Survival Of The Fittest

Hunter was fine.

Fine with the hurried step, shoe clacking reverberating in his ears and no one else’s, the bead of sweat threatening to escape the plane of his forehead, the sour breath. Fine with the half-dizzy blur his eyes followed from the bathroom sign to the bathroom entrance; blessedly uncrowded, at least on the men’s sidecon bad ending: threw up in a trash can, someone took a picture, went viral on the genshin subreddit, Hunter never left his house again, the imagery was very vivid and also unhelpful. Fine with the tap tap tap on tile, the spared near-smile for the Yoshida washing his hands and giving him a slightly worried glancecute enough to deserve a better Hunter, can’t always get what you want or something, the too-loud echoing slam of the stall door.

Fine dripping between his lips. Heartbeat blossoming in acrid, rhythmic spurts, rolling off his tongue.

It was fine.

Stall door opened a whole lot quieter. Blink blink half-peeled smile at a now-empty room. The quiet exhale, the inevitable survey of the damage in the mirror.

Wet eyes. Blink blink. The rest could have been worse, couple of freckles peeking through the porcelain skin veneer around his mouth, lips pink and no longer camouflaging years of relentless biting, chewing, tearing. Sweat dabbed off his forehead, the foundation didn’t come off with it, thank you setting spray, thank you Mona.

Almost perfect. Close enough she could make up the difference, anyhow.
favors on favors on favors. It wasn’t his fault his brain was choosing this particular moment to crash out—that so many bodies pressed so close together closed in on him like his skull squeezing vice-tight—that he was here in the first place, it wasn’t, it wasn’t, it wasn’t, she owed him, somehow, anyways, because the alternatives bubbled somewhere in his gut all over again.
The walk back seemed longer, somehow. Time no longer compressed, more mental space to contemplate the scenery (the group of mediocre MP100 cosplayers camping out in front of a room for a panel that started in three hours, the map on the wall with last-minute changes hastily added in sharpie by some harried volunteer somewhere,the endless parade of eyes, glancing, staring, locking onto him, half-hypnotic, the other half past contemplating) fine again with the accelerating step, shoes sinking into the doubtlessly filthy carpet, one two three four, back to Mona.

Back to—


He—blinked.

Back to Mona.

Confusion clouded his features before the less-primitive parts of his brain caught up, smoothed them back to inquisitive-neutral. Mona replaced entire by Kafka replaced entire by ?questionable. Hunter tilted his head, brow crinkled, corners of his mouth resolutely unturned despite his instincts. Scanning her face. Searching for an angle.
was it so unthinkable that she was actually trying to be nice? stupid question. didn’t know why it came to mind.
“When am I not?” With the corners of his mouth turned the wrong way, blink blink dead smile, don’t answer that was impliedcovering his neck like cornered prey.

“Could use, like, a breath mint, if you have?” Mouth was fucking rancid, still, unmistakably so if she stepped a touch further. “Ohh, and like—” traced a line around his mouth, now wearing his winningest smile, the blink-and-you-missed-it transition, the mask reassembled while the face stayed fractured “—if you could touch me up real quick before the cameras come out again, like?”

Most damning words of all:

“I’d appreciate it.”

Smile faded a little. Ceded ground.
maybe it wouldn’t kill him to—lmao yes it would, c’mon now
He let it go with the moment.



—


Makeup was fixed, picture-perfect, appropriate for the number of pictures that followed. Couldn’t make it five steps without a photographer (by loosest definition, from con publicists with cameras he couldn’t imagine holding steady to overexcited kids with a parent’s iPhone (god he hoped it was a parent’s iPhone with the case they had on it)) stopping them in their tracks. Sometimes for him, sometimes for Mona, sometimes both. Easier form of attention to swallow, for the most part. One at a time. He could pretend, one at a timehe’d been doing it since he woke up this morning, and also basically every day since middle school.

