her plushes tight enough you're wondering if its stuffing is going to burst loose. "It's all just fine and dandy, Mike! Living the dream, remember?"
As you slowly move towards her, she's getting increasingly more frantic, quivering as she struggles to make everything fit neatly into her bag. If you were in a more eloquent frame of mind, you could almost draw some kind of analogy there. Instead, you simply place a gentle hand on the top of her duffel bag in an attempt to calm her down.
"Bonbon," you try again. "Let me in here. Are you still upset about that hen from earlier? Talk to me."
"Y'know what, yeah! Yeah, I'm 'still upset'!" Bonbon backhands the remaining toys off of the bed, sending them flying across the room in a juvenile uproar. "That stupid chickenshit and then that joke of a contest -- it got me all worked up! Okay, Mike?"
"Oh, the money would've been really nice to have, but I'll get by without it," you respond plainly. "And as for Helen, she's no big deal. Just some crazy fangirl type who doesn't understand the concept of personal space. Nothing you need to worry about, I promise."
"But that's just it, Mike." Panting, Bonbon slumps against you, refusing to make eye contact. In the warm, soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand, you see her lips begin to tremble. "Watching her just sit there and, and -- just feel you up, close enough she could kiss you! She didn't care anything about you as a person at all, she just -- she just wanted to rub her slimy feathers all over you, like you were her toy! Like you were merchandise or something!"
"Honestly, Bonbon, I'm tougher than I look," you reply, hugging her close. "I wasn't really bothered by her, and neither should you--"
Bonbon suddenly lurches away from you, eyes brimming with tears.
"You don't get it, Mike! I'm not bothered by her, I'm bothered by me! It was like looking into a mirror!"
You start to ask her what she means, but instead you hold your tongue. This is one of those times where it'll be better to listen than lecture. Bonbon wipes her eyes on the back of her sleeve, furrowing her brow. She looks torn between wanting to cry and wanting to punch something.
"I saw me in that hen," she admits, choking up. "I saw someone who, who -- had been given a chance at something wonderful! Something really truly amazing, and she let it slip by because she was so, so frickin' OBSESSED with instant gratification that she forgot there was a person underneath the skin!"
Burying her face in her paws, Bonbon's petite frame shudders as she fights back violent sobs.
"And it re, remm-- reminded me! Of the things I've done! Heck, all the way back to the d-day I met you, Mike! I looked up, and I saw you and, I went -- I went 'LOOK, A HUMAN' and ev-everything else went out the wi-window!" Forcing a wobbly smile she blatantly doesn't feel, Bonbon smacks her fists against the mattress. "And I coulda lo-lost the chance to get to know someone who'd become an amazing friend, someone who'd step in and help me t-turn my life around! Be-because all I cared about was wh-what you looked like!"
"But I'm still here. You didn't lose anything. We're friends, we're having a fun time right now. It's been an up day, Bonbon -- well, apart from me looking like a dipshit in front of hundreds of people on stage, anyway," you weakly joke.
"But I'm still messing it up." she whispers, voice breaking. "What if you don't forgive me next time? Wh-what if you turn me away? Like you turned Helen away?"
You wrap your arms around her shoulders, pulling her close to you once more.
"Bonbon, you can 'what if' yourself right into the loony bin." You sigh. "What if I'd been too slow getting to Beanie? What if Bonworth hadn't thought to have us check in on her in the first place?"
Bonbon whimpers, pressing her face against your chest. She nods weakly, too busy emotionally releasing to formulate a response.
"You can worry yourself sick over things that didn't ever happen, y'know?" you continue. "But you and I, we're friends anyway because of -- or even in spite of everything that's happened."
You gently stroke the back of her head, chuckling softly.
"And anyway, Helen's a bit-- uhhh, a very rude girl. You aren't. So I don't think you have nearly as much to worry about as you think you do," you add.
She freezes, her paws clutching your shirt. "Even after the, um, with Foxglove...?"
"If it means Mangle keeps cutting me in enough to afford bulgogi," you smirk.
"...I know you're trying to cheer me up," she mumbles, "but it was too real."
The two of you sit together in the quiet of the room for a while. While Bonbon's slowly ramping down, her mood isn't really lifting. You struggle to think of a way to raise her spirits -- to get her back to her normal, bouncy self, when eventually, an idea strikes you.
