The fire door leads to a narrow stairwell with a utility closet at the first landing. I duck inside, pulling the door shut behind me. Bare bulb overhead. Mop bucket in the corner.
The glamour of rock and roll.
I set the case on a box and open it.
The white skull prosthetic sits in its padded compartment, the grin staring up at me that isn't far off from the real thing. There are several small bottles of adhesive packed into the foam, roughly the size and shape of nail polish bottles.
I reach for my mask.
My fingers find the familiar edge of the leather strap against the back of my skull. I've worn masks for over a decade. Taken them off alone a thousand times. I never enjoy it, but it never feelsthisfucking vulnerable and wrong.
The mask comes off.
The air hits my scars. The melted cheek, the exposed teeth, the eye that won't close. I feel it all in the way I always do when the mask is gone. Constant, grinding awareness that twists and coils in my chest and stomach that I look like a fucking zombie.
I don't look at anything reflective. There's nothing to look at anyway. Just cinderblock and cleaning supplies.
I paint adhesive onto the metal housing with the three magnets and the prosthetic—more than I probably need—and press it to my face, working from forehead down.
It feels like a second mask.
Because it is.
I take out the performance mask next. The replica of my own, the one the audience will see before Bells tears it away.
I press it into place over the prosthetic.
Three magnets engage.
Click. Click. Click.
The mask seats firmly, indistinguishable from my usual one. I check the fit with my fingertips. Jaw. Cheekbone. Temple.
Solid and secure.
I take my phone out of my pocket and hesitate for a moment before turning on the camera and flipping it around so I can see if this looks right.
It does. From the outside, I look like me. Nothing is notably different.
I pull the outer mask off—click click click—and stare at the white skull prosthetic covering the ruined half of my face.
The only scar I can see is one near my hairline, nearly invisible. Could easily be explained away by saying it's adhesive.
I push open the utility closet door and climb back to the roof.
Bells is sitting on the ledge again, legs swinging over the edge, and Ireallyfucking wish she wouldn't. The fog curls around her white combat boots like she's dangling her feet into gray water. She looks up when the fire door groans.
Her eyes track from the mask to my shoulders to my hands and back to the mask. Reading me the way she always does. Like she's figuring out exactly how close to detonation I am at any given moment.
"Looking sharp," she says.
"Fuck off."
She hops off the ledge again and crosses the rooftop toward me with that confident stride that shouldn't work on someone her size but absolutely fucking does.
Six feet away.
Four.