Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Day in the story: 3rd October (Friday)

My body hurt again.

Without the makeup and body paint, the bruises returned, dark blooms risen back to the surface. They traced across my ribs and left shoulder; deep in color and deeper in ache. I felt like crap, but I needed them there. Covering them up would only slow the healing, confuse the signals my body was sending me. I had to let them show, feel them fully, so I could mend with precision.

I wasn't thrilled, of course, about any of it.

Especially not about being on a list, a list with nine names, mine carved into it as well. Nine people. And I knew next to nothing about this crowd. No motives, no commonalities. No pattern. Just an unease curled under my skin.

Thankfully, Mr. Penrose had worked fast. Overnight, he'd already managed to ID two of them, cross-referencing the time I gave him with surveillance footage from a street cam his inside man had access to. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Today, I was skipping class again. Academic integrity could wait, I had people to find.

And for that, I needed to become someone else.

Gertrude Monkey again.

Jess Hare wouldn't cut it. Not while Shiroi was still a question mark I hadn't punctuated.

I started with the freckles, blurring most of them until they were just a faint dusting across my nose and cheeks. A whisper instead of a statement. Then I re-sculpted my face with careful strokes of contour and shadow, sharpening the jawline, tightening the cheekbones. I built someone colder in the mirror. Someone who did not smile without cause.

Blue contact lenses replaced the warm hazel of my real eyes. The new color wasn't just cold, it was piercing. Detached. Analytical. Then came the wig: light brown, short, uneven at the ends like it had been chopped with impatience. A style that didn't ask for compliments. Just efficiency.

I padded my bra to further alter my silhouette, more angular now, more assertive. It felt performative, like wearing a frame over my own shape, but necessary. Gertrude wasn't soft. She didn't ask for room. She took it.

But this time, I tried something different.

Gertrude Monkey had been invented to be a mask, a character I stepped into, gesture by gesture, phrase by phrase. But did I really need to act anymore? Couldn't I just be?

I stood still, fully dressed and focused. Not on the outfit, or the bruises, or the plan, but on identity itself. Be Gertrude Monkey, I thought with crisp intent. I didn't move. I didn't blink.

And something clicked.

It wasn't physical, there was no shift in muscle or breath, but it was unmistakable. I felt my authority ripple, not outward, but inward. The persona stopped being a shell and became a center. In an instant, I was the person I'd imagined. Not playacting. Not pretending.

Just being.

**********

Those two names had something in common with Alexandra May, three things, actually. Or rather, three people. They'd all met with Eveline de Marco and her ever-present pair of bodyguards. Eveline had spent some time talking to them too, which could mean a few things. Maybe she was building her own list of people worth keeping tabs on. Or maybe it wasn't her at all, maybe one of her guards was behind it. Or, more interestingly, maybe there was someone else watching from the sidelines, someone pulling strings behind the scenes.

Now, if that third-party theory held any weight, it would've been tricky to prove, especially in the case of the first person on my list.

MD Michael Palmer. A doctor. Not just any doctor, either. She'd bumped into him while jogging along the riverbank, way out past the edges of the city, early summer. The place was practically deserted, no one around except for those four: Eveline, her two guards and Palmer. That's what the coastal surveillance picked up, anyway. So, if someone outside that little group was responsible, they either had access to the same kind of camera systems Penrose does… or they were already there and managed to avoid being seen.

If it was the former, well, I was out of luck. Chasing that line of thinking would just waste time I didn't have. No point trying to solve the unsolvable.

So I went with what I could check: Dr. Palmer himself.

He ran his own practice and it just so happened his specialty was right up Alexandra's alley, plastic surgery. The kind of work that was mostly cosmetic fluff, sure. But every now and then, he'd step in for something real, helping people who'd been shunned or mocked because of the way they looked. The rare good Samaritan moment in a business built on insecurities.

Right now, I was sitting in his waiting room, having paid a small fortune to jump the queue. The assistant, Miriam, shared a name with Penrose's right-hand woman, though the similarities stopped there. This Miriam was something else entirely. She spent most of her time glued to her phone, playing a game, texting, who knows, while the office phone rang and rang, unanswered. She didn't even flinch.

She also had that unmistakable look of someone who'd been under the knife more than once. Not subtle work, either. Combined with her attitude and general disinterest in doing her job, it painted a picture. Whatever was going on between her and Dr. Palmer, it clearly wasn't just professional.

