Writ in Water.
Jack Crawford

While the rest of the party sat scattered about the room, quasi-dormant behind their holographic masks, two people in a far corner enjoyed free reign over untouched snacks and liquor. Being the only two capable of eye contact, they had been drawn together by inevitability. The first had a mask, of course, but it hung collapsed on her belt. She held her third drink of the night with both hands, steadying herself. The other ate voraciously and listened attentively, but no details about him leapt out at first glance. 

​

“Listen, I want to be fair, alright? Curating isn’t easy. Remaking clients’ digital identity takes a lot of patience, but a lot of the work is bush league, stuff folks could do themselves.” She took a drink.

“If so much of the work is bush league, why do you do it?” asked the man. 

​

Diona grinned. “I’m glad you asked. I like the challenging jobs, the stained-glass stuff that comes from wrestling the Beast.” 

​

“The beast?”

​

“The Beast,” she enunciated. “Capitalize it in your mind. It’s the miasmatic meta-thing made from the tangle of cookies and caches across your online life. It follows you, guessing what you’ll want next so it can serve that up. It seems intelligent and maybe it is. You ever get an uncanny ad on your computer after seeing something on your phone?”

​

“No.” The man smiled.

​

“Well, most people have. When that happens it feels creepy, like The Beast triggers that bit of brainstem still listening for twigs snapping under the foot of a tiger. We’re prey again.” She stopped herself from reaching for her mask as she spoke.

​

“So where’s the artistry in that?”

​

“Right. The Beast follows your trail until it’s found the integral of your slopes and developed a brutally honest picture. The real art in curation happens when a client wants to change the whole image. They’ll hire someone to convince the Beast that they’re an entirely different person, to throw it entirely off the old scent in favor of a new one.”

​

“Intentionally changing the dataset to shift the integral.” He nodded and ate another carrot. He hadn’t touched anything but the veggie plate, she noticed.

​

“Exactly! The classic example is the cake preacher. A pastor’s feeds are consumed by fully-clothed women sitting on cakes. Creepy. But when our man of God wants to move on from this battered past, he hires a curator and says when he gets the accounts back, he never wants to see another fondant-covered pantsuit.

​

“It can take weeks to do this right, sitting across from the Beast as the pastor, slapping every illicit icing video from its tendrils until it learns the lesson and moves on from that kind of thing. But once the job is done right, the Beast won’t go back to the old path, and the pastor can try to go down a righteous one. Still, easier to change the Beast than a person.” To keep from reaching for her mask, Diona took another drink, then remembered her manners. “I’ve been talking a lot. I’m sorry, this must be boring.”

​

“It’s all good,” the man said, “I’ve never met a curator before.”

​

“How did we get talking about this anyway?”

​

“You walked up, said ‘I had an epiphany today’, then started rambling about your job.”

​

Diona smacked herself in the forehead. “Of course. I didn’t even ask your name.”

​

“Otis,” said Otis. “What’s yours?”

​

“Diona.”

​

“Diana?”

​

“No, Diona. With an ‘O’.”

​

“Got it. Good to meet you, Diona-with-an-o.” They tapped cups and Otis cleared his throat. “But after enduring all that, I’m invested. What was the epiphany?”

​

As he spoke, Diona turned a casual forty-five degrees as if to survey the party. Instead, she tapped her mask to check the notifications. The compulsion was hard to resist. Shifting back sheepishly, she smiled as his question pulled her back into the present. 

​

“Right. So I’ve been curating three–God, almost four years. Recently I had a client, rich girl about to start college, who wanted to start school rocking a ‘cooler’ aesthetic.” That drew a chuckle from Otis, loud enough to cut through the soft music of the party. A few guests turned to look at them, confusion clear behind their glowing masks. 

​

“She hired me to pilot her accounts in real time for a crash course in this high academic style. I spent a month straight scrolling for content, finished the job a few weeks ago and moved on. But a few days ago, I’m at a coffee shop, I get my drink, take a sip and I nearly spit it out.”

​

“Why?”

​

“It was black coffee. I hate black coffee. I need at least milk and sugar. Chocolate, ideally.”

​

“Was it someone else’s order?”

​

“No! I checked! Somehow I ordered a drink I hate without noticing.”

​

Otis frowned at that. “That was the epiphany?”

​

“Part of it. I look down at myself and I realize I’m dressed in that old-school, preppy style I’d been curating. Loafers, tights, skirt, oxford, a blazer for God’s sake.”

