"Um. Are you one of the Pilot Princess Soul Defenders?"
"No," says Pilot Princess Soul Defender Moonstone, who is sitting on an upturned milk crate in an alley between two dumpsters. She looks tired, a lock of hair sticking lankly to the side of her face, a diagonal smear of mascara under one eye. She takes a drag on what's left of a rollup, head tipped back to rest on the wall behind her, not opening her eyes.
"...Um."
Moonstone's eyes open, just a crack, then close again. "The line for hashtag Sapphire for the hashtag sapphics to sign underage tits is out front of the convention centre," she says, and mutters, "like the bitch wouldn't march at the head of a straight pride parade if she could find one."
"I'm 24!" Hazel squeaks. "And I know which one you — you're all colour coded?"
"Oh, you'd be fucking amazed," Moonstone says darkly. "It's like groupies don't have colour vision." She takes another drag. "Maybe they don't and they're all evil mutant turnip troopers or some shit," she adds, voice softening a little and lips curving into the slightest smile. "I could drive a truck through them."
"I think they're probably just...teenagers?"
"I can dream." Moonstone opens her eyes. "I'm not actually going to mow down a crowd of thirsty stans with a truck," she adds sourly. "...Not unless they start emitting plasma or something. Supervillains fucking everywhere these days."
"I'll let you know if I see any," Hazel offers, and shuffles her feet.
"Yes fine," Moonstone says. "The fourth favourite one will sign your whatever. If you have a pen."
"I wasn't—" Hazel says, shamefacedly, because of course she would. "You're sitting next the garbage behind a convenience store, I was just checking you were—"
"The passed-out cosplayers of the world salute your Good Samaritan impulses." Moonstone grinds the butt out on the side of the closest dumpster. "But don't bullshit me now you're here. You can tell which one I am from the colour coding."
"Shit," Hazel mutters reflexively, and is rewarded with a glorious little smile, which makes her more flustered. "I— I've got a tattoo."
"Is it the logo? The motto?" Moonstone grins. "Don't worry, I got into this because it was this or postgrad, so I have you beat at lose-lose life choices—"
"No, it's the—" her face feels searing hot. "The skateboard—"
"I'm embarrassed," Moonstone says, "I'm embarrassed for both of us," but she's still grinning and she doesn't sound much like she means it. "Fucking battleship-main-gun sized flechette rounds," she adds reminiscently, shaking her head. "Like, you can't just go 'oh a mech is like a human writ large, my villainous plan is to make anti-infantry shit But Big'—" she breaks off, patting her pockets, and digs out a tobacco pouch. "Go on, then, show me."
Moonstone's probably seen a thousand tattoos; the photo is iconic. It's never been out of print as a poster. The Soul Defenders' bad girl, not just kicking ass but so entirely refusing to take Mega Dimension Bombadier seriously.
"I'm not showing you—" she squeaks, and Moonstone rakes eyes down her, over comfy sweater and jeans to sensible shoes, and all the way back up.
"It's on your ass," she predicts.
"It's not—" and who knew a face could get hotter. "It's near—"
Moonstone clicks her tongue. "Saph gets all the ones desperate to take their pants off in an alley," she says, mock sighing, and starts rolling another cigarette.
Later, back in the Ice Fortress, Hazel squints up at the big whiteboard with the scrawled heading "PPSD — WEAKNESSES???" with its many, many smudgey erasures, contemplates the current subheading "I AM EXTREMELY GAY", uncaps her marker, and sadly adds "(not helpful)".
"No, Professor," she tells the rubber duck duct-taped into a scale model laser deathtrap, "you're seriously considering a clone army of turnip-based doppelganger fangirls to maladaptively impress a girl."