The waiting room was bigger than expected, wide open, with plush armchairs and sleek sofas. Everything bathed in sterile whites, cool greys and the kind of brushed silver that screams "modern medicine." The only splash of color came from the scattered pamphlets hawking vitamins, supplements and miracle creams, plus a stack of women's magazines on the table like a leftover from some other decade. Does anyone still read those?

Miriam's indifference was starting to gnaw at me. She hadn't lifted her eyes from her phone since I walked in. Candy-colored explosions flickered on her screen, some kind of game, maybe. I figured I'd try poking the bear while I waited for the good doctor to wrap up his previous appointment.

"Can I ask you something, Miriam?" I said, voice flat.

She didn't even glance up. Just raised a hand toward me like a traffic cop. "Yeah, yeah… gimme a sec, okay?"

Charming. Exactly what you want in a front-desk professional.

But I wasn't in the mood to be brushed off, so I leaned in a bit.

"Would you say you've got a steady stream of clients here, or more downtime than work?"

She lost the game, her frown made that clear and finally looked up.

"I told you… I can't multitask," she muttered. "Can you repeat the question?"

"I noticed I'm the only one here. But when I tried to fast-track an appointment, you said the schedule was packed. So… which is it?"

"Huh?"

"Do you have a lot of patients coming through here or not?"

"Today?"

"Sure, let's use today as an example. You claimed the place was booked solid and that squeezing me in meant paying extra. But the waiting room's empty. Doesn't really add up."

Her face tightened, busted. She shifted in her chair.

"I'm not here to make a scene over a few hundred bucks, don't worry. I'm just curious. What's it usually like around here?"

She sighed, letting her guard down just a bit.

"Yeah, Mikey, " Her eyes went wide, realizing the slip. "I mean, Dr. Palmer… he asked me to tell everyone we're full up, no matter what. Truth is, we usually get, like, two, maybe three consults a day. One surgery, tops, if anything."

I nodded. "Got it. So, have there been any… strange visits lately? Let's say, since July 25th?"

She squinted at me. "Strange how?"

"Anyone who came in to see Dr. Palmer, but not for surgery. Someone asking questions, maybe. Out of the ordinary."

"Nope. Nothing like that that I can remember."

"You the only one working reception?"

"Yeah, it's just me."

"Has Dr. Palmer been visited by a striking young woman? She'd have had two bodyguards with her."

Now that question got a reaction. Her eyes widened again.

"Why are you asking all these questions? You a fed or something?"

"Something," I said.

"Like what? I'm not saying anything else."

"You sure? Wouldn't you want to know if he's sleeping with other women too?"

Her mouth dropped a little. That hit the nerve I was aiming for.

"You're a PI, aren't you?"

"I'm just interested in why that woman came to see him. That's all."

She hesitated. Then finally, "Yeah, she came by. They talked. Wasn't long."

"Did he seem… different afterward? Anything off about his mood or behavior?"

"No. Same as always."

"Well, thanks, Miriam. That's all I needed."

She stared at me for a moment longer, like she was trying to piece something together. Then she asked, "How'd you know I was sleeping with him?"

"Educated guess."

"But how?"

"You ignore the phone. Yet, somehow, you still work here."

That shut her up. She looked caught, guilty, even, but didn't say another word. A few moments later, her attention slid right back to her game, screen flickering again.

I leaned back into the seat, patient now and waited for the doctor.

**********

His office was smaller than I expected. Modest furniture, bare walls. Not the kind of space you'd expect from someone raking in cosmetic surgery money. With the number of clients he had, based on Miriam's slip, it was hard to imagine he was doing well financially. The room told a quiet story: either he had no head for business, or money wasn't the point.

He was young, maybe just past thirty. No ring, no tan line. Fingers bare. He looked like someone who took better care of his body than his books. Well-groomed, athletic, handsome in that careful way people expect from a man who makes others beautiful for a living.

"Miss Gertrude Monkey," he said with a warm smile, "how can I help you today?"

"Just Gertrude," I replied. "No need for formalities."

He nodded politely. I didn't waste time.

"I'm not here for surgery. I'm here because I know you met Eveline de Marco, twice. I want to know why."

His brow furrowed instantly.

"I thought this was a professional appointment."

"It is. I'm a professional."

"I meant my profession."

"So did I. I'm gathering information, for a client."

He leaned back, pushing away from his desk. "I don't want to be involved in this."

"I know you first met Eveline during a run. What did you two talk about?"