More than a couple he vaguely recognized from the karaoke room. The smile he blessed them with smelled like spearmint. Pulled away a little too fast, smile fading a little too quickly as he turned awaysensed their eyes laser-pointed at the back of his head for way too long after he walked past.

More than a couple were less-than-professional. Almost all of them with Mona. He looped his arm in hers and smiled as they walked away a little too quickly, because this was taking way too long, and for no other reasonwho was he kidding?.

Eventually: the dealer’s hall. Their actual destination, filled to the brim with… garbage, mostly? Based on Hunter’s first, unimpressed glance around the stalls closest to the entrance.

The look back at Mona, the head tilt, your scene, you first, give me something to work with. His credit card was, truly, begging for something to do.

He was not welcome. And he could keep every damn acre of territory he tried to surrender.
Her heart fluttered. So this was what friendship was like. She’d almost forgot.
Kidding. Kind of. She had friends who weren’t completely brainrotting to deal with.
Kind of.




–




The look back at Mona and girlie already had dropped a thirty— cash, ATMed the day before, because Mona had done this song and dance and consumerism several dozen times in her life by this point— on good old dealer’s hall swag. An official Riot Games booth. Her capitalist prize, Lillia in a beautiful desaturated pink and purple, printed all over the bodice of her newest ‘wear this for stream and or to further ostracize herself in class while being fab’ fashion statementshe knew nobody actually paid attention and they hadn’t for a long time. Worse in her mind to vanish entirely than to be the spectacle of ridicule. She didn’t quite know why she felt that way.

“You look like you have your mom’s money burning a hole in your pocket.” . “May I suggest the deranged yaoi in the booths where you’ll feel out of place among all the awkward guys obsessively flipping through MHA doujins?”

Said out loud enough that it earned her a shrill hallelujah from a passing… holy shit, Hatsune Miku? With a goddamn Chainsaw Devil head? I love your costume! Mona shouted back. Kafka and Chainsaw Miku thus shared a bond for a moment in time before promptly forgetting each other’s existence.

Many such cases.

“Like I said,” now back to paying attention to her boy Hunter (unfortunately). “It’s worth a look. Though I’m more of an artist alley girl myself. Some crazy skilled artists out here.”

They serenely drifted through the crowd they were cutting through, a calm-ish ebb and flow of costumes and neck scruff occasionally disturbed by the ripple effects of two or more people awkwardly not knowing how to pass each other for several seconds of both trying to move in the same direction. Row 1200, a sign above them announced. Many more on either side.

A flash of a familiar face. Frieren-sama, same from karaoke, wandered by, glancing at pretty necklaces. Mona didn’t think anything of her besides the dull static jolt of recognition.

When they passed, ships in the night, she suddenly got the sense of someone watching her. Often the case at con, wasn’t it? But as they kept moving on at their pace, it was still following them.

Red eyes flicking around the room, the narrowed condescension, the vague, glazed-over consideration, the momentary flickers of rounded interest. Maaaaybe glanced not entirely ironically in the direction of the doujin booth with the giant cheerful 18+ printed on a rainbow banner, very subtle,holy shit was that an entire kavetham section? he would be more tempted if the fujos weren’t already hovering, poised to swarm, piranhas scenting blood in the waterslid right back offwhat is the internet for, etcand back onto nothing in particular in return.

Chainsaw Miku was a look though. Had to be said (by anyone other than Hunter (which had literally already happened (thanks(?) Mona))).

Eyes skipping over trash, junk, overpriced imports, bits of fabric glued haphazardly together into what could legally be called handmade merchandise, his body jostled back and forth by the ebb and flow of the crowdhis stomach pushed forth and back on a two-second time delay with no contents left to be squeezed back into his mouth. Contemplating Mona’s commentary, considering whether it counted as a subtle dig, briefly parsing brand expansions, revenue streams, the idea as distasteful as it ever was but backup plans on backup plans made for the inevitability of successand sleep deprivation, and anxiety spirals spanning the depths of human potential, you know how it is, jolted back to the present by a particularly hard shoulder check by an immediately-apologetic Kiana Kaslana, waving her hands in apparent distress; didn’t occur to Hunter he couldn’t process a word she said until she’d already disappeared into the crowd.

