CHAPTER 290: CHAPTER 290 - SHOOT DAY: SHEER MAKEUP

"It wasn’t anything special. What I did was just the basic decency of a passing adult."

I’m starting to think bringing me out here was just an excuse to talk. The woman sighed at me while adjusting her own clothes. A mustard and burnt orange geometric pattern in the fabric actually complemented her dark skin tone quite well.

Kind of want to take a photo...

"Maybe to you. But she told me how you handled it - getting their parents involved and in trouble. Not just scaring them off once... but shining enough light on consequences to make sure it actually stopped."

"I’ll have to stress again that I consider that basic decency. I am not so virtuous that I could claim to save every child in the city, but when I see one I’ve met before in clear trouble..."

Her expression grew even more serious as I trailed off. Maybe I shouldn’t have said *clear*... the adorable girl may have downplayed it to her! I too remember a time when I would minimize a situation to my brother when caught.

And a lot of time of not telling *anyone* anything, no matter how dangerous of a thing I was up to. The sort of behavior that I haven’t really changed, even now that I’m out of that environment.

"Yes. I’m grateful someone stepped in. But I have to admit I’m also a little hurt she didn’t come to me first. She said it wasn’t anything new."

I could hear the complexity in her voice - a protective older sister mixed with the woman who prided herself on handling things in a professional way. I don’t think she believes she could have handled it as calmly as I did.

But I also don’t think she understands how angry I was for my sandwich.

"She probably didn’t want to worry you. Sometimes it’s easier to accept help from someone who’s... further outside the situation. Especially when they just rush up and solve the problem without asking permission."

"Well, when you put it that way... maybe."

It was the best ’white lie’ I could come up with. As while she certainly did not want to get her human sister involved in werewolf nonsense, it was more likely that she just had no belief that anyone would - or could - help.

Exhaling through her nose, closing her eyes, and breathing in deep... her demeanor as someone ’on the job’ reasserted itself. She led me to quickly try on an outfit, complimented the thoughtfulness of the seamless underwear I already had on, and then began to send me back.

"I’ll make sure today goes smoothly for you. And not just because you have a little fan in my household."

There was a bit of warmth in her voice that made me feel like grinning and pushing her for a laugh. I held out my hand for a shake - and held on firmly as I spoke.

"Thank you. I’m really glad you’re a fan of mine."

"No, I meant-"

"But I wouldn’t call yourself all that little. Though I suppose I haven’t seen *you* stripped to your undergarments yet."

"Oh, you’re terrible."

With a bit of a snort, she waved her free hand in the air at me as I let go. Because it had already been enough time to do what I needed. Ignoring the actual scan results that said nothing particularly interesting...

| ANNEXATION SUCCESS! |

"I have been told that. But even so, I’ll do my best to make today go smoothly for everyone in the studio."

"Oh it will be a long day ahead, but I think it’s going to be a good one. I’ll send the photographer over to meet soon."

Settling back into the makeup chair, I found myself thinking about... connections. How interacting with others in this city had somehow created this network of people who wanted to see me succeed.

How more and more, I feel like I’m slipping into wanting the same. I don’t actually want to take on the role of a leader. Enmeshed in social training from a young age or not, that doesn’t matter if you can’t muster the will to stand in the spot you need to.

But I do want these people I’m meeting, that I’m casually stealing into the Apocalypse System’s pack roster... to be safe. I don’t think it’s either too lofty or too laudable to feel that way.

I know. That it is probably the point of it being a ’pack’. It’s something within the range of a protective capabilities for a ’Chosen’, most likely. It’s not like it is ordering me to save everyone in some radius...

Yet if it was doing just that, I might find it easier. To be compelled toward a great good, instead of settling for the emotionally achievable one. My phone buzzed again and this time, I didn’t hold back.

K: [Enjoy the work.]

Simple and slightly supportive. No real pressure or expectations. Kyrie Voss may not have wanted to let me out of her sight this morning... but now, with just... a kind of recognition that I wasn’t doing any of this because I *had* to?

I stared at the message then set the phone aside without responding. Some things were easier to work through when I wasn’t trying to figure out what I wanted them to mean.

"Alright, time for the real artistry. If you can, hold still for a while and let me know when you need to move before you do. This is where the ’no-makeup makeup’ gets technical."

The man in charge of cosmetics began applying the barely-there base with a damp sponge, working in tiny sections with the deft hand of someone painting a miniature portrait.

"See, cameras pick up everything - every bit of shine, every shadow, every tiny variation in skin tone that our eyes would never notice at that distance normally. So even though this will look like you’re wearing nothing..."

"You’re actually wearing invisible amounts of quite a lot."

Eddie added his ’two-cents’ while sectioning out my hair in clips for his treatment.

"Exactly as he says. Even though you’re going to look completely natural, we’re still going to perfect every millimeter. Well, we’ve been perfecting for the past hour."

Devon gestured at the array of products he’d already used. In my world, cosmetics were either used in more obvious displays of wealth and artistry, or you simply went without. This middle ground - an enhancement that tried denying its own existence - felt almost like a magic trick.

But I also understand what they mean about cameras. As wonderful as I feel a certain percentage of mine turn out, there are always little *imperfections* in the photos that I could pick at if I let myself.

While dabbing concealer under my eyes with a brush so small it could paint individual eyelashes, he decided to speak up again.

"I have to say, usually it’s building up, covering, correcting. I’ve done this style before, but never worked with someone where the hardest part was my own restraint."

"What do you mean?"

"With you, doll? I keep having to spend more time looking for the flaw and stop myself from adding more because there’s so little that needs fixing."

"Her hair isn’t much better in that respect. Thick but maintained, not too flat and not too glossy."

It takes everything of me to barely twitch my eyebrow at them. I’m supposed to not be moving, right? So why are they complimenting me so viciously?

"Don’t get me wrong - it’s just weird from a worker’s aspect. Like being a chef and getting handed a perfectly prepared meal, ready to serve, instead of ingredients."

"I know the feeling. Her skin kind of makes you mad, doesn’t it?"

The familiar voice from behind me caused my glance up into the mirror to poke the brush in my cheek. A woman stood just outside our cubicle area, a professional camera held up to her face like she was checking the make-up progress in this lighting.

But around the device, I see silver-streaked and dark hair. When she lowers it to hang on her neck strap, that practiced smile and assessing look... I recognized immediately from weeks ago.