Chapter 14: Behind the Mask A Dance with Destiny
"Be patient, the destination is almost upon us," Michelle's voice lilted with an underlying melody of mirth, her lips curling into a smirk of genuine delight. "Turn left," she directed, leading us into a sprawling avenue nestled within the confines of a vibrant shopping district. The streets thrummed with activity as ancient storefronts, a motley assortment of vendors selling everything from household supplies to fresh produce, danced in the afternoon sun.
As Michelle and I strolled down the teeming shopping district, I felt myself melting into the thrumming energy of the city. The sun was unrelenting, its rays cascading down in a golden cascade that prickled my skin with warmth. The heat was potent, a relentless performer on this grand stage, but every so often, a breeze would come pirouetting through the crowd, providing fleeting but sweet relief. I felt it tousle my hair, the coolness juxtaposing the heat to create a sensation akin to dipping a foot into a chilled lake after a long, dusty hike.
Around us, the district was a concert of life, a symphony composed of humanity itself. The chatter was as much a part of the atmosphere as the oxygen we breathed, the rolling cadences forming a backdrop to our journey. An infectious laughter echoed from a cluster of teenagers, high and clear, which was answered by the low, determined growl of a man haggling with a vendor. The rhythm of footsteps on cobblestones wove itself into the fabric of the city's sounds, while the sporadic tinkle of a shop bell kept the beat.
But it was the smells that truly painted a picture of this district. As we passed a boutique, a rush of sharp, citrus perfume filled my nostrils. It was bright, a scent that felt like yellow if such a thing were possible. A woman sashayed past us, and in her wake, I caught the heady blend of roses and jasmine. The scent was soft and romantic, a ghost of a garden flourishing in her wake.
Street vendors were cooking, their stalls emitting a tantalizing mix of fragrances. The smoky richness of grilled skewers played a tug-of-war with the spicy allure of stir-fried noodles. The aroma tugged at my hunger, even as the sweet remnants of iced tea we'd just consumed still lingered on my tongue.
Among the shops, one particular venue caught my eye. It was abuzz with patrons, a living, breathing tapestry of eager buyers and curious onlookers. As we arrived, I found myself standing before a veritable pantheon of masks. They catered to all age groups, from the innocence of children to the wisdom of the elderly, each mask painstakingly handcrafted and arrayed with meticulous precision. I was mesmerized, utterly entranced. Never in my life had I borne witness to such a diverse and beautiful array of facades. Each mask seemed to whisper tales of its own, echoes of sensuality, laughter, fury, tender smiles, sadness, and much more, intertwining into a symphony of exquisite artistry.
The storefront was teeming with eager buyers, a pulsating mass of humanity that added a tangible energy to the setting. Following Michelle, I wove through the crowd, veering into the shop's underbelly and towards a concealed stairway that led to an upper floor.
Emerging from the narrow staircase, I found myself in a room of ethereal beauty, swathed in the soft hues of dove-gray and pristine white. Adorning its walls were more masks, each displayed with a reverence that whispered of hidden stories and unfathomable worth.
The second floor was markedly less crowded, the few patrons suffusing the air with the unmistakable scent of affluence. As my eyes landed on the price tags dangling from the masks, the reality of their cost dawned upon me. Each mask was valued at an astronomical figure, their prices soaring to ten, even a hundred times that of their ground floor counterparts.
"Look at those price tags," I whispered, my eyes wide with disbelief as I took in the extravagant masks on display. "Can you believe the cost of these things?"
Michelle's response was a quiet one. Her eyes, bright with understanding, met mine before a gentle smile began to form. It was an affectionate smile, one that seemed to soften the edges of the staggering reality we'd just confronted.
"You know," I continued, looking away from Michele, "I've always daydreamed about having money, but I never imagined wealth on such a scale. I mean, to be able to buy these masks without batting an eye... that's a different league altogether."
There's a line that separates the wealthy from the wildly extravagant, a chasm I'd not yet dared to traverse in even my wildest imaginings. I couldn't fathom the willingness to invest such outrageous sums for a mere mask. Yet, I couldn't deny the transcendent allure of the second floor's collection. Each mask was an exquisite marvel, wrought from the finest materials and radiating a regal elegance unmatched by their downstairs counterparts.
A privilege only for the true aficionados and of course, for the likes of Michelle, a woman known to spare no expense when it came to fashion and grandeur. But the thought of splurging such exorbitant amounts on items destined for infrequent use, at best, struck me as a flagrant display of opulence.
Michelle, undeterred by my rising incredulity, led me towards the back of the room where a spiral staircase loomed, promising an even grander display above. "Impossible," I stammered, "Could there possibly be a more premium collection?" Michelle returned my shock with a bemused smile, leading me further up the stairs.
Our climb was interrupted by a guard rushing towards us, her tone apologetic yet firm, "I'm sorry, but access to the upper floor is restricted." Michelle merely pointed to the BtP logo adorning her armband and calmly stated, "I have an appointment with the Sensei." The woman's stern demeanor crumbled into a deferential bow as she retreated, murmuring an apology. Whether it was the potency of the BtP insignia or the legitimacy of Michelle's claim, I couldn't tell.