The endlessly pulsating crowd.
pulling twisting screaming slavering don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it

“Oh—”

Oasis, briefly. Hunter with the soft step, the small frame slipping through momentary holes in the crowd mass, the weave, the dodge, the sudden room to breathe. Obvious reason why—set of three booths in a row, seemingly unrelated but each with the courage to display prices clearly for every item. Not a thing under $100 at any of the three, the staff at each seemingly equally unbothered.

One selling replica weapons, the sort that had to be peace-bonded before you could take them with you; one selling some honestly gorgeous silk things that he was going to put eyes on in a second once his hands stopped being drawn magnet-fast to his prize at booth number three.

“Ooooh my god you have NO idea how long I have been looking for this—”

Decorum forgotten, bouncing on the balls of his feet, the wholly sincere sparkling in his eyes, his wallet already in his hand somehow with his other hand clutching the box for the G.E.M. Series Yuri Plisetsky figurine that had evaded him for yeeeeears now, so caught up in the euphoria of the moment that for a moment he lived in a world where being cringe didn’t exist. Barely registered the $180 price tag, dreams really do come true and assorted sappy cliches, swipe went the plastic, stupid happy smilewaiting patiently for something to scrape it off.

“Let me get you something,” earnest look at Mona, this was bribery but it was affectionate bribery which didn’t count, still riding high off the moment. “Pick, like, whatever—oooooh—” attention dragged off again to the silk shop, to a selection of tie-front tops that he probably couldn’t pull off in a million yearsshould he try anyway, perhaps! like maybe with the wig and contacts in, anyway, would do numbers online, still with the half-bounce, the unironic joy,


The shadow passing over his back.

Peace and plenty forgotten, default settings restored on Hunter’s expression, the head tilt at Mona as though the past two minutes or so hadn’t happenedhe would possibly never live them down, many such cases.

“Is it just me, or…”

Glancing back at the crowd, surging and retracting like the sealike intestines more like, through the gaps of anonymous faces, he locked eyes with—

… Frieran-thing? Seriously?

He frowned. She did not break eye contact. For like, waaaay too long. And then another surge of the crowd, and by the time he could see her again she was… looking at some unbelievably shitty-looking plastic cat ears?

??

Finality Kiana? Localized entirely to the Anime Los Angeles 2024 dealers hall? Woof woof (platonicdefinitely platonic for sure). Mona gave the passing cosplayer her props: a) because her costume was even at a glance almost flawless, the side of her bodice that extended into a belt-like coattail was formed of panels of craft foam with the perfect metallic finish like holy crap Mona had to , b) because she’d even briefly interrupted Hunter’s train of thought, which was always a good and intersectional feministwhy yes Mona name dropped fourth-wave feminism to dunk on a friend and without actual substance to the evocation, giagachad.gif, etc praxis.

Mona followed Hunter, echoing the sudden clunky chunky GTA-tier movements with her own more practiced crowd icebreaking. As in, she was a pretty girlall she had left, so on, no Hunter does not count as something she had more like something she dealt with so people tended to get out of her way when she suddenly had to move.

Oh. There were the dollar signs in Hunter’s eye. Figured consumerism alone could rouse mans from his doldrums. Peptobis and benzos stirred in right on top of that social anxiety nauseashe knew what was going on, y’know. But Hunter 100 emoji would not accept defeat and she wasn’t going to even bother offering an out again. Happiest she’d seen him since they’d… woken up? No, even earlier, since they’d boarded the plane together.

“Oooh. Yeah, that checks out.”