​

“And this was a surprise?”

​

“I know it sounds ridiculous but yes! It’s not like I’d thrown an outfit together and stumbled into that look, those clothes were new. We’re at the epiphany now, thank you for being patient.”

​

“Of course. Not much else going on here, anyway.” Otis waved at the rest of the attendees, comatose behind their masks.

​

“Obliviously, I shifted myself into the subculture. The client’s intended outcome happened to me!” Otis frowned. “Exactly. It’s spooky as fuck. I started thinking, if that happened to me, how dramatic are the shifts for the clients? Are they getting just the intended changes?”

​

“If you’re willing to give up self-control, you can’t choose how much.” Otis said.

​

“And I gave mine up unconsciously. So the epiphany’s two-fold.” He held up two fingers to count along. An analog watch sat on his wrist. “Thank you. First, I’m not immune to my own work, and I don’t know how much it’s done to my personality. Second, I’ve profited off that influence. I feel so insecure in myself and guilty about my clients that I don’t think I can keep curating.”

​

“So you’re quitting.”

​

“There’s no gun and badge to slam down but yeah, I think I need to.”

​

“Good for you.” Otis finished his drink. “Good luck with that.” He moved through the room, stepping over motionless legs. He collected other empty cups as he went and tossed the stack into a recycling bin. At the doorway, he turned back, gave Diona a little wave, and departed. 

​

“Wait, what?” Automatically, Diona checked her hip for her mask, felt the weight of it there, haptics buzzing at her touch. Reassured by the security of it, she followed him.

​

#

​

She caught up to him down the block, unwilling to call out until she got close. “Hang on, wait a minute!”

​

Otis turned, surprised. “Sorry?”

​

“Why’d you leave so quick?”

​

“I’ve got a meeting.”

​

“It’s Friday night, what kind of meeting could you possibly– oh, I get it.” She nodded.

​

“Yea? You get it?” Otis got a chuckle out of that. “What exactly do you get?”

​

“I’m slowing you down. Alright, it was nice to meet you. See you around.” Giving a little mock salute, Diona turned to leave, reaching for her mask as she headed down the street. 

​

“Wait, wait.” Otis jogged to catch up and stood shamefaced before her. “Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I wasn’t trying to be rude, I’ve actually got work to do.”

​

Everyone who flowed around them was masked. Tourists were easy to spot, navigation mirror-imposed on their faces as they walked clueless, while locals chatted with friends or watched translucent livestreams.

​

“Fine.” Diona knew he was lying in an attempt to be nice after the fact and it stung. “I just—” Angry tears welled in her eyes. “Look, what’s your deal? I’m barely treading water with this whole identity crisis thing and I was really grateful for some real human contact, you know? Then you just walk out of the party.”

​

“It wasn’t much of a party.”

​

“But you made an effort. Nobody else did, but then you leave and make a lame excuse. Really, what’s up with you?”

​

“I really do have an appointment. Compagnon business.”

​

“Oh my God. I should have known you were one of those types, showing up without a mask.” Diona took a step back, mind full of thinkpieces and viral videos of those anti-tech radicals, but she realized her rudeness immediately. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t judge. You seem pretty normal.” 

​

Otis laughed. “This is why I don’t usually bring it up. People think we’re freaks for trying to live a simpler life, and maybe they’re right! Look, how about you just come with me? You’ll see I’m not lying about the meeting, and it might do you some good.”

​

“Oh, no. Thank you, but no. I appreciate the offer.” Diona’s imagination was full of burlap-robed cult members burning smartphones and chanting from old books. 

​

“It’s at Delphi, if that’s any incentive.”

​

“You have a meeting at Delphi?” This, she had to see.

​

#

​

At that time of night on a Friday, the line outside Delphi wrapped halfway around the block, folks in bright and sparse clothing fiddling with their masks’ displays to complete their looks before they entered the club. Diona shifted in herself, uncomfortable with the casual outfit she wore. After the coffee incident, she’d returned to her most basic wardrobe, pieces she’d trusted for years. The jeans worked for her, the top was fun, but the combination was far from Delphi-worthy. She thought of her mask securely holstered against her hip. A dramatic enough choice there could help to distract from the rest. She wished she could look up some inspiration, but Otis walked so fast that she couldn’t stop to put it on and start browsing, certain she’d lose him in the crowded street. 

