Rain hammered down on the copper-tiled roofs of the Citadel District, the air alive with the scent of damp stone and metal. The neon lights of “MasqueCon,” the largest annual cosplay convention, refracted through sheets of rain, casting the entire street in a fractured kaleidoscope of color. Beneath one such neon halo stood Lyra Fane, dressed as the Scarlet Corsair, a pirate queen from a cult-favorite graphic novel. Her knee-high boots gleamed under the lights, her faux-leather trench coat whipping dramatically in the wind. A crimson sash slung low across her hips matched the deep hue of the contacts that turned her eyes into pits of molten fire. She clenched the hilt of her plastic cutlass for effect, ignoring the occasional curious stares from passersby. “Nobody’s noticing the detailing on the epaulets,” she muttered to herself dryly. But tonight, the world inside the convention wasn’t just about appreciation. It was about something much more dangerous.
The grand entrance to MasqueCon was stadium-high, gilded in banners representing every imaginable fandom—a monumental show of escapism cutting against the raw, wrinkled face of the real world. Steam hissed from grates along the street, mingling with rain and swirling fog to create an otherworldly stage. It was as if reality itself dissolved here. Lyra had come to win the highly publicized “Game of Masques,” an underground cosplay competition said to reward the victor with legitimacy, fame, and something far stranger: a wish. She wasn’t one to believe in whispered urban legends, but desperation had no rules. Especially not for her.
Inside the convention’s main atrium, a sea of cosplayers bustled like currents in a dream. Knights clanked past space captains. Vampires high-fived fairies. Elaborate lights hung in midair like suspended stars, casting an ethereal glow on everyone below. For a second, Lyra forgot why she’d come, her breath stolen by the show of it all. People here breathed life into make-believe, their meticulous costumes blurring the lines between fantasy and reality.
Her moment of awe shattered when she noticed him: a tall figure cloaked in shadow-black armor, skeletal engravings twisting over dark metal plates. His helmet, a grim depiction of a skull split by a neon rift, glowed faintly, concealing his face. His presence drew eyes the way magnetic storms drew iron. He was, no doubt, entering the same competition as her. She recognized the look in his posture—ambition sharp enough to cut marble.
Pushing through the bustle, Lyra made her way toward the Hall of Trysts, where Game of Masques would begin. Whispers followed her.
“Is that the real Scarlet Corsair?”
“No, just someone really good at it.”
The hall was darker than the other rooms, its gothic arches yawning high into nothingness. Screens floated mid-air, displaying competitors’ names, ranks, and vitals: a leaderboard drenched in fluorescent gold. A chill snuck into Lyra’s pirate regalia, unfurling goosebumps on her arms despite the thick trench. The room was… wrong somehow. Colder. Everyone seemed nervous, eyes darting toward the balconies where shadowy figures loomed, overseeing the proceedings like gods of mischief.
The masked adjudicator stepped forward, his voice smooth as polished steel.
“The Game of Masques has one rule,” he intoned, his words curling into the rafters like smoke. “Do not break character.”
Murmurs rippled through the contestants. Someone near Lyra whispered, “What happens if we do?”
“You lose,” came a cold answer from the stranger in black armor. His voice was deep, the sound of tectonic plates grinding together. It sent a shiver down her spine.
The adjudicator raised an elegant, gloved hand, silencing the room. “The stakes are high tonight. Break your persona, and you forfeit not only the prize… but yourself.” His smile widened under his mask like a blade unsheathed. “Let us begin.”
Suddenly, the room expanded—or twisted—into something impossible. Lyra stumbled, heart lurching as gravity shifted beneath her boots. The atrium now resembled the deck of the Scarlet Corsair’s ship, complete with billowing sails and a night sky pocked with streaking asteroids. Time blurred; sandglass stars dripped light into a void. The competition was no longer confined to the safe, manufactured reality of a convention. It had become real.
The game began as a test of wits and strength. Contestants were thrown into scenarios ripped straight from their characters’ lore. For Lyra, this meant commanding her ship to hold off an asteroid raiding party. For the skeletal warrior, it meant summoning eldritch horrors from the void. As the hours wore on, competitors dropped like flies. A steampunk mechanic lost when she tripped and cursed out of frustration, breaking her character. A superhero called out for help when his mask grew too suffocating. “Weakness,” the adjudicator mused, “dwells in the mundane.”
It became clear the Game wasn’t just about costumes, nor performance. It was about belief. The stakes felt as lethal as knives, and to her horror, Lyra realized failing here felt worse than losing. Failing here meant erasure—your memories, your ambition, your identity sucked into oblivion. But why?
Hours later, only three contestants were left: Lyra, the skeletal warrior, and a young woman draped in flowing, celestial robes—the Star Priestess. The setting had shifted again, now resembling the ruins of a blood-drenched temple, with impossible geometry bending space. The air reeked of iron and ancient decay. There, among the dripping pillars, the skeletal warrior turned to Lyra with his glowing, fractured helmet. “Ally with me,” he said flatly.
“We’re at the endgame. Why would I?” she shot back, though her stance betrayed her exhaustion. Her coat was marred with ash and burns; her boots scuffed. Her dreams of this competition had felt, for one strange moment, naive.
His voice sharpened. “Because this was never meant to be won alone. You’re not strong enough. You’ll break.”
The words stung, but an ember of truth flickered inside them.
In the crescendo of the final trial, the temple began collapsing, reality buckling under the weight of their power. The Star Priestess screamed as her shimmering outfit dissolved into threads of light—erased for whispering her real name aloud. Only Lyra and the warrior remained, his towering form standing motionless before her, the debris swirling in chaos.
“Make your wish, Scarlet Corsair,” he said, the neon rift in his helmet dimming. “They’ll only let one of us leave, and you’ve won.”
But victory didn’t taste the way she thought it would. Her throat tightened. “Who are they?”
For the first time, his façade cracked. “They’ve been collecting us for centuries. That’s their wish.” His armor shimmered, revealing for the briefest moment a flash of mortal skin. A man hiding behind a mask. Like her.
Lyra tightened her grip on the cutlass, feeling the weight of something larger than herself pressing against her bones. Do not break character. Yet what was the Scarlet Corsair’s greatest strength? Her ruthlessness? Or her humanity?
She let the cutlass fall.
The masked figures above conferred silently, flickering in and out like wary predators, before announcing her fate. “This one chose mercy. Her wish is granted.”
Everything went dark. When Lyra woke, it was raining again. The convention was over; the echoes of laughter and applause were a memory, swept away by the storm. In her hand was a slip of paper. On it was printed a single sentence:
There are no rules to cosplay, except those you set for yourself.
The Source…check out the article that inspired this amazing short story: Are there rules to cosplay?
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