This is a doll suit, isn’t it? To anyone who isn’t paying attention, you’re an inanimate object. Good thing you’re an expert at pantomime! You do your best impression of an unmoving ballerina doll; sitting stock-still on the locker room bench, arms bent at the elbow at a forty-five degree angle, facing forward. All that’s left to do is wait…
The security guard from earlier kicks the door open with one mighty steel-toed boot, to find… nobody. His footsteps and heavy breath echo in the tiled locker room as he passes right by you, none the wiser. Not even a few minutes later, he gives up and leaves. Score!
…Except not, because you hear him talking to someone in the hallway. “Yeah, the dumb kid must have got away, she’s probably in another zip code by now. Must have wandered in from the mall or something.” There is quiet feminine mumbling, followed by his response. “No, boss, I didn’t touch your creepy puppets.”
“Art isn’t creepy,” the woman says as she raises her voice, “and if she’s not in her locker when I go check, your ass is grass.”
Puppet? Oh no, that’s you! This “costume” must be meant to go on top of a puppet frame… no wonder it fits so poorly! You futilely tug on the locked mask a few times before you formulate a real plan. If the theater manager wants everything nice and tidy, you might as well respect her wishes. You undress in a whirlwind of lycra as you strip the ballet uniform off of your rubbery doll skin and pack it… ALMOST the way it was before. Even the wig detaches from a Velcro pad, leaving you as a bald, blank, unfinished doll. Moving as quietly as your sticky latex feet allow, you stuff yourself into the locker right on top of the duffel bag and swing the door most of the way closed, then stand perfectly still.
It takes several more minutes for the manager to actually come into the ladies’ changing room. You feel stupid for rushing when you had plenty of time, but it hardly matters when the locker door opens, and you’re face to face with her.
She is plainer than you expected; a dark-haired middle-aged woman with skin the color of milk tea, a sharp-looking pantsuit and horn-rimmed glasses. “Tsk. Someone left last night’s costume on you, lazy, just lazy. No puppet deserves to be treated like that.” The manager feels for your zipper, and flinches when she finds it’s broken. “I’ll be having a word with the staff about this. For now… I can think of the perfect role for you tonight.”
By instinct alone, you tense your muscles so you stay perfectly stiff as she lifts your dolly body. You can feel her own arms straining under your weight- human bodies are pretty awkward to carry. “You’re still warm. Was your backup battery running the whole time? We’ll have to top off your charge before you go on stage.” Just about everything she’s talking about sounds like bad news as far as not getting caught goes. On the other hand, there’s no way for you to make a run for it until you know for sure that you aren’t being watched.
Your head is beginning to swim as she pushes her way into one of the makeup rooms. You’ve been taking shallow breaths in a desperate attempt to continue appearing inanimate, and the clunky kigu mask on your face already makes your air supply stale. There is zero resistance from you as your legs are bent into a sitting pose and your butt dropped onto the hairdressing chair; it’s taking all your effort just to keep your eyes open.
The manager speaks up. “Gary, Atjay, both of you! Consider this a field test. If we can layer two costumes on top of one another, our practical effects department earned their paycheck this month.” Behind unblinking doll eyes, your vision darts between the two guys from the makeup crew. Freedom is seeming farther and farther away with every passing moment. Whatever happens, at least it won’t be boring.
“Flip her over so we can get the battery in her,” says Gary. Oh no, they’re not going to cut you open, are they? The truth is almost worse- a smooth, rounded plastic battery pack presses between your butt cheeks, forcing its way past your sphincter as it slips into a condom-like sleeve you never thought to question until just now. There’s no way to hide your body clenching around its massive new intruder, but the makeup crew doesn’t seem to care. “Oh good”, says Atjay, “life signs are back online as soon as the new battery’s in. They seriously left her switched on?” You take his comment as permission to breathe deeply and groan in discomfort- they don’t mind that, either.
You’re stood up ramrod-straight as they bring out the base layer of your second costume; a hooded, cherry-red catsuit made of heavy rubber, with no zipper. Both workers pulling on opposite sides of the suit’s face-hole provide just enough force to stretch it open and start sliding you in- well, more like shimmy you in. Latex touching latex sticks with every point of contact, making it clear that there’s no way you’ll get out of this thing without help. Given how flimsy your young body is, you might not even be able to damage the costume. If you weren’t given permission to move, they would likely take hours to fit you into this thing at all.
The soles of the suit’s feet aren’t the realistic toes of your dancer disguise, or even the featureless socks you’ve expected, but three-toed bird talons extending just past your actual feet. Nothing much else surprising happens until the suit sticks snugly over your crotch… at which point an LED light on the costume’s tailbone flickers to life! A low, pleasant buzz fills your being as the battery pack starts up, causing your toes to curl- and so do the costume’s talons!
The sleeves on this suit are a bit worrying- no hands at all, only a pair of featherless red wings. Gary guides your arms into their destination regardless. Your rubber doll fingers slot perfectly into five narrow pockets in each wing, holding them still and forcing them to work like the nubby paddles they are. As soon as the suit covers your shoulders, you feel the elastic material close up around you from the neck down. Atjay pulls the hood up over your forehead and snug over your chin, leaving only part of your girly mask visible as they squeeze out the few air pockets in the suit.
The workers spread cool, chilly medical-grade adhesive over your frame, then begin sticking drab feathers to your chest. The warm, downy fluff covers you from mid-thigh to the back of your head, with your wings and head crest having a splash of red. Wait, you see what you are now… a cardinal, a female cardinal! The shiny red tailfeathers being pinned to your butt only reinforce the look.
A birdy mask is the last piece, with a bright red beak on the outside and what looks like electronic contacts on the inside. As soon as it presses down on your face, the eyes and beak become animated! The extra power draw forces your deeply embedded battery pack to vibrate even harder, making it near impossible to ignore; your wings drape desperately over your groin as you cross your legs and let out a muffled moan, beak wide open, yet the only noise which escapes is digitized bird song. A ring of feathers is glued over the seam between the mask and everything else, sealing your fate.
You’re helped to your feet… for what it’s worth. The stiff 1-millimeter thick rubber resists you every step of the way. Gary and Atjay hold out a horizontal metal bar, and like clockwork you perch on it, talon feet grasping the bar firmly.
“Perfect,” says the manager. “Send her out for warmups with the other puppets. This Christmas pageant is going to be the best one yet!”