​

Instead she opted to get some information from her human source as he led the way. “I don’t quite understand. How do you have a meeting here?”

​

“The compagnons have a close relationship with the Oracle. We’ll go speak with her, I can take care of whatever she needs, and then I figure she might give you a bit of prophecy on the house. She’s an old sweetheart.”

​

They were going to meet the Oracle herself? Diona really was underdressed. The heavy bass became an external heartbeat as they got closer to the club. Otis led her past roped-off double columns of devotees hopeful for a glimpse inside Delphi, and down the side alley to a nondescript door. He flashed a paper to a bouncer who motioned them into quiet antechamber with a coat check, a restroom, and a narrow stairwell leading up. Feeling the pressure, Diona excused herself and stepped into the restroom. 

​

In front of the mirror, Diona slipped her mask from its loop and popped it over her face. The thin band of it conformed to her jawline, looped behind her ears and discretely nestled into her hair. It flickered into activity immediately, defaulting to her usual outward display: a light augment of her features, just a little off the cheeks and onto the lips, eyes a little brighter, enough makeup to catch the eye without looking like she cared too much. A casual look. Immediately the holographic layer of defense reassured her and she took a deep breath.

​

Controlling the mask was second nature to Diona. A combination of eye movements, minute tensions of eyebrows and lips, and murmured verbal commands quickly prepared her for the rave within. Silver glitter appeared on her cheeks, and with few actions the color shifted to match her blue top. A similar shade spread like wildfire over her lips. She thought, oh what the hell, and her eyes began to gleam blue as well. A bit of lightning perpetually circled her irises, the electric flickering amplified off the glitter like a disco ball. Diona smiled, satisfied with the rush job. As she worked, notifications she’d been ignoring began to scroll through the chyron under her right eye. Client requests, messages from friends confused about why she’d left the silent party, plenty of spam. Her smile disappeared and she dismissed the alerts with a frustrated blink. With one last check, she took a deep breath and left the restroom.

​

Thankfully Otis had waited for her, but his surprise was clear as he took in her shocking visage. 

“I felt underdressed.” Diona tried to shrug it off but suddenly, giving into the security of the mask felt like a betrayal. 

​

“It’s fine, you’ll blend right in.” Otis smiled. “I like the lightning. Cool detail. Follow me.” He led the way upstairs, where they emerged onto a colonnade wrapping and overlooking the club proper. 

​

From above, the dance floor washing over the ground level was a neon murmuration. Rolling waves made of glowing faces glittered and flashed with a hundred different designs as their possessed heads bounced to music from a decade just distant enough for nostalgia. An observer with time to kill at this bird’s eye could discern patterns, every seventh mask or so pulled from the same aesthetic fad or ripped off the same designer. In a crushing horde one must only be distinct within arm’s reach. 

​

Above and behind the DJ booth, the Altar overlooked the adoring hordes from a safe distance. Wrapped in blue velvet curtains that rippled to unfelt breezes, the interior of the Altar was out of view. Revelers craned their necks to get the slightest glimpse, yet only a lucky few could ascend the left-hand causeway for a chance at an audience with the Oracle. A massive strobe-projected ‘E’ adorned the center curtain, its font changing to the beat.

​

The right-hand causeway was reserved for VIPs, high priestesses and their associates, somehow Otis, and by extension, Diona. Despite the deafening drumbeat from the floor below, the people here clustered, twos and threes in quiet conversation. Everyone they passed seemed tall and dressed in the ancient fashion, towering togas around her. No one wore masks. Diona suddenly felt short and underdressed in her attempt at club-kit. Otis, for his part, nodded to a few Important Persons, exchanged handshakes and brief, knowing words with one or two. 

​

It occurred to Diona that she’d not asked Otis a single question about himself all evening. How did all these people know him, yet back at the party so few even acknowledged him? Her mask pressed against her face to remind her: she could look him up right now if she wanted. She tried to ignore the pressure. Otis wove easily through the thin crowd, blending into the crema of Delphi even as he stood out in his modern and simple clothes. But then Diona realized, if anyone was out of place it was her. He belonged, he knew he did and as such could walk among these gods. Meanwhile, all she’d done since they emerged onto the causeway was attempt to look around furtively as the lightning in her eyes illuminated every glance. 

​

Outside the Altar, guards wielding spears and earpieces once again checked the paper Otis brandished, and one of them retreated into the blue-wrapped chamber. A moment later he returned, followed by a stream of priestesses and attendants and a couple of confused pilgrims who were quickly ushered back to their proper place. 

