Chapter 97: The Unveiling of the Armor

"No. Absolutely not. It looks like a curtain."

"It is NOT a curtain, Angel!" Hiroto cries, offended. "It is vintage silk! It is understated elegance!"

"It is beige," I snarl. "I look like a potato. A sad, beige potato."

We are in Phase One-B. The Makeover.

My training is... progressing. I can now walk across the room without Mariko hitting me with the ruler. I can almost sit down without looking like I am about to fall over. I have learned there are, in fact, seventeen forks, and I have decided I only need one. The pointy one.

But this... this is the real battle.

Hiroto has brought rack after rack of "suitable" dresses.

They are all lacy. Pastel. Soft.

They are all... not me.

"Aoi-chan, this one is pretty!" Rika says, holding up a pale yellow one.

"I look sick in yellow," I grunt.

"This is impossible!" Hiroto wails, falling onto the couch. "You are un-dressable! How can someone so beautiful be so... anti-fashion?"

"She is not anti-fashion," Mariko says, walking over. She has been silent this whole time, just watching. "She is just... black. It is her brand."

"Thank you!" I say.

"But you cannot wear black," Mariko continues. "It is the color of mourning. You cannot wear it to a party."

"So what? I wear beige and look like a sad potato?"

"No," Hiroto says, a slow, dramatic spark lighting his eyes. He is having An Idea.

"No... you are right, Angel. You are not a peach. You are not beige. You are not... soft. You are a warrior."

"Okay, now we are talking," I say.

"You are not the blushing bride," Hiroto says, pacing the room. "You are the woman who conquered the Prince in battle."

"I did not... okay, fine, I did."

"So... we do not hide 'Bloody Twilight'," he whispers, his eyes wide with inspiration. "We... refine her."

He runs to a bag he has not opened. A private one.

"I... I brought this. Just in case. My agency would kill me. This is not from a sponsor. This is... haute couture. A one-of-a-kind."

He unzips the bag.

It is not black.

It is the color of the sky at midnight. A deep, impossible blue that is almost purple. My hair color.

It is not lacy. It is made of a heavy, structured silk that looks like armor.

It has a high collar, long sleeves, and a cut that is... elegant. And severe.

It is the dress of a queen. Not a princess.

"Oh, wow," Rika whispers.

"Put it on," Hiroto orders. "Now."

I go into the bedroom. I put it on.

It fits like it was made for me.

I walk out.

The room is silent.

Rika is crying. Toujo, who just arrived with more snacks, drops his bag of chips.

Daiki, who is busy starting a digital war, stops typing. He just... stares.

Mariko stands up. She sets her tea down.

"Well," Mariko says, a small, impressed smile on her face. "Now that is a political statement."

Hiroto rushes over with a mirror.

I look.

It is me.

My purple-black hair. My stupid, angry eyes.

But I am not "Bloody Twilight." Not really.

I am not the girl in the peach dress.

I look... powerful.

I look like someone who could stand next to a prince.

I look like someone who could scare a Crown Prince.

"Huh," I say, turning to the side. "This... is not terrible."

"Not terrible?!" Hiroto shrieks. "Angel, it is magnificent! Now, Rika, the hair! Up! Regal! Daiki, stop drooling!"

"I am not drooling!" Daiki yells, turning back to his laptop, his ears bright red.

"Now," I say, looking at myself in the mirror.

This is not a costume.

This is my new armor.

"Okay. I am ready for your stupid party."