She had heard him complaining about this exact bit of merch before. He did look pretty cute being this happy (platonicactual platonic, she had never been attracted to him once because even Mona knew how to dodge red flags, she’d probably learned it on TikTok or something at some point. She acknowledged Hunter’s raw attractiveness the same way one acknowledged their mistakes in life. Reluctantly). So yeah. She wouldn’t judge the purchase. Room in the suitcases. Mom’s money, hole in his pocket, et cetera.

“I—”

Whoops there he went again. Eh, not like Mona had been about to say anything important anyways. And he’d offered to get hher something, so sweet! Her eyes briefly made first contact with the collection of alien shapes: ruffles, crops, so on. Far be it from her to spend money on anything that didn’t have a famous trademark attached to it when she could sew any of those silks herself. But still. It was the thought that countedignoring the MIA thought from Hunter’s brain where he knew Mona made most of her own clothes from a box of scraps found in the caves of the assorted greater Vegas metro thrift stores.

For want of anything else to look at Mona took in a sweep of her surroundings while she prepared to name something at random to satiate Hunter’s ego and stress his wallet.

She saw Frieren-chama, again, before he did.
Women can stalk men, to be clear. She knew that on like, an intellectual level. They had the capacity to be as harmful and deleterious as men who engaged in similar behavior, damn, Mona had that proper citation (that she had Googled and skimmed) right off the dome. But, real talk. Y’know. Mona was more inclined to assume the best of any RNGed female face out of a lineup than any male face. Except, like, if her own face was in the drawing pool, she guessed.

“... Let’s head to artists alley now? I don’t need you to get me anything, honest.” He probably wouldn’t even remember that he’d offered now that she’d brought it up. Oops! All memoryholes.

Eyes fixated on what again became the middle distance when another swell of the crowd came through, the vague tug at his arm, non-literal, notwithstandingleaving was good! leaving was a plan with achievable steps! perhaps he should at this one specific time and ideally never again listen to his dearest and most best friend etc etc fucking gag. Crowd passed, she was still… no, she was one booth down. Closer. Swiping distractedly through a collection of ratty technicolor fox tails that even she of little taste could not possibly be unironically interested in.

Her eyes flicked up, jumped to Hunter’s face way too quickly to not be targeted. This time she had the sense of shame to at least feign embarrassment, looking away quickly, fingers absentmindedly pulling at bits of faux furas far as he could tell at this point some con merch was sold specifically for people to wear for the 24-72 hour con period and then never again, to be consigned to a UV-reactive landfill. Teeth dug into his bottom lip, recently-patched makeup job be damnedsorry never really sorry Mona, his eyes finding any other direction to look in.

Following the crowd. Bocchi, Marin Kitagawa, the Eizouken trio, Frieren (a good one), Suletta Mercury, Wriothesleyand yes he did track that one until he was entirely out of sight which took a minute because it was a very accurate character portrayal in every respect and okay focus, Clive Rosfield, Vivia Twilight, Frieren (a bad one), Sara Chidouin, Ashley Gravesa fucking Choice if there ever was one, Kaiman, Astarion, Frieren—

Cutting through the crowd, slipping into a small group surrounding another booth down the row from the empty cluster he currently occupied. Like it was a very convenient coincidence.

Which it could be. And even if it wasn’t, who cared? She was, in every possible sense of the words, just some girl.

He didn’t like it. Heard too many stories, maybe. So-and-so stalked, harassed, doxxed, photos leaked, letters slipped under front doors with lipstick stains if you were lucky. A couple of stabbings. A shooting, once. Female streamers had it worse, obviously, would be willful ignorance to claim otherwise, but girls could be fucking scary. Fujos together strong, fujos separate prone to psychotic breaks etc.

She’d heard him sing for three minutes and thirteen seconds. It wasn’t like she was a fan. God fucking forbid.

it was— technically possible? His voice was… not super distinct, but not generic, either? But even he couldn’t delude himself into thinking a 25k follower count was enough to get recognized by randos, which was good because otherwise he would lock himself in his room and never leave it again

Copper taste in his mouth, teeth working through spots on Hunter’s lip so well-worn he barely felt the pain anymore. This was stupid. What was he even actually worrying about? Didn’t really want to dwell on that.