"You know, Bonbon, unrelated to anything we've been discussing... I'm reminded of something you recently admitted to me."
"...yeah?" she mumbles.
"I'm gonna do something for you, but you gotta promise me you won't make this weird. This isn't, like... a sex thing."
Reaching your hand up to her elastic sweatband, you gently tease it off of her head, letting her lop ears flop loose. She looks up at you questioningly before her face abruptly changes to awestruck as you begin to massage her ears. Slowly, you work your fingers from where they connect at the base of her scalp all the way to the tips. She falls back against the edge of the mattress, her right foot beginning to involuntarily bash against the carpet, revving up like an outboard motor the longer you massage her.
"Miiiii-IiiiiIIIII-kk-kuh...!" she chokes, nearly drooling. "I'm beggin' ya -- with, with everything I've... mmmh. DON'T stop."
"Bonbon, remember what I asked," you cough. Her entire body's gone stiff as a board, her left eyelid twitching you continue to squeeze her ears. "Maybe, uh, maybe tone the weird faces down just a touch. You look like you're being tased."
"Can't help it," she coos, blushing feverishly. "Rabbit ears are like, super sensitive. Like twenty thousand more sensitive."
"Twenty thousand more sensitive," you reply dubiously. "Was that a complete thought? Feels like a couple words might've been missing there."
"Ears," she clarifies.
"Yeeaaah. I'll take that as a no."
Without warning, the suite door suddenly flings open. Beanie trots inside with a pizza box and a two-liter of soda cradled in her arms.
"Hey guys, how come no one text--"
She stops cold right as Bonbon lets out a shuddering, porn star moan, all the while both of her ears are clenched in your hands like handlebars on a bicycle.
"I'll... uhhhhh," Beanie blinks, frozen in the doorway with a blank expression like she's a computer program that's just crashed.
You splutter helplessly. "Wait, Beanie--"
"I'll just, uh. I'm sorry. I'll leave you two alone." She spins on her heel, still carrying the food and drink as she heads outside.
"No, Beanie, don't leave!" you insist, dropping Bonbon onto the bed with a soft thump as you chase after her.
"Yeah, join me instead." Bonbon's purring so much she sounds woozy. "It feels amaaaazing."
"Oh my GOD, you two," Beanie groans, red in the face herself as the door clicks shut behind her.
After chasing Beanie down and clearing up the misunderstanding (as well as remembering to pass on Nisha's message to her), the three of you return to the suite to enjoy a late dinner together. Some much-needed lighthearted conversation and an hour or so of TV later, it's time to wind down for the night. You dispose of the pizza box and the paper plates from your meal before heading into the bathroom to rinse the messy blue gel out of your hair. One quick shower later, you begin collecting Bonbon's previously discarded toys and merchandise to store in your luggage.
"You all right, Mike?" Bonbon asks as she fiddles with her phone, looking up from her spot in bed. She's sitting upright next to Beanie, who's already on the verge of passing out. "You don't have to fuss with all that stuff right now, we can deal with it in the morning."
"It'll only take a minute," you yawn, unzipping your own duffel bag and loading her toys in. "You're out of room in your luggage anyway, right? So I'll just stash your leftovers in my bags for you, and you can snag 'em from me when we get home."
"Hey, thanks," she grins.
"No prob. Soon as I'm done here, I'm gonna crash on the couch. G'night, girls."
"Mmnngh. Wha' couch?" Beanie mumbles.
You turn to gesture to an empty wall. It's only just now that you realize for the first time since you got here that your luxurious, all-expenses paid, Platinum VIP suite is not equipped with a couch, but rather a table and four stiff-looking wooden chairs.
"...ah," you mutter, realizing all too late what this entails.
"C'mon, quit bein' weird," Beanie continues, rolling over onto her pillow. "Sleep. Busy day t'morrow."
"Yeah, Mike, we're only here for the one night, y'know?" Bonbon adds, patting a space between herself and Beanie that's just barely big enough for you to squeeze in. "And I still wanna hit the resellers' room one more time on my way out for any last-minute deals."
Making a bed out of wooden chairs doesn't sound pleasant, and it won't do your mending ribs any favors to sleep on the floor. Glancing over at the oblivious bunnies, you nervously roll up your pajama sleeves before making the decision to nestle in between them.
Well, if nothing else, at least it's a really comfy bed.