​

As the coterie was removed, Otis turned to Diona. “I’ll make introductions, and then take care of whatever she needs done. That’ll be your chance to talk, so make of it what you will. And don’t stare too much. Makes her self-conscious.” Before Diona could respond, he stepped through the curtains into the darkness of the Altar. 

​

The curtains shushed the music to a low rumble like far-off thunder. There was no altar within the Altar. Instead a collection of mismatched but finely wrought benches and chairs surrounded a crackling hearth. One chair sat apart from the rest, simply carved from a single piece of wood, one of the armrests had broken off. Next to it stood the Oracle. 

​

Unlike her priestesses and their consorts wrapped in immaculate white, her robes were sky-blue. A cloud in the early dawn, she was beautiful in the style of another time, no filled lips or heavy contouring. Radiance in the most natural sense. It was impossible for Diona to determine her age.

​

“Otis, darling, so good to see you. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The Oracle’s voice was not hoarse, but there was a grit to it, the sanded down chafe unavoidable after decades of performant celebrity. Diona half-expected her to glide over the floor, but she simply walked with a buoyant step as she crossed the room to meet him. She placed a hand on his cheek and smiled like daybreak. “You’re such a lovely excuse for a break from my adoring public.” 

​

Otis bowed before her, a simple gesture of respect. Diona followed his example. As the Oracle’s gaze drifted from Otis to her, she shivered. She’d heard the rumors, of course, that the Oracle really had a gift, that she would tell you things you needed to hear whether you wanted to hear them or not, but she hadn’t given them much credence. Rumors like that swirled every once in a while about all kinds of people, and she always assumed it was just clout-chasing. But for all the popularity of Delphi, the status and exclusivity, nobody ever went into detail about what happened within the blue-swathed Altar. 

​

Perhaps it was the calculatedly cultivated sacred space or her preexisting notions of the Oracle, but Diona could not deny the rush of emotions that rose as she met the seer’s gaze. The Oracle’s pale-irised eyes, so faintly blue it may have been the reflection of her robes, swam in tears. The shifting firelight shone off the twin rivulets perpetually streaming down her cheeks. Yet behind the tears sat powerful joy and wisdom. Diona could not deny the piercing nature of the look, felt her very self stretched, examined, and comprehended in an instant. 

​

“Otis, you must introduce me to your associate.” The Oracle playfully admonished him, and he smiled reflexively. 

​

“Of course. Diona, I have the privilege of introducing you to the Oracle herself, Xenoclea Pythia the nine hundred and—”

​

“Now now, dear boy, you needn’t bore her with my lineage. Diona, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.” The ageless woman clasped Diona’s hands warmly. “Very few people come to visit me for fun. Otis is the rare exception.”

​

“I thought you summoned me for my work.” Otis was already fiddling with the broken chair, turning over the broken arm. “But I’m always glad to see you, Oracle.”

​

“We’ll let him work. Come, Diona and sit with me.” The Oracle stepped to a bench near the hearth and patted the space next to her warmly. “Let’s talk about your future.” There was an air of rehearsal to the line. 

​

“You’re really an oracle?” 

​

The Oracle smiled, “I am, and I’m not. Don’t tell anyone, but most of the time I’m not much better than a horoscope. Mostly I tell people, ‘Trust in yourself,’ ‘Find inner peace and outer peace will follow,’ platitudes like that. Folks feel better hearing them from me than from a bit of newsprint.”

​

“So this is all for show?” Diona waved at the seating, the fire, the robes. 

​

At this the Oracle frowned, and that slight decline of her beautiful lips could have set cities burning. “Is that so bad? They come to me for prophecy. Wouldn’t you be disappointed if this weren’t a magnificent space? If I told the future from a folding chair?” A bit of iron showed in her tear-filled eyes, and she watched Diona sharply before turning to Otis. “Darling, why have you brought your lovely friend?”

​

“She needs your help, Zee.” He looked up from his work and gave her a look. “Real help.” Though he was surely younger and here to fix her furniture, Otis spoke sternly to the Oracle. Diona wondered once more who he really was.

​

The Oracle pouted. “Very well. Your skepticism is understandable, Diona. I’m a performer, after all, and seeing behind that curtain can certainly be disheartening.” 

​

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Diona stammered. 