Less than a minute had passed. Still way too long.

“What?” he finally responded to Mona distractedly, his eyes finally finding her again. Her expression was worried maybe? didn’t want to read anything that charitable into her face, especially not for the second time in one day?

“Sure?” Glanced back in the direction of the other booths. They could slip into the crowd, fade away, hope that was enough, because it probably didn’t need to be anything, because this was probably nothing, because this was all, again, very stupidunless Frieren-thing had a roll of duct tape and a knife in that overstuffed con bag of hers.

Marin, Suletta, Wriothesley (caked up version), Kamen Rider Black with the insane detailing on the eye lenses, Chainsaw Man Miku again with the exchange of air dap ups through the distance between them, Astarion, the Shadowheart who was definitely Astarion’s girlfriend,

and through it all, Frieren, Frieren, Frieren. She was the ratty white wig with the pigtails slowly unravelling from the drag of gravity, she was the staff that was a stick with a two-dimensional thing of cardboard very obviously taped to the end after it had likely suffered a catastrophic day zero hot glue collapse, she was the top that seriously was too fucking loose and was definitely going to slip off at some point if it didn’t get stitches in the ER. And above all she was Hunter’s anxiety, the cracks in the screen of his computer where his growing fame, his ego, his wealth, dripped and bled into his privacy, blood splattering over the keyboard and desk.

Y’know. Mona knew that look, the closer Frieren-chama crept as she failed the basic tenants of plausible deniability in all quadrants. Moist eye, dry lip, tiny breath, everything slowly rolling into one corner of the mouth wound up like a garage door spring about to pop and cave in both sides of some person’s ribcage. Uncontrolled. Unhinged. It was the same look Mona had worn once upon a time. Y’know the story. No need to clarify further, was therethe wounds never did heal right. Scar tissue to be picked at again and again?

A minute came and went. Artists alley was the floor above dealers hall. Escalators, and Hunter and Mona were the Eels. Nearest exit was over a few aisles and then a turn into a straightHunter could never shot. The soles of Mona and Hunter’s carefully done up costume shoes burned as much rubber as was possible given how they were specifically designed to look good and not be useful, in the form of causing them both severe heel blisters over the course of the day.

Advantage to Freiren. She was just in sneakers, having not bothered to accurately replicate the shoes. She, the symbol of those who actually had fun at conventions instead of trying so hard they spent most of their time in the hotel room crying the moment something went horribly wrong. Not that things went wrong for Monawhere she let them be seen. She fucked up her costume work on the regular too, just out of sight. Controlling the narrative through avoidance, as Mona had learned in the years since crashing out of normie society. She, the symbol of ruining Hunter’s dayhonestly, you go girl.

She, the symbol of decent society, of wearing a shocked expression when Mona, inches from the propped open doors leading out into the convention hall, coolly spun on her heel and marched up to her.
Yes, unfortunately, Mona was going to Do Something(TM), unlike neoliberal consensus politicians. Killed her to have to ruin a stalker's girlbossing gaslighting vibes to protect literally the worst man on Earth, but, like. Thanatos drive, all that.
“Hey.”

“Uh. Hi. Kafka.”

She, now referring to Mona, the symbol of wearing a princess cold, smile for the camera look of disdain amplified by the inhuman fakeness of her cosplay contacts. The inflexible block of pink and purple hues, obscuring most of the dilation of her eyes, slightly uncanny with how it failed to communicate the same emote the rest of her facial features did.

“So. You gonna keep following us or what?”

“I... uh, don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just going this way.”

