Page 13 of Darcy
One where a hyper-realistic version of my Runes of Chaos avatar has been recreated painstakingly in charcoal and spray paint on a canvas the size of a garage door, and hung from the ceiling facing the entryway. The artist has abandoned the cel-shaded character art of Runes of Chaos to create a bright, gritty, realistic portrait.
One of the lures of the game is the incredible customisation options, and my avatar has many of my features, including my soft blonde waves and the long oval face shape. But, because it was just a game, I may have gotten a bit fanciful with some stuff.
Namely, the glowing white eyes, cutesy black feathered wings, and mystical, full body vine tattoos. Of course, I was limited to the skimpy armour bestowed upon female characters by the devs. Because, as we all know, a loincloth and metal bra are the best protection against goblin hordes.
The artist hasn’t even bothered to supply that much coverage. The sketch ends at the upper slopes of my avatar’s breasts, leaving my collarbones and shoulders bare. My avatar’s pouty lips are turned up in a smug, sensual smirk that makes her appear powerful.
It’s gorgeous.
It’s also very obviously a nude.
Without thinking, I slip my phone out of my clutch and snap a picture, loading it up into the group chat to demand answers.
D4rk4ngel
Confess! Which one of you did this?!?
But I’m interrupted before I can hit send. “I reckon you like the exhibit?”
His voice has the rasp of a heavy smoker, with a deep, rumbling Texan accent. I turn to see an older man waiting patiently behind me on the doorstep.
“Sorry.” I move out of his way.
“Not to worry, girl. I was waiting for you to get here. Darcy D’Angelo, right?”
I nod, scanning his face for some clue as to his identity. He must be in his late fifties, and he has the face of someone who’s worked hard and laughed harder. His foppish grey hair has been badly half-tamed in an attempt to clean up, and he has a voluminous moustache that covers his upper lip entirely.
“Sully,” he introduces himself. “Production manager for the band.”
And my new boss.
“Good to finally meet you in person.” I extend my hand before I realise I’m still holding my phone, and the other is still clutching my purse. Grimacing, I stuff my phone away and offer my palm again.
Mercifully, he ignores my blunder. Sully’s hands are massive, and his calloused palm engulfs mine as he shakes it, grip light, as if he’s afraid to break me.
“You don’t look like someone who’d choose to spend their time playing with explosives,” he says.
I might be offended, but he says it with an air of honest, open curiosity that stops any anger in its tracks. Maybe I should’ve worn my glasses rather than the contacts. People tend to take me more seriously with them on.
“Let me guess, I should be fifty pounds heavier, bald, and male?” I raise a critical brow.
He shrugs. “Yeah, that’d do. Maybe a bit less… colourful…..”
“I left my hair dye, fishnets, and leather choker at home,” I deadpan.
His face splits in a wide grin, and he fishes out a cigar case from his jacket pocket. He offers me one, shrugging again when I shake my head, and pops his own between his lips.
“You’ll do, girl. Just make sure ya don’t blow up the audience.”
I nod sagely. “Or the band?”
Sully laughs. “Mad bastards would probably enjoy it.” He lights his cigar, courteously blowing the smoke away from me before waving me forward. “Enjoy the gallery. The real party will kick off soon enough, and then it’s all work tomorrow.”
Sensing the dismissal for what it is, I head into the gallery proper, following the dramatic trail of canvases through the open space with the other guests. Most of my co-workers seem to know each other, and the horrible new-girl-at-school feeling settles over me as they continue their conversations, oblivious to my presence.
Understandable. Most of them have probably been through the European and South American legs of the tour together. I’m an outsider right now, but that’ll change.
This party might be mostly for the crew, but there are still journalists everywhere, rubbing shoulders with one another as their eyes flick around the gallery, scanning for any sign of Hazardous. I don’t pay them any attention, and in return, they barely spare me a cursory glance.