His expression hardened. "How do you even know that?"

I kept my tone even. "What did you talk about?"

There was a beat of silence. His jaw worked like he was weighing options.

"I'm calling the cops," he muttered, reaching for his phone.

Fat chance in hell.

He looked at his phone, confused, as it didn't dial the number he chose. Stopped by the scrambler I had opened on my own.

"Please, doctor," I said calmly. "All I want is to save a life. Maybe more. Just answer my question."

He looked rattled. "Was that a threat? What did you do to my phone?"

"It's not a threat," I said, keeping my voice steady. "It just means we can talk without interruption."

He hesitated. Then slowly wheeled his chair back toward the desk.

"I don't remember everything. We talked a bit during the run. She asked about me, my work. I told her. She said I seemed more interesting than her usual friends, asked for my number. Said maybe we could talk again."

That matched the pattern. Same as with Alexandra.

"She came here a few days later," he continued. "We talked again. I told her I'm passionate about helping people feel better in their own skin. That's why I chose plastic surgery, help people become better versions of themselves. It's not all vanity, you know." His voice stiffened as if bracing for judgment.

"I'm not here to debate ethics. Just facts."

"But honestly… I don't remember many details. She never followed up."

I watched him closely. It was time to test a theory.

"This may sound strange… but when you're operating, do you ever see a light? Over your hands? Around the room?"

That stopped him cold. His eyes widened, lips parted slightly. A flicker of fear danced across his face.

"What… light?" he asked, voice lower, wary.

I didn't answer with words. I let go.

"Yes," I said and released authority from within myself, returning to my original self.
Woo.
That was a strange experience, totally outlandish. It felt as if I was both myself and the other person I created in my head and damn, she is cold. But well, I need to give her the steering wheel again, don't I?

Be Gertrude Monkey again, I thought and the light escaped my skin again and after a second, it rushed back inside to solidify my new personality.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Dr. Palmer jumped in his chair and pointed a finger at me.

"Yes!" he gasped. "Yes! I thought I was losing my mind. I see it, during procedures. Over my hands, the tools. I thought I was hallucinating. That's why I cut back. Only operate when I have to now."

His breathing hitched. Full-blown panic attack incoming.

I grabbed his hand firm and steady.

"Focus. I don't have time for you to spiral."

He took a few sharp breaths. Managed to rein himself in.

"Did Eveline mention the light?" I asked. "Or anything supernatural? Magic?"

He shut his eyes and tried to dig. You could almost hear the gears grind. But they weren't normal anymore. They'd been altered, twisted by Reality. Whatever he'd seen, it hadn't brought him fully through.

"I don't remember," he said eventually. "God, what's happening to me? What's happening to everything? What are you? What am I?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't explain. Not now."

I stood.

"Take care, Doctor."

I walked out. Miriam didn't even glance up from her screen.

He'd forget, maybe not the feeling, but the details would fade soon enough. Reality was still stronger than he was.

Two out of nine people had been on the edge of awakening when Eveline met them. If that pattern holds, I might finally have a motive for her list.

But the question remained: how did she know who to find?

**********

Penrose called just as I was on my way to meet the next person on the list.

"Alexandra," he said.

I wasn't her, not right now, but I answered anyway.

"Mr. Penrose."

"I've identified two more people from the list," he continued. "Unfortunately, both of them are dead."

Not a surprise. I had expected as much, some names were always going to be graves.

"Do you know the causes of death?"

"One died in a fire. The other in a car accident."

"What were their professions?"

"The woman, Celine Tovitch, was a cellist. She died in the fire, burned alive in her own apartment. The man, Robert Godway, was unemployed. Killed in a hit-and-run while drunk."

"Did both of them meet with Eveline de Marco on the date marked on the list?"

"Yes. That's how I was able to confirm who they were."

I paused for a breath, listening to the wind through the city's gutters. "What do you think, sir?"

"I'm not drawing any conclusions just yet. And your meetings, are you done?"

"Only the first one," I said. "Doctor Michael Palmer. He once had a thriving practice, but now only operates when absolutely necessary. He says he started seeing light, around his hands, during surgeries."

"Magic?"

"Yes. He might be developing a soul core, possibly forming a domain of his own. But he's scared. I don't think he'll follow through. He'll fail."

"When Eveline met with you — were you in similar circumstances?"