​

“Not at all. I’ve dealt with far crueler critics.” The Oracle patted her hand understandingly, and produced a bottle of water from somewhere within her robes. Taking a sip, she nodded. “Now, to business. You worry you’ve lost yourself?”

​

“Yes ma’am. I—I just don’t know how far I’ve strayed from myself, how much I’ve lost, and I’m scared I won’t be able to get back to myself.” Diona’s own words shocked her as she spoke, but Xenoclea’s presence made defining those fears as easy as breathing. It seemed entirely natural that the Oracle should know what was on her mind, and the story of the coffee order spilled from her without a second thought.

​

The Oracle listened closely and nodded. “You were asleep at the wheel. It happens to the best of us.”

​

“I suppose so.” Diona said. 

​

“But now you’re awake, dear girl. There’s no danger and nothing to worry about but yourself. And trust me when I say that you’re more than capable of getting back onto course.” She smiled again and Diona knew that she was right. 

​

Still, doubt leapt to mind. “But what’s the true course? Where am I supposed to go from here?”

​

“I can’t tell you exactly what you’re looking for, only that you’ve nearly found it already.”

​

“That sounds more like a won’t than a can’t.” 

​

Xenoclea’s eyes twinkled at that. “You’re right. But wouldn’t you rather find your own way to it? What’s the fun in a shortcut?”

​

Diona nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

​

“I can offer you a hint, though. Listen closely, dear. This is the real deal.” The Oracle stood, shimmied her shoulders to loosen up, and crossed to the hearth. Humming softly to herself, she began to sway a bit as she gazed into the flames. Firelit, the blue of her robe shifted purple. When she spoke again, her voice had shifted down an octave, rasping from deep within her. “Refuge from doldrums cannot be found by remaining in placid seas. Seek the rushing waters. They will wash you to the shores you seek.” 

​

The Oracle spoke nothing more, just continuing to slowly waver back and forth. The words echoed in Diona’s mind, pulsing over everything else as she watched the diva return from some other place. A hand on her shoulder made her jump.

​

“It’s just me.” Otis said. “It’s time to go. It takes some time for her to come down, and she prefers to be alone when she does.”

​

Her mind still reeling from the prophecy, Diona nodded numbly. Turning to leave, she noticed the chair Otis had been working on. It was whole once more, with no sign of whatever work he had done. “How did you–“

​

“Let’s get some air, yeah?” Taking her hand, Otis led the way out of the Altar and in short order, Diona found herself back on the street, in line at a food cart next to Otis. Everything since the Oracle’s last words seemed a blur. He smiled at her, said something she couldn’t hear. 

​

Wrenching her hand free, she hurried away. She didn’t know where she was going, just let her mind dissolve into a flight instinct and took turns at random.

​

#

​

“Hey, wait a minute.” Otis caught up to her a few blocks from the club, in a plaza surrounding a gaudy marble fountain. 

​

“What the hell was that, back there?” she asked. “You waltz us into Delphi. Not just that, the Oracle’s sent for you personally and she’s somehow expecting me to be there too? Whatever. First, what did you do to that chair?”

​

“I fixed it.”

​

“With what?”

​

“My hands.” Otis grinned at his own joke, though his smile disappeared when it didn’t land with her. “It was just a bit of basic mending, but Xenoclea likes to know things are done right, so she keeps the compagnons on retainer. We’re craftspeople, you know. Why do it yourself when you can get someone to do it right?”

​

“Of course,” Diona threw her hands up in the air. “Why is it that everyone I’ve met tonight is either wearing one of these–“ She pointed at her holo-glittered face. “Or they’re members of one cult or another. Why?”

​

“First, ouch. Second, I can understand your frustration. This happens to most people after a prophecy. Riddles like that, they take up most of the space you’d normally use for normal human interaction.”

​

“The fuck? You’re kidding, right? Normal human interaction? Look around, Otis. You and I are the only two people speaking face-to-face.” It was true. The other dozen-odd people in the plaza were fully engrossed in their displays. Even the old woman sitting on the edge of the fountain was using her mask to play mahjong, inverted jumbo-font tiles clearly visible from across the square. “So I’m sorry if I’m not being polite, but I’m still kind of drunk and I’m trying to figure out a puzzle from a fucking prophet because I don’t know who I am anymore!”

​

“Whoa, whoa! I’m telling you, I get it. After the first time I met Xenoclea, I spent a week on edge and ended up getting into a brawl with my roommate after spending two straight days sitting in the shower just staring at the wall. I’m not saying you have to be polite to me, I’m saying I’ve been there, and that you can cut yourself a little slack, alright?” Otis walked a few steps away, frustrated. “And I get the whole ‘compagnons are cult-members thing’, it’s an easy joke, but at least we’re capable of walking around without those things on our faces. And for someone as scared and angry as you are about– What did you call it? The Beast? I sort of figured you’d be at least grateful for a bit of genuine contact.”

​

Diona stared at him. Thought for a moment over her pulse pounding hot against the band of her mask. Hated that he’d struck a chord and that she’d have to admit she was being an ass. “Ugh!” 

​

“Yeah, you know what? Ugh is right. I’ve shown you nothing but kindness tonight. I brought you to the Oracle, a privilege most people never get to experience, and still after all of that, you can only think of yourself. I’m sick of it and if this sort of thing wasn’t a goddamn tenet of the compagnons, I would’ve walked away from you an hour ago.” 

​

Diona snapped her fingers. “That’s it. I’ve been trying to figure out your deal and now I get it. I’m just homework for you. You’re trying to recruit me.”

​

“No, not homework—look, if someone hadn’t done something like this for me I never would’ve—”

​

“Joined the cult?”

​

“Not a cult. No—I—if it weren’t for that, I don’t know if I would have ever seen just how far gone I was, how much of a hold that kind of thing had over me.” Otis waved vaguely at the mask between them. “The compagnons are mostly focused on tradecraft. Sure, there’s a bit of philosophy but I promise, I’m not trying to recruit you into anything. When you started talking to me at the party, I just saw the chance to help someone like I was helped, to pull you out of it all and give you a chance to figure out who you are without the influence of that tech on your face giving you ready-made personalities to choose from.”

​

“What do you want from me?” Diona shook with overwhelming anger.

​

“It sounds corny but geez, Diona, just be yourself.”

​

She spoke through grinding teeth. “I don’t know who I am. Have you heard a single thing I’ve said?”

​

“Why do you think you have to know for certain? There’s not a right answer. The only wrong option is the one you don’t choose. That’s all I want for you. Just decide yourself. Are you really going to stand there, after everything you’ve told me, and pretend you’re really happy with that thing on your face?”

​

“Fine. Fine!” She ripped the mask from her face and it began retracting into its dormant form. Even as it collapsed, Diona threw it angrily down into the fountain. The mask splashed lightly as it hit the surface, but instead of sinking satisfactorily to the bottom, the light-mesh bloomed over the surface like a digital jellyfish. It bobbed there.

​

“Aren’t those waterproof?” Otis asked, his tone halfway between supportive and amused.

​

“Shit.” She fished it back out and shook off the water. Sure enough, the mask immediately responded to her touch, wet but otherwise unaffected by her attempted assault. 

​

“The sentiment was there, it’s okay.”

​

“No, you were right. I have to choose and I’m choosing to be done with this thing. So I want to break it. Here, give me your hammer.” Diona reached out a hand.

​

“Why would I have a hammer?”

​

Diona rolled her eyes, “Because you fixed the fucking chair back there? Fine, not a hammer? Just give me whatever you used.”

​

“I didn’t use any tools.”

​

“What are you talking about? You fixed it somehow.”

​

Otis wiped his face exasperated, then looked around. “Fine. Put the mask on the ground and step back.” Diona did, confused. The distended form flickered sadly in a small puddle, like some deep sea fish drawn up too quickly. “Keep an eye out, will you?” He crouched next to the mask. 

​

“For what?” Focused on the mask, Otis didn’t respond immediately. Suddenly feeling criminal for no discernable reason, Diona scanned the plaza. Nothing but the woman waving at her mahjong tiles. “Seems like the coast is clear,” she said, turning back,  “but—”

​

The compagnon already stood again before her, holding the mask cleanly bisected from crown to chin. The split was smooth, as though it was meant to break that way. Offering her a half, he shrugged. “Here you go.”

​

“What– How did you do that?” Although light and malleable, the graphene layer within masks made them practically indestructible. Exhilarant relief washed over Diona, immediately supplanting the initial shock of this affront to reality. “Thank you.”

​

“Don’t worry about it.” Otis smiled and tossed his half back into the fountain. “Have a nice night.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked off. 

​

Diona stared after him. She reached for her mask automatically, but she already held the useless right half. Dropping it, she made a decision. “Wait!”