Or, well, I should say it in her words: “Make me pretty so they’ll be extra disturbed if my face ever unravels. And give me voluptuous curves, because they remind me of a graphed cosine. And also because boobs look fun.”
It wasn’t an actual body—we all kind of learned our lesson on that—but rather a complicated wireframe Lightweaving with force projections attached directly to her cognitive element as it manifested in the physical realm. But as I was getting pretty good at the technical side of all this, you can pretend it functioned the same as flesh and blood.
I’ll admit to some pride regarding the way Painter’s eyes followed Design as she walked over to begin preparing his meal. Granted, he did overdo it—his eyes lingered on her the entire time she worked. Don’t judge him too harshly. He was nineteen, and I’m a uniquely talented artist.
Design soon returned with his bowl of noodles, which she set into a circular nook carved into the wood. The hion lines—one connected to either end of the bar—ran heat through the element at the bottom of the bowl to keep the broth warm on chill Kilahito nights.
From behind, laughter and chanting picked up as the noodle competition progressed. Painter, in turn, broke his maipon sticks apart and ate slowly, in a dignified way, as befitted one of his imaginary station.
“Design,” he said, trying not to slurp too loud. “Is…what I’m doing important?”
“Of course it is,” she said, lounging down across the bar from him. “If you all didn’t eat the noodles, I think I’d run out of places to store them.”
“No,” he said, waving to his bag where it hung from one arm of the restaurant’s curiously shaped coatrack. “I mean being a nightmare painter. It’s an important job, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Design said. “Obviously. Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a place with no nightmare painters. Then the people got eaten. It’s a short story.”
“I mean, I know it’s important in general,” Painter said. “But…is what I’m doing important?”
Design leaned forward across the bar, and he met her eyes. Which was difficult for him, considering her current posture. That said, you may have heard of her kind. I suggest, if you have the option, that you avoid trying to meet a Cryptic’s gaze. Their features—when undisguised—bend space and time, and have been known to lead to acute bouts of madness in those who try to make sense of them. Then again, who hasn’t wanted to flip off linear continuity now and then, eh?
“I see what you’re saying,” she told him.
“You do?” he asked.
“Yes. Noodles seven percent off tonight. In respect for your brave painting services.”
It…wasn’t what he’d been talking about. But he nodded in thanks anyway. Because he was a young person working a vitally important, relatively low-paying job. Seven percent was seven percent.
（Design, it should be noted, only gave discounts in prime number increments. Because, and I quote, “I have standards.” Still not sure what she meant.）
She turned to see to another customer, so Painter continued slurping down the long noodles in the warm, savory broth. The dish was quite good. Best in the city, according to some people, which isn’t that surprising. If there’s one thing you can count on a Cryptic to do, it’s follow a list of instructions with strict precision. Design had little vials of seasoning she added to the broth, each one counted to the exact number of grains of salt.
Halfway through the meal, Akane stepped up to the bar, and Painter glanced away. She was gone a moment later, carrying festive drinks to the others.
He ate the rest of the noodles in silence. “Rice?” Design asked when she noticed he was almost done.
“Yes, please.”
She added a scoop to soak up the rest of the broth, and he scarfed it down.
“You could go talk to them,” Design said softly, wiping the counter with a rag.
“I tried befriending them in school. It didn’t go well.”
“People grow up. It’s one of the things that makes them different from rocks. You should—”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m a loner, Design. You think I care what others think of me?”
She cocked her head, squinting with one eye. “Is that a trick question? Because you obviously—”
“How much?” he said. “With the discount?”
She sighed. “Six.”
“Six? A bowl normally costs two hundred kon.”
“Ninety-seven percent off,” she said. “Because you need it, Painter. You sure about this? I could go talk to them, tell them that you’re lonely. Why don’t I go do it right now?”
He laid a ten-kon coin on the counter, with a quick bow of thanks. Before she could push him further to do something that was probably good for him, he grabbed his bag from among the others hanging on the rack. He’d always found the statue coatrack a strange addition to the restaurant. But it was a quirky place. So why not have a coatrack in the shape of a man with hawkish features and a sly smile?
（Unfortunately, I had been quite aware of my surroundings when my ailment first struck. I had screamed inside when Design—thinking me too creepy otherwise—spray-painted me copper. Then, ever practical, she’d added a crown with spikes on it for holding hats, and several large bandoliers with poles on them for holding bags or coats.
As I said, I owned the restaurant. Part owner at least. Design ransacked my pockets for the money to build the place. I didn’t run it though. You can’t do that when you’ve been frozen in time. For your information, I have it on good authority that I made an excellent coatrack. I prefer not to think of it as an undignified disposal of my person, but rather as pulling off an incredible disguise.）
Painter stepped outside, heart thumping. A passing shower of rain had left puddles and given the street a reflective sheen—lines of light hanging above, their reflections ghosts beneath the ground.
Painter breathed in, and out, and in again. Having fled from Design’s offers, he found it difficult to maintain the pretense. He knew he wasn’t a loner. He wasn’t some proud knight fighting the darkness for honor’s sake. He wasn’t important, interesting, or even personable. He was just one of likely thousands of unremarkable boys without the courage to do anything notable—and worse, without the skill to go underappreciated.
It was an unfair assessment of himself. But he thought it anyway, and found it difficult to stomach. Difficult enough that he wanted to retreat toward his easy lies of self-imposed solitude and noble sacrifice. But a part of him was beginning to find those attitudes silly. Cringeworthy. That left him afraid. Without the illusion, how would he keep going?
With a sigh, he started off toward his apartment, his large painter’s bag across his shoulder and resting against his back. At the first intersection though, he spotted a telltale sign: wisps of darkness curling off a brick at the corner. A nightmare had passed this way recently.
That wasn’t too surprising. This was the poorer section of town near the perimeter. Nightmares came through here with some regularity. Another painter would find this one eventually; he was off shift. Hands in pockets, absorbed by his personal discontent, Painter walked on past the corner. If he hurried home, he could catch the opening of his favorite drama on the hion viewer.