Technically, she met Alexandra. But for simplicity's sake, I said, "Yes. I had just finished a painting. My authority, its light, was moving freely around me. At the time, I didn't know others could see it. I think Eveline spoke to the doctor about it, magic. His memory of their conversation is gone."

"Let me know if the next person was also intertwined with all this."

"Yes, sir."

There was a brief pause on the line. Then he said, "By the way, Alexandra, because of you, because you opened my eyes, I've remembered some of my own encounters with magic. Long ago, I worked with someone who wielded it openly. We parted ways on good terms, though we had little reason to cross paths again. I still had his contact information and I've reached out."

"You plan to meet him?"

"Yes. If he agrees, I'll ask him to share what he knows with you."

"That would be splendid, sir."

"Good." A breath. "I meant to say earlier, you sound different today."

"I know, sir."

"Is it magic?"

"Yes."
He sighed.

"Good day."

"Good day, sir. And thank you, for everything."

Yamashiro Rei my next target, was much harder to pin down than Dr. Michael.

According to the intel Penrose dug up, Rei was a pickpocket, petty criminal, small-time operator, living somewhere in this neighborhood. He had targeted Eveline during their first encounter, reaching for her purse or pocket, but her bodyguard caught him in the act. No broken bones, no screaming. Instead, Eveline sat with him on a bench at a bus stop and they talked for a while. Then she gave him money and walked away.

Unusual behavior for someone who'd just been the target of a theft. She hadn't reacted half as kindly when Alexandra took her necklace.

Still, Rei was the first name on the list. The very first. Their meeting happened on July 2nd, weeks before the others.

Mr. Rei had been arrested twice over the last decade and spent most of that time behind bars. Released earlier this year and so far, managing to stay out of prison. Barely.

Fortunately, Penrose had contacts in this part of town. Word was passed and Yamashiro got the message: someone was looking to hire him for a job. That saved me the trouble of combing alleyways and street corners.

I'd wait and let him find me.

**********

I was sitting on a bench at a bus stop across from a busy restaurant when he approached me. He didn't announce himself, didn't speak.

Short, maybe five-foot-four, Asian, dressed in worn jeans and a black blouse that hung loose on his lean frame. A jagged scar curved along the left side of his mouth, pulling it into a permanent half-smirk. It gave him a wolfish look, but aside from that, he was good-looking, sharp features, confident posture, eyes that didn't blink too often.

He didn't look at me. Just stood beside the bench, facing the same direction I was and lit a cigarette with steady hands.

"Take a seat," I said.

"The fuck I am," he snapped. "I don't know you, lady. Sam said your boss wanted a thief like me, but I'm fuckin' bad at what I do, so this don't add up. Is this a setup?"

"Yet you came anyway. You might be right about being bad."

"The fuck's your problem?" He turned toward me, voice rising. "I waited. Watched. Made sure you were alone before I came here. You get me, you fucking cunt?"

"I get you. Why so paranoid?"

"Why the fuck not? I ain't looking to get offed or spend another day behind concrete and bars."

"But you still want money."

"Fuck yes, I want money. So what the hell do you want from me?"

I stood up. He twitched, stepping back quickly, too quickly. Reflexes sharp like a blade drawn before you even see it. I caught a flicker of dark light pooling around his feet, grayish, shifting. Might've been a trick of the shadows, or maybe something else. Magic.

"We didn't come for your thieving skills," I said. No reason to circle around it. Time to get to the heart of this. "We came for your magic."

He stared at me now, backing off a few more steps. A safe distance. I let him.

"My fucking what?"

"You know what I mean. You've got something, light, shadow, whatever you want to call it, that lets you do things no one else can. Right?"

His face hardened. "You fucking bitch. How the hell would you know that? You work for that other cunt?"

"You mean Eveline?"

He flinched at the name. His hands went into his pockets, deep ones. I noted the tension. Careful now.

"Yeah. Her."

"No. We're competitors."

"And why the fuck would I believe that?"

"What did Sam tell you?" I threw his earlier reference back at him.

He squinted, then muttered, "Okay, okay, cunt. What's the job?"

"Before we get to that, I need to clear a few things first. How do you know Eveline?"

"I tried to rob that bitch," he spat. "She tried to kill me."

That didn't line up with what Penrose had described from the surveillance footage.

"She tried to kill you… because you robbed her?"

"Fuck no. I tried to rob her and she acted all sweet. Even gave me cash. Then, about a month later, she finds me again, asks if I've got magic now. And I fucking did. I had this dream, worst shit I've ever seen. Shadows that tore into me, chased me, screamed at me. But I fought them. Found this shining crystal in the dark and boom, magic."