She, still referring to Mona, the symbol of somewhat ironically in context crashing herself face first into someone else's personal space as she leaned in, normal in and out breath, incidentally identifying Freiren’s scent as Sweet Like Candy (ah, summer of 2023 era Mona. Fun timesthat meaning, lonely in a crowd of older women and gross men wandering the halls of Anime Expo melting in the Los Angeles heat with motes of hairspray and body odor).

“Kay... You could stop going this way any time, y’know. Land of the free, home of the... get fuck away from my friend.”

“... So, the two of you are dating.”

She, still still still referring to Mona, the symbol of not giving a fuck and casually making a scene on the floor of a convention center with the rubbernecking forming a convection cell of people around them passing by with the eyes of God contemplating human folly.

”Far as you’re concerned, yeah.”





Frieren about-faced and began to walk awaynot a true believer then, if she let a little thing like relationship status stop her from being a deranged freak. Did she even headcanon, bro?.

”And baby, please for the love of god fix your top, you’re about to indecent exposure this whole convention.”

She, referring to stalker-chan, kept walking. Mona did her own one-eighty, smile on her face grim like it had a Jamaican accent. She breezed by Hunter without a pause in her step.

“Not bad.”

The less-than-soft step, the slowly developing thigh cramps and heel blisters, the clack clack of hurried feet more theoretical than audible—trustingas much as he could be ever said to beMonain specific, in particularto navigate with some relative degree of success. To—Hunter barely remembered, to be honest. To not-here, was the important qualifier, to somewhere where his brain could leak out of his ears with more grace if not less ardor.
the dry mouth and itchy blanket of the hotel room sounded like ambrosia at this point, but to request it would be failure absolute; to even mention it would be an intolerable show of weakness. and to drag Mona off the con floor before the lights turned off would be to owe her yet again, and adding anything else to that particular ledger would crash him right the fuck out.

like he hadn’t already crashed out, like he wasn’t crashing out right the fuck now, l-m-a-o. didn’t count until it manifested, past the dead eyes and the acrid flavor not completely masked by mint lingering on his tongue. didn’t count until Mona could call him out on it.

—She was gone.

The comical wide-eye, the short stop, blink blink, the momentary swell of panicno less humiliating for its brevity. The searching eyes, forward, left, right, behind, there. Mona Lisa in the Kafka-tinted flesh, hovering with a vaguely menacing aura palpable from behind and from several feet away. So thoroughly engulfed in her silhouette that Hunter had to take a half-step forward to properly identify the target of her evident ire,

Frieren-thing. Conversation inaudible, but two and two only ever made four. By the time he thought to take a step forward, give his ears some minimal chance, both sides had already spun on their respective heels (high-heel clack, sneaker squeak) and begun the walk back in their respective directions. Hunter followed the head of disheveled white kanekalon back through the crowd, body language indiscreet, the hunched shoulders, the tensed muscle step, absolute and undisguised defeatHunter could never; honestly some tiny part of him envied the ability to be so thoroughly humiliated in public and not bother to hide it, but tiny felt like an understatement, at least in comparison to the bubbling laughter stuck in his throat that was a far more honest expression of his feelings on the matter.

Nearly missed Mona, reluctant as he was to pull his gaze from Frieran-thing until he was well and truly sure she was gone, the mob and karma chewing her up; the crowd seemed to part in Mona’s path in response to the aura she was currently near-visibly emanating. Hunter, to the credit he would have to grant himself, did not trip over his own two feet as he spun to follow her, rushing the step-and-a-half needed per step of her own to catch up.

He hadn’t actually heard anything, but two and two still made four. Didn’t mean she did it for him, though, like, reasonable enough to think she sensed an annoying hanger-on as well as he did, just as likely she didn’t feel like dealing with it, just as possible that she would have done it anyway, so he didn’t, like, have to thank her, right. like, he should, and he knew it, but he didn’t have to, which was the key point? ledger, crashout, etcetera?

He could appreciate the vibe, anyways. For what it was. Give her that much.

“Not bad,” he nodded in agreement, just audible, back in step. Following Mona to one hell or another.