The image department had considered giving Alison a dress, at first.
It was because of her fingers. Her twitching, twisting, treacherous fingers, always moving, tapping, shaking, writhing, like disgusting worms.
"Positive associations," they'd said, and made her theme that of a pianist.
(Alison doesn't know how to play the piano. Even if she did, she can't, now.)
Pianist. Musician. Long flowing dresses, evening gowns, pink and pearl and champagne, body armor under soft fabric, and she'd been pretty in the mirror, like walking in a fairy tale, and she'd looked so uncomfortable they'd given her pants instead.
White shirt. Black suit. Hair pulled back in a bun, her mask half-face white porcelain instead of lacy domino.
She'd felt better in that one. More herself.
Sweet Dreams' costume is a dress, an iridescent rainbow of tulle which, for all its plays on transparency, doesn't show a hint of the armor underneath. A dress, like Daisy Bell's blue, like Sunbreeze's yellow, like everyone on the team except Cadenza. Except Alison.
"It's okay that you were scared, you know," Sweet Dreams says.
It isn't. Not when she's the one with powers, the one supposed to be a hero, the one supposed to do something. Not when it's a fucking pattern. Not when she still hasn't managed to ask what happened to the woman, the one with the long blonde hair.
"I mean," Sweet Dreams continues, "anyone would be scared after finding a half-eaten corpse. It's not on you."
Alison stops. Overhead, the lights are too white, too bright, and the hallway feels like a dream.
She feels empty.