He exhaled hard, eyes burning. "I told her that. Figured she knew more. But then she pulls out this weird-ass necklace, says it'll give me more power. Tried to touch me with it. Didn't feel right. So I froze her. Paralyzed her. Ran the fuck out. Her guys opened fire, but I'm good at running. So yeah, excuse me if I'm a little fucking careful now."

Paralysis. Shadows. A dream trial and a crystal. Signs of a soul core awakening. Eveline must've tracked him and waited for it to bloom. Then tried to — what? Harness it? Corrupt it?

"She's already killed a few people like us," I said.

"Us?" He blinked. "You're fuckin' magical too?"

"Yes."

"What can you do, cunt?"

"I can make a painting believe it's real."

He laughed. "Fuck. That's the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard. I'd off myself if I got that."

"And what can you do?"

"I'm the fucking master of shadows, lady."

"Meaning?"

"I can make my shadow, or any shadow I touch, do whatever the fuck I want. If my shadow moves fast, my body does too. If I freeze your shadow in place, you can't move. You get it now?"

Ah. More than I expected. "That's actually very useful. In the right hands."

"Yeah? Still think your painting's better?" he sneered.

"I never said that." I stepped aside, reached into my bag and pulled out a business card. "This is our company. Penrose's Finest. If you call the number, someone will set up a meeting on your terms. Pay's solid. Boss is fair. Up to you."

I laid the card on the bench. He approached cautiously, picked it up, turned it over in his fingers.

"I'll think about it," he muttered.

No profanity. Progress.

"That's all we ask right now."

I turned to leave.

"I don't want to hide forever, you know?"

"I don't think anyone does," I said. "Penrose is a good start. I don't hide as much anymore."

I reached into my bag for Alexandra's Travel Grimoire.

"Goodbye, Mr. Yamashiro. Hope to see you again."

Then I wished to return to Alexandra's room. A moment later, I was gone.

As I reappeared in a familiar place I let my Authority slip away from where it coiled inside me and returned to myself, fully, unmistakably, completely.

This whole experience… I swear, it was the strangest thing I've done in these last few magic-soaked days and that's saying something. It wasn't like wearing a mask or playing a role anymore. It felt like my soul had split down the center. I was both steering Gertrude and watching from the backseat, like riding shotgun in my own body. It's hard to explain. Creepy, cool, a little unnerving and totally effective. Something I'd definitely be using again.

Still, if I'm being honest, I'd rather slide into Jess Hare's sleeve than Gertrude's any day. Gertrude was razor-sharp and hard-edged, all stone and steel, necessary, but exhausting. Jess Hare, though? She's breezy, clever, a little sarcastic and knows how to hide in plain sight. She was always a little more "me." A bit on the nose, a bit of a smartass, but with enough misdirection to keep people guessing.

And now that I had the Travel Grimoire on hand at all times, danger didn't carry the same weight it used to. If I ever had to disappear in a blink, I could. That changed the rules. Jess Hare might not be off the table anymore. I'd think about it.

More importantly, I'd learned something useful today.

Eveline, she was likely the one who wrote the list. Her MO became clearer now: meet people with potential to develop Domains, then circle back to them after some time. If they failed to manifest? Nothing happened. But if they did… then they started dying. Or disappearing. That's probably why she didn't pay me another visit, she'd lost the necklace by then. Honey said it had been pulsing with Authority when she touched it, enough to scare her visibly. And Shiroi, he was clearly set on scrubbing out any trace of involvement from himself and Robert de Marco. Which only made sense if they'd taken the necklace… and wanted Eveline none the wiser.

I pulled out my phone and called Mr. Penrose. He answered immediately.

"That is indeed interesting," he said after I laid out everything I'd learned.

"Sir, maybe the best play would be to inform Eveline who hired us?" I suggested cautiously.

"Let them sort it out between themselves?" His voice didn't scoff, but it tightened slightly. "That would be a good move, if we could be certain they'd destroy each other in the process. But if either one survives…"

"We're sitting ducks," I finished. "You're right. Even if Eveline wins, she'll know we couldn't take down Robert ourselves. That'd mark us as weak. Disposable."

"It's a bad play," I concluded.

"I didn't say that," he replied and his tone shifted, thoughtful, not dismissive. "I said it requires assurances of their mutual destruction. And that can be arranged, given time. I'll think on it."