The stairs unfurled in a graceful semicircle, spiraling upwards towards the forbidden third floor. Reluctantly, I allowed myself to be swept up in Michelle's determined stride, bypassing the chain barrier emblazoned with a stern "No Entry" sign. But for Michelle, no barrier, it seemed, was insurmountable.
The chatter of the shopping district below faded into a distant hum, replaced by an almost reverent hush that hung over the workspace of the renowned mask maker. This floor was not just a workshop; it was a sanctuary, a place where the mundane was transformed into the extraordinary.
As Michelle pushed open the door, a wave of fragrant woodsmoke washed over me, as if the air itself had been perfumed. The scent was rich and heady, redolent of cedar and pine, with undertones of a sweetness that I couldn't place. I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and felt transported to an alpine forest, the trees towering above, their crisp, verdant fragrance filling the air.
As we ventured deeper into the room, the aroma grew more complex. There was a scent I recognized as fresh-cut oak, sharp and full of vitality. It was the smell of potential, of wood ready to be transformed by the master's hand. A soft, earthy hint of sandalwood wafted to my senses, a testament to the mask maker's extensive materials. I could almost hear the whisper of the knife slicing through wood, each incision a step towards an artful masterpiece.
Interspersed with the woody notes was the delicate sweetness of resin, like amber caught in the sunlight. It hung in the air, a ghost of the process that brought each mask to life, a signature fragrance of this sanctum. I inhaled deeply, trying to commit the unique olfactory tapestry to memory. I wanted to remember the weight of the air, the heady mixture of aromas, and the feeling of being in the presence of creation itself.
In this room, filled with scents that danced and weaved around me, I felt not just like an observer but a participant in a ritual as old as time. The fragrances weren't just smells; they were an embodiment of the art that happened here, a sensory echo of the life and vibrancy that this room represented. Each breath I took was an invitation, a shared secret between me, the mask maker, and the art he created.
And then we stood in an ethereal world. Masks hung from every corner, each one surpassing the other in beauty. If the first floor showcased personality and the second elegance and luxury, the masks here on the third floor had a soul. They were the epitome of perfection, breathtakingly beautiful, exuding a vibrancy that made them almost lifelike. These were not mere masks but pieces of art, the likes of which you would find ensconced in glass cases in museums or shielded by maximum security in private collections.
I found myself captivated, mesmerized by the perfection and vitality of each piece. I dared not even contemplate their price, for fear it might induce an immediate cardiac arrest. For someone who was but a casual spectator in this grand theatre of extravagance, the sheer opulence was overwhelmingly intoxicating.
"Sensei!" Michelle's voice reverberated through the cavernous expanse of the upper floor, her shout echoing through the surreal, mask-clad space. The juxtaposition was jarring; the glamorous, assertive woman before me was a far cry from the inebriated figure I'd witnessed the previous night at Bar Eve.
There was no answer to her initial call.
Undeterred, Michelle began again, her voice a reverberating chant through the lofty hall, "Sensei, Sensei, Sensei, Sensei...!!!!!!" Her relentless determination was a trait I had come to admire. Michelle was a fighter, a woman who never conceded defeat, regardless of how often she was spurned or rejected. Each heartbreak was but a stepping-stone to the next endeavor. Her resilience, her ability to bounce back and smile, even after the most crushing disappointments, was nothing short of inspiring.
In the midst of my contemplation, a door at the far end of the room burst open. Out stepped a diminutive elderly man, his face a picture of displeasure. "Who dares to disturb...!" His shout tapered off, his eyes landing on Michelle. She stood defiantly, her hands on her hips, her gaze a challenge to the man known as Sensei.
"What do you want, little devil?" His voice was a gruff growl.
Michelle sauntered over to him, a confident grin spreading across her face, "I want to collect my mask and," she pointed in my direction, "I'd like you to create a new one for my lover here."
I was taken aback, the sheer audacity of her request leaving me flabbergasted. The old man mirrored my reaction, his eyes flicking between Michelle and me. His intense scrutiny made me feel uncomfortably like a specimen under examination. "Your mask is ready," he conceded grudgingly, "But I won't create one for him." With that, he retrieved a small wooden box from a nearby cabinet, shoving it towards Michelle, "Let him choose a mask from this floor for free and then leave."
Stunned, I gazed at the collection surrounding us. These masks? I was being given carte blanche to choose from this illustrious array?
Michelle protested instantly, "I want a mask specially made for him."
"No, take your mask and leave, you know the rules," the old man's voice was iron.
"Michelle," I began cautiously, feeling out of depth, "I think it's best if I just choose one from here." The last thing I wanted was to anger this enigmatic man further. Plus, the opportunity to choose from the awe-inspiring array of masks surrounding me was far from a compromise. In fact, it felt like an unexpected privilege. The opulence of the masks that surrounded me was mind-boggling. The mere thought of their potential value had me momentarily spellbound. Amidst my stunned silence, Michelle shot me a withering glance that screamed, "Leave this to me."