That caught me off guard. I'd expected a flat rejection, not strategic consideration.

"Understood, sir."

"Alexandra," he continued. "I contacted the man I told you about before, the one I think might be useful to our situation. He's agreed to meet with me tonight… and he wants to meet you tomorrow."

"Of course. I'll await the details."

"I'll send them when I have them. One last thing before I let you go: have you checked what happened to Thomas's camper?"

"No, sir. I'll do that right away."

"Good." He ended the call with a curt nod I could practically hear.

I was still dressed as Gertrude. The makeup, the wig, the clothes, still there. Not ideal for stealth, but not bad for intimidation, either. I reached for the worn leather cover of my Travel Grimoire, the surface warm beneath my fingertips.

A new destination waited and I had unfinished business to attend to.

I ducked under the bed and pulled out Noxy, the cold metal familiar in my hands. Without hesitation, I activated my portal and vanished.

I materialized inside a familiar space, the camper. But instead of stillness, I was hit by a jolt. Momentum slammed into me as the vehicle rocked forward and I stumbled hard, my balance gone. My shoulder cracked into the nearest counter and I just managed to brace against the wall before hitting the floor.

"What the fuck?" the driver barked, glancing in the rearview mirror. His eyes widened in disbelief. "How the fuck did you get inside?"

He slammed on the brakes.

The camper screeched as it jolted to a halt. I wasn't ready for that either. My body lurched forward and crashed straight into the table, ribs first. A sharp sting ripped through my torso, dragging a hiss from my teeth.

Through the haze of pain, I saw his hand move, toward the glovebox, maybe under the seat. Didn't matter. I knew what he was reaching for.

I was faster.

I leveled Noxy at his head with both hands. "Don't you fucking dare. I will shoot you."

He froze. His hands went still. I planted one foot forward and gripped the railing near the ceiling, bracing in case he decided to floor it again. I wasn't getting thrown around twice.

"What do you want?" he stammered. "You want the car? Take it."

"Where were you taking it?" I asked coolly, scanning the windows. We were near the docks, parked crookedly on a sidewalk. A quiet part of the industrial district, perfect for shady handoffs.

"My boss wanted it sold," he said quickly, the panic seeping into every word. "I'm just delivering it to the buyer. That's it. I don't want trouble. I don't want to die over this shit."

"Why not yesterday?"

"Huh?"

"The camper disappeared yesterday. Why wait until now to sell it?"

"I didn't have a buyer until this morning," he said, licking his lips. "One day. Just one day. Who are you? Who sent you? How did you get inside?"

"Too many questions," I said flatly.

"Your boss, De Marco, is going to be pissed you lost the car?" I left it vague for a reason.

That made him hesitate. His eyes darted, calculating. "Yes. She's going to be pissed. But I'd rather have her pissed than be dead. So… you gonna let me go?"

Interesting. That might mean Eveline was the boss of that house and Robert just a visitor.

"Hard life," I muttered. "Now get out of the car and run. Run until I can't see you anymore. If you turn around once, I shoot. You got me?"

I let my Authority rise. Gertrude surfaced through me, cooler, colder, more lethal. He saw it in my posture, in the way the gun didn't tremble.

He didn't argue. He shoved open the door and ran. Didn't look back.

I watched until he vanished down the street, then exhaled and slid into the driver's seat.

Shit.

I didn't know how to drive. Of course I didn't. Gertrude seemed like she would, but Authority didn't grant actual muscle memory or skill. It changed the posture, the aura, the instincts, but not the knowledge. A mask still needs a face to wear.

I sighed and pulled out my phone. Dropped the Gertrude veil. I was Alexa again.

I dialed Thomas.

He answered with a groggy "Yeah?"

"It's me," I said. "Do you want your camper back?"

**********

Later, I was home again.

Thomas had come to the docks, collected his camper, asked few questions. I filled in Penrose during the wait, kept it brief. He seemed satisfied.

But the whole situation left me thinking.

I could portal into moving objects, clearly. That opened doors. But what about to objects? Could I portal to something, not somewhere?

Back in my own skin, dressed in my usual clothes, I found myself standing in the bathroom holding a quick watercolor sketch of Noxy. I'd painted it on a small scrap of paper, curious.

Noxy sat just a few feet away, resting against the wall in my bedroom.

I focused.

Take me there.

But my Authority didn't respond.

"Anansi?" I asked.

[The Soulmark of Connection allows you to touch a painting and use it as a spatial tether to a real, existing location.

By rendering a faithful depiction of a place you know, you create a magical anchor tied to memory and representation.

The painting must depict a real, specific location you have physically experienced or deeply internalized.
The connection is anchored through memory and representation.]

So it has to be a place, not an object?

[That is correct.]

I tilted my head. But the camper worked. That's both a place and a thing. I was inside it.

[Exactly. You portaled to a place within an object. The spatial anchor was valid.]

"So…" I paused. "Will I ever be able to portal to items? Or even people?"

[I have no knowledge in relation to that question. Yet.]

I grinned.

"Yet. That's a strong, definitive maybe. I'll take it."

Because, really, imagine the uses. A future version of this mark that lets me teleport to a person I know, or to an object I've painted? That would change everything. Everything.

"What's my progress Anansi?" I asked.

[You are at 6%. You need 94% more essence of Authority to initiate growth.]

"Two percent points? That sucks."

Still. Forward was forward. I'd take it.

Later that evening, I shifted gears. Sat at my desk with my brushes, paints and a fresh sheet of paper. I painted my Domain again, capturing it from memory as best I could. It came to life under my hand.

Once dry, I folded it neatly and slid it into a locket I used as reference for my metallurgy assignment. I strung the chain around my neck and let the locket rest against my collarbone.

An escape hatch. One I should've made long ago, if only I'd realized it was possible.

"Will this work, Anansi?"

[Yes. As long as it touches you, you will be able to use it. However, the strain on your soul will be greater without a clear reference image.]

"Like when I touch the Grimoire but choose a place in my mind instead of on the page," I said, nodding. "Got it."

There was one more thing I could do today before my next meeting with Shiroi.

**********

The silver suit lay on the floor like a foundation waiting for architecture. I sat cross-legged in front of it, surrounded by a chaos of fabric swatches, vinyl scraps and metallic-textured textiles. This part wasn't sewing yet, not really. It was chemistry and intuition.

I wanted each segment to look like actual alloy plating, something pulled from a sci-fi military film or a synthetic combat exosuit. And not just "metallic" in a Halloween costume sense. It had to feel engineered, more space-marine than medieval knight. Cool silver, pale gunmetal, brushed steel, even slightly iridescent hues where the light caught the weave.

Some fabrics I ruled out immediately: spandex with a foil finish cracked too easily when flexed. Lamé shimmered but had no depth. PVC looked right under harsh light but wrinkled under strain and I needed this armor to flex when I ran or leapt or crouched. The winner was a high-end vinyl-coated performance knit, smooth, tough and slightly rubbery on the underside for grip. When topstitched, it could hold form and didn't pucker under tension. I could sew it directly onto the stretch base without too much compromise.

Before I cut a single panel, I treated the fabric to make it look less like something from a gymnastics catalog. I mixed a thinned-down acrylic matte medium with a touch of dark grey pigment and lightly airbrushed it over the surface in gradient sweeps, dulling the too-shiny patches and adding artificial "wear" around what would become edges or impact points. Then I carefully dry-brushed silver highlights back over the peaks and lines I wanted to catch the light, making it look slightly scuffed, slightly real.

I wanted the suggestion of something weathered and functional, like this suit had seen action in some abstract war, or passed through time. Something powerful, but not ornamental. Even at this early stage, I was thinking about illusion: paint and fabric together creating the sense of substance. Style masquerading as mass.

Once the fabric was prepped, I flipped the stencil templates from earlier back over each patch, pinned them down onto the treated vinyl-knit and traced the shapes in tailor's chalk. It was tedious, cutting dozens of pieces that curved and bent in precise ways. Chest panels had to rise subtly around the collarbone. The thighs were more angular and rigid. I had to think in layers and dimension, making sure the "plates" would overlap visually, without overlapping physically in a way that stiffened the suit or interfered with movement.

I used a rotary cutter for clean, controlled cuts, angling the blade to create slight bevels when I could. Then I labeled every patch with a thin masking tape tag, marking orientation and placement, because it was far too easy to mix up mirrored shapes once cut.

By the end of the night, I had a growing stack of pseudo-armor: the artificial ribs, bicep shells, shin guards and sleek breastplates, all shaped and ready. They didn't weigh much at all, but under the lamplight, they looked like they might clink.

That was enough progress for now. Next when I was ready, I'd start stitching them into place and then the suit would begin to come alive.