Raising my hands in surrender, I murmured a resigned "Okay," grimacing at her unyielding fierceness. Sometimes, Michelle's intensity was downright intimidating.
In a surprising act of defiance, Michelle shoved the box back towards Sensei, her voice commanding and unwavering, "You can forget your rules for this one."
"No!!!" Sensei's protest echoed in the room, but Michelle remained unperturbed.
"Oh, so Sensei doesn't want to listen to Michelle's good request?" The dangerous edge to her voice was unmistakable. The sweet, taunting smile she wore belied the threat implicit in her words. The transformation was chilling. Seeing Sensei visibly falter under her stern gaze, I couldn't help but draw parallels between her and Master's equally intimidating demeanor. Birds of a feather, I mused.
Cursing under his breath, Sensei swiftly drew a small knife from the sheath on his belt. His sudden proximity made me startle, but before I could react, he had gripped my hand firmly, scratching his knife against my palm. My shocked gasp was lost in the unsettling silence that followed his brutal action.
"But if the result is a mess, I don't want to know," Sensei muttered, discarding any semblance of responsibility. My hand bled profusely, but, to my astonishment, there was no pain. It was as if I was looking at someone else's hand.
Michelle gasped, "Sensei, couldn't you have just pricked a finger?" Her voice was laced with outrage, her face contorting in disgust at the sight of the flowing blood. Sensei, however, remained nonchalant, catching the blood in a small bowl. My amazement grew as the deep wound closed before my very eyes, leaving not even a scar behind.
Michelle turned towards me, her face filled with concern, "Are you okay?" I nodded, too astounded to speak.
"You took too much blood!" She rounded on Sensei, her fury unmasked.
"Superhuman blood is needed to craft these masks," Sensei countered. His comment hung in the air, creating an eerie silence. Superhuman? The word stirred confusion within me.
Deciding it was time to leave, Michelle tugged my arm, pulling me towards the stairs. "We'll be back this afternoon, Sensei," she called over her shoulder, leading me away from the unnerving experience.
"You'd be better off not returning," the old man muttered as he retreated to his inner sanctum. Michelle was tugging me back down the stairs and through the throngs of eager customers. Once outside, she morphed back into the familiar face of my idol and steered us toward a quaint café nestled on a nearby corner.
Slumping onto a cozy loveseat, I flipped through the menu with feigned nonchalance, the prices not as daunting as they would have ordinarily been. The LX, LXX and the custom-made mask had certainly changed my perspective. "I'll pick up the tab," I offered, the words slipping out almost too casually. It was a small victory for my dwindling male pride, and Michelle merely responded with an indulgent laugh.
As we placed our orders, my eyes lingered on the palm of my hand. The scarless surface was a stark reminder of the surreal experience at the mask shop. Catching my bewildered expression, Michelle chuckled, "Sensei is a superhuman."
I frowned, "But he doesn't wear a band. Shouldn't he have one even at home?"
"Exactly," she replied, a secretive grin playing on her lips. "That's why he's making our masks."
Confusion clouded my expression and she leaned closer, her voice a whisper against my ear. "Sensei is a superhuman who chose not to register with BtP. He feared that his mask-making would be prohibited if he became part of their organization."
I blinked in surprise, "Isn't he risking his life if discovered by BtP?"
Michelle's hand reached for mine, her touch warm and reassuring. "I'm the only one who knows and I'd rather keep his secret than report him to BtP. I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing I've endangered a kind mask-maker."
"Well, now two people know," I pointed out, a resigned smile pulling at the corners of my lips. Unwittingly, I had been drawn into her silent rebellion against BtP rules. Michelle looked at me, her eyes wide with sudden realization. I gestured at my locked lips, "Your secret is safe with me. I don't need the nightmares either."
Yet, the allure of a lavish city house, an award for reporting an unregistered superhuman, teased my mind.
"Why not just get a mask from the first floor? Buying directly from the maker must be quite expensive," I pondered aloud, trying to distract myself from the lurking temptation. Michelle smirked, "You'll need that mask for the masquerade."
I blinked at her, "What do you mean?" I urged her to elaborate.
"There'll be an energy check at the entrance of the party. If you," her finger lightly tapped my chest, "lack the energy signature of a superhuman, you won't be allowed entry. Worse, you could be arrested for impersonating a superhuman." Her revelation left me stunned.
The masquerade was sounding more perilous than exciting. "So, the mask can help?"
"The entry portal can detect energy signatures. When you wear a mask specially crafted for superhumans, it recognizes the energy in the mask and lets you pass. Plus," she winked playfully, "Sensei might not have been able to make a mask from your blood. He can only create a masterpiece if the blood comes from a superhuman."
"Then I'll be apprehended by BtP during the energy check